Power & Control

“Have you ever stopped to think that maybe you deserved this?”

My dear brother’s words fill my ears as my hands – fingers trembling in a shameful display of poor impulse control – fumble and flop, trying so hard to perform the routine task of gesturing with the cigarette pressed against the webbing of my fingers and yet coming up so very short. The mere thought of those five deadly words makes me sick to my stomach and the only thing I can think of to respond to the obviously pointed inquiry aimed at me is a string of stammering placeholder noises – a nigh-endless amount of ums, ahs, and wells – before he finally, graciously, cuts me off with a click of his tongue.

“That’s what I thought.”

With my eyes closed and my body swirling somewhere in the pitch-black abyss all around me, I can still feel his eyes piercing through the darkness and watching me spiral downwards with a wide smile on his fat face. I fucking hate him. I hate everything about him: from the sneering, condescending grin that never seemed to leave his face whenever he climbed up onto his soapbox, to his ceaseless proselytizing and simultaneous whining about being a good person on according to whatever idea of morality he followed & how it never got him anywhere, which somehow made him a better person for being a fucking idiot who couldn’t read the writing on the wall, to all of the gluttonous traits he picked up from daddy, immortalized in his fucking pig nose. Yet, none of those things dug as deep into my psyche as the fact that he’d always prance around like a perfect little angel, like he forgot that—

“I know what you’ve done.”

That wasn’t supposed to happen. There goes my impulse control, washed down the drain with my mental filter and the rest of my sanity. Funny, didn’t remember having any of that left. Figured that went by the wayside the second you showed up and sunk your dirty teeth into my frontal lobe. I’m sure I could open my eyes right now and see you staring back at me instead of the sanctimonious sinkhole of a human being occupying my hotel room and the inside of my skull – sheesh, a little crowded in here, eh?

“We’re not talking about me, right now. We’re talking about you.”

I bet he spent so much time preparing that little soundbyte. His be-all, end-all counter to any attempt I might make at diverting the topic of conversation to the skeletons in his closet. And why wouldn’t I? Unearthing those carcasses and shoving his face in them is much more fun than talking about the rotting corpse on the floor. Figuratively speaking of course. One of my therapists did say I think about death too much. Fucking quacks though, right? You’re the only therapist I need, and I don’t even know who you are. Better that way, I suppose.

“Right, we’re talking about me. This is all about me, is it? That’s why you stepped out of your ivory fuckin’ tower, crossed the bridge and kept on drivin’ all the way to the den of chaos itself. Because of me. Because you want to help me. I’m so blessed to have a brother like you Sa—“

“Mark.”

“Samir.”

I jam the cigarette inbetween my fingers into where I assume the ashtray to be, grinding the embers into the jet-black plastic, and leave the half-smoked cancer stick in its boneyard of sorts. What I wouldn’t give to see the look on his face as he has to register the given name he was oh-so-unfairly cursed with. However, I keep my closed tight because the idea of actually seeing his face makes me want to vomit.

“Are you going to keep playing games or are you going to answer my question?”

“Didn’t know referring to someone by their real name was playing games. Guess you really do learn something new every day.”

“Whatever you say, Azra.”

He thinks he’s so clever. I can’t help but smile.

“You sure chinked my armor good there. I’m so ashamed of my family name I went and changed it, after all.”

“We could go back and forth all day with this; is that what you really want?”

“No; I want you to shut the fuck up for a few seconds, just close your mouth when the next stupid thought crosses your pants-on-head retarded mind. When you think you have something to add to this ‘conversation’, I want you to stuff it for just a few fucking seconds. I need to think.”

“Why? So you can run my name through the mud to the people in your head? So you can point your finger at some accentuated aspect of me you feel the need to point out because you don’t trust them enough to hate me on their own? Because you’re so desperate to have someone agree with you on something – anything – that you’re willing to outright lie and create hypothetical scenarios where you’re one hundred percent, absolutely, positively in the right?”

What the fuck?

“Face it, Erin: you’re the very thing you despise. Just a broken little refugee girl hiding away in her head because she’s too scared to deal with the real world.”

“Fuck you.”

“David Sanchez beat you, and you deserved to lose. Not because you’re a bad person and bad people deserve nothing more than failure; because your whole wrestling career has been a giant fluke. Nothing more than a parade of you exploiting people who really should be seeing it coming by now. Oh, wait. They did. Your jig is up: whatever hellfire and brimstone you claim to be saving the world from by wrestling – are you still doing that shtick even? – is about as credible as your fuckin’ title reign.”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“Oh, big bad Azra – or is it Erin? – coming with a vengeance! I’m fucking scared of you, all right. You’re a coward, right down to the bitter end. You imagine me, and yet you don’t have the guts to voice your distaste to the version of me you created. Instead, you yap to your imaginary friend about it.”

“What?”

He leans in close to me. The foul odor of his swamp breath is enough to make me gag.

“You still haven’t caught on? Open your eyes, ‘Erin’.”

You’re hearing this too, right?

With an exhale, I open my eyes to see nothing but my hotel room in all its bug-infested shithole glory. A moth flies headlong at the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, constantly banging its head against the glass shielding. The mattress I’m lying on is a rock hard minefield of exposed springs and semen stains; the only reason I haven’t decided to sleep on the floor yet is an overwhelming lack of desire to wake up with a cockroach on my face – a fate I’m no doubt just as likely to face on here, but the elevation offers me an illusion of safety.

I feel a vibration on the mattress, accompanied by the wailing screech of my cellphone’s ringtone. A dumbfounded smile crosses my face as I grope wildly at the mass of blankets, searching for the little black piece of consumerist bullshit. When it’s finally in my hand, I slide my finger across the touch screen without bothering to look at the number and place the receiver up to my ear. Please be who I think it is, please be who I think it is….

An exasperated sigh on the other end confirms my suspicions and exceeds my every hope.

The sound of him huffing and puffing – wheezing, heavy breaths pounding against my ears like drums – catches my attention much more than any words leaving his mouth. This is so much better than I ever could have hoped for. I clear my throat and press my fingers to my throat. Fuck, heart’s still racing. I inhale sharply, before clicking my tongue.

“Tsk tsk, is that any way to start a conversation?”

There’s a pause – a silence – on the other end. Nothing. Not even his gasping, desperate breaths.

Accentuate the negative some more, will ya?

“Shut the fuck up me,” I whisper, leaning away from the receiver. “I’m trying to have fun.”

Sweet fuck, I’m actually talking to myself.


“You’re the one who called me.”

I shrug and cock my head to the side almost instinctively; as if one second I’d blink and he’d be right in front of me, face-to-face. I wonder how well he’d keep up his holier-than-thou bullshit staring me down right now. Come on you fucking coward, tear into me better than I can.


“Isn’t that the million dollar question? Why do we do anything we do? What drives people down the tracks their lives take? Is it free will or are we puppets on a string,dancing for an unamused God? Maybe you can answer this question for me, Mark: what drives a man to forsake his own blood?”


“Do you really think I’d be so petty as to—no, Mark. This isn’t about that.”



He doesn’t respond, except for the return of his wheezing.

“That’s what I thought. I’ll tell you what though, and this is something I do know: you’re lucky.”

I smile wider.

“Yeah, lucky. All I had to do was add two words – one name – to that little love letter and I could’ve really ruined your life. See, now you can just tell your lovely wife and children that it’s just your crazy sister, maybe you could even throw in a few anecdotes about the type of person I am to establish that this really is tame behavior by my standards. Remember that: two words and the lie you’ve been living comes crashing down atop you. You owe me one.”




“Not the best choice of words when you’re dealing with the woman who has your life in her hands.“

“No we’re not. Never were, ain’t that right?”

“What does that make you?”

“Right. Keep telling yourself that while suppressing your intimate knowledge that there is no statute of limitations for—“

Click. The line goes dead and all I can do is laugh. Wildly. Maniacally. I laugh as I continue to watch the moth circle the light, without a care in the world. I laugh as I stand up and cross the sticky and stained carpet, looking up at the same light. I laugh as I snatch the moth out of midair and feel its innards leaking into my clenched palm.

I laugh as I fall back onto the mattress and stare up at the bulb. I laugh as I see my brother’s face in the light, then my father’s, then David Sanchez’s, then my own. I laugh as the light flickers and dies and I’m left alone, in the dark, with just my thoughts – and a horde of more insects lurking in the shadows – to keep me company.






Hey, Minneapolis; I have a question. Are you as oblivious as Andre Holmes, or did you see my little surprise coming a mile away? Because, if anything I feared it’d be much too obvious; I figured that Andre would’ve been able to predict that I’d make my grand reappearance in his life after a few weeks away winning and losing more championships than he’ll ever hold in UCI if I have any say in it. Yet, as is typical of that lumbering mental midget, he didn’t see what hit him. Literally, as it were. Don’t worry, there’s a point to this – more than I can say about the wacky, spacefaring antics of The Guardians.

Oh, yes: those Guardians. Our saviors, our messiahs, the ones selflessly laying down their lives to protect the good of humanity or something like that. Sorry couldn’t be bothered to subject myself to one of their intergalactic circle-jerks. Especially not when the contents of their hearts have already been spilled all over the canvas. These posers, these imposters who claim to be heroes are nothing of the sort. Teddy Sol – the weak-willed, pandering whore – was a hero. Was. Past tense. Know why? Because I broke him. I maimed him. I left him unable to help himself, let alone others. By the time the medical crew got to the ringside area to save the savior, they practically had to carry him out of the arena because he couldn’t move himself. But Teddy Sol is important because despite the way things ended for him; Teddy Sol was a hero. He protected the people he said he’d protect. He was a champion for all the wrong causes, but at least he was consistent in his words in actions.

Then you have The Guardians. The supposed heroes. The would-be heroes. The ones who’d never even question stopping and taking a photo-op with a dying child to boost the amount of positive buzz they get because actual heroics aren’t their fucking ethos: fabricated heroics are. They don’t give a shit about anyone who can’t feed their ego or promote their bullshit to the world, but they’ll sure act like that ain’t the case. They’ll throw together a new song and dance routine at the drop of a dime here on Earth but then fuck right off to the comforts of space once things get a little too hot. Once they start failing too many times and it doesn’t take long for the failure to pile up when you look at the awe-inspiring talent they got in their little consortium. It’s never been a matter of if they’ll fail enough for their constant forays into the great beyond to become a pattern: it’s always been a matter of when. When will they fail? When will the supports fall out from under them when they realize their random acts of space-badassery won’t correlate to success in a wrestling ring. That’s when you start to see it, though: the real glue holding this gang of mediocre, over-the-hill fucks together.

Entrance to the Guardians and absorption into their orbit isn’t a hard process by any means. You don’t have to be a skilled wrestler, by any means. You don’t have to have limitless potential, even if you never come through with anything concrete for that potential. You don’t even have to be a good-hearted individual dedicated to doing good wherever you go. No, you just have to be able to surgically attach your lips to Jay Omega’s – otherwise known as Crow McMorris’ cum dumpster – sweaty, unimpressive cock. Nevermind the fact that he blew his load way too early and has been stuck in a dreamless slumber ever since his first loss to ol’ Crow. Because the fact of the matter is this: The Guardians are not heroes. They were never meant to be the heroes you fucking idiots wanted them to be. They are and always have been a way for Jay Omega to climb back to the top of the wrestling world with as little effort as possible. For him to stay relevant in the face of creeping irrelevance, compounded by his inability to capture the gold he so desperately seeks – you almost have to be glad Howard Black arrived in time to save us all from Crow/Omega III; you Guardians couldn’t possibly have wanted to see your fearless leader get shitstomped again, right? – and his remarkable ability to constantly embarrass himself whenever he so much as breathes.

This is his way back into wrestling fans’ consciousness. By being the biggest fish in a really fucking shallow pond of talent, pandering to you all to accept them as heroes so they can feel that for once in their life, in spite of their combined inability to accomplish anything in their chosen profession, they’ve done something. Anything. Anything at all. This is what they’ve chosen to fill them up: delusions of grandeur. Of devotion for heroism they don’t have the guts for.

After all, where were the Guardians when I put Teddy Sol down like a rabid dog? Huh? This isn’t rhetorical, give me an answer. Where were the heroes, the Guardians of men and realms and everything inbetween, when I took a real hero out behind the woodshed and ended him? Nowhere to be seen. Right, this is where their true colors show, because for all their posturing and desperate bids for the title, they’re nothing but cowards.

What’s wrong? Why wasn’t poor Teddy Sol good enough for to warrant you saving him? I’m sure he’d like to know, as he lies in whatever hospital bed he’s lying in, all because you couldn’t be bothered to get off your asses to help him. That’s on you, good guys.

What, was it because he wasn’t in your buddy club? Or, was it because you’re terrified of me? I mean, after all, a secondary recruitment measure in the Guardians is ‘you have to have lost to Erin Fause’. Either directly or tangentially, it doesn’t matter. Alex Richards, who’s so desperately stuck in your orbit he’s smothering poor Bonnie in the folds of his beer gut, was so certain of his inability to beat me in our tag team rematch of sorts that he sent Teddy Sol, the real hero, to pin Kyle Kemp. And let’s not forget, if it weren’t for Polar Phantasm doing what Polar Phantasm does best – losing/being an absolute nonfactor – I wouldn’t have smashed a chair into Andre Holmes’ face.

Andre’s impending nervous breakdown is also on you. Nice job breaking it, ‘heroes’.

Now, the Guardians are all up in arms, trying to harass the man who beat me at Election Day, Mayor David Sanchez, because he couldn’t give enough of a fuck about the lowliest team of heroes I’ve seen in my entire life to actually face them in the ring. Let this sink in, pals: that man, who doesn’t care enough to distinguish Polar Phantasm from Alex Richards, let a world title match slip through his fingers because he decided he’d rather scrape and claw his way to a victory over me than shitstomp two Guardians for the price of one.

That’s your legacy, Guardians: a shiny glass house. Flashy sure, but real easy to shatter and even easier to impale yourselves on the debris. Of course, you deserve every single bit of it, you sorry fucks.




The nameless referee’s hand slaps down hard on the canvas next to me in what feels like slow-motion. I swear I can see every inch, every fucking centimeter his arm travels on its downward trajectory. His hand collides with the mat with a thunderous echo and he calls out one number, that dreaded number: “ONE!”


I try to force my shoulder up, but it just lays flat. Limp. Covered by that sneering prick David Sanchez, who flashes a knowing grin at me as the ref’s hand flies up, only to fall back down again: “TWO!”

This is it: everything I have to show for my wrestling career so far – after all, there’s no physical reward for stopping the fucking apocalypse or else I’m sure I’d get recognized for that finally – is about to be ripped away from in the blink of an eye and meanwhile I’m just laying right here in the center of the ring, unable to do anything to stop it. What the fuck, Erin? What the actual fuck?

I don’t even hear the ref shout three. Instead I hear the bell ring and feel Sanchez push himself off of me. The timekeeper, some smug looking little shit in his father’s suit, hands my championship to the referee, who then proceeds to hand it over to our esteemed Mayor. I feel my whole body trembling as I roll out of the ring.

I’m not going to puke. I choke down the rising bile before stumbling over to the guardrail to try and catch my balance. I want nothing more than to scream, to channel everything – my rapid heartbeat, the bone deep trembling that makes me look like a Parkinson’s patient, my brain racing a million miles per hour, thinking of all the ways this will be held against me until the end of time – into one primal release. Then I look at the crowd. They want exactly that: they want me to explode, to lose my shit to give them any reason to act like they’re any better than me while they watch and I wrestle. No. Fuck them. I’m not giving them what they want.

It almost feels like I’m not even in control of my body as I drag myself up the ramp and out of sight. My whole field of vision is one giant of blur of vague shapes and colors and I keep on walking despite every muscle in my body screaming at me to just give up and collapse. And yet, I keep on going; past the rows upon rows of shrieking fans chanting something in what has to be another language entirely, past the curtain set up at the end of the ramp, past the artificially created boundaries separating the makeshift arena from the rest of Chicago. Then I finally give into what my body’s been screaming for: I keel over and vomit on a poor stretch of sidewalk. Where the fuck is Azra? This wouldn’t fuck with her; she could roll right through what happened just a couple minutes ago. She doesn’t even care about our newly chosen profession and yet, when I try to hand the reigns over to her, she’s nowhere to be found.

It’s just me and you, God.

Why?

I shake my head and wipe my mouth before standing up and flagging down a taxi. As I open the door, settle into my seat, and mumble to the driver three or four times before he catches the address of that dump of a hotel I’ve been calling home for the past month or so, the only thing I can focus my attention on is you. Here you are again, back in my head. Checking up on me, perhaps: wanting to see just how I was dealing with the fallout from the humiliation you walked me right into without so much as a warning? Just fine, thanks for asking. Just fucking dandy.

I spent the whole drive to southeast Chicago staring out the window at the night scenery. We passed more than a few memorials, most related to “1he wav3:” the ever-optimistic photographs of young children and teenagers stabbed/shot/beaten to death with a rock in the bloody day of mass confusion, the images of families irreparably scarred and tattered and torn apart by their losses and an inability to move on filled my head, giving some sort of distraction from the failure still fresh in my heart.

I didn’t even realize when we made it to the hotel until the cabbie honked his horn to pull me back to reality. Confused for a brief moment, I mumbled something vaguely apologetic before handing him his money and tumbling out of his cab and falling to the sidewalk below. He didn’t even stop to see if I was alive, let alone okay, before speeding off into the night. Groggily, I pushed myself to my feet and stumbled, still half in a daze, to my room.

I dreaded sleep that night. I dreaded the return of the dreams of apocalypse that had led to my recurring insomnia in the first place, yet the second I crawled into the disease pit of a bed near the center of my room, I was out like a light. No dreams of apocalypse haunted me; no dreams plagued me at all.

Just pitch blackness.




Oh, Bonnie; you’re a feisty one, ain’t ya? You just aren’t content to just harass David Sanchez on Twitter like a crying little schoolgirl wondering why senpai won’t notice her, no, you have to use that same social media platform to assure your good buddy Alex Richards that you’re going to make me pay for interfering in what should’ve been a clean, competitive contest between him and everyone’s favorite mouth breathing troglodyte: Andre Holmes. Oh, make me pay Bonnie. Please, I want you to try. After all, you sure didn’t lift a finger to help your good friend Andre Holmes avoid an unfairly deserved loss – let’s be real here, the only reason Alex Richards could beat Andre Holmes was with my help – before it even happened. No, you were content to hang out in your spaceship like you always do when things get a little too hot to handle and you let your teammate and ally walk out with an undeserved win while your other old buddy not only lost, but got assaulted afterwards.

Y’know, if I were Andre – I’d kill myself before any of this happened – I’d have to wonder just how much of a friend you really are. Is this what friends do for each other? Friends let friends get assaulted by their worst nightmares? Make no mistake about it; I’m the chairwoman of the “Ruining Andre Holmes’ Life” Committee and I’ve made my position as such incredibly apparent. You should’ve seen it coming a mile away, just like Andre and Alex, and yet you didn’t. And you didn’t do a damn thing to stop it. July third must’ve been one embarrassing night to be a Guardian, huh? First Alex Richards gets a sham win courtesy of moi, then David Sanchez doesn’t even give you or Polar Phantasm the time of day because, let’s be real here, who would? The most underwhelming team up this side of Rebellution – sound familiar? – doesn’t quite inspire the same desire to destroy the way something like, oh I dunno, “Rising Stars Champion” does.

You wouldn’t know anything about championships though, Bonnie, so I forgive you for thinking that Sanchez would ever waste his time with the likes of you, no matter how much you call him a pussy, which the more I think about it, the more hilarious it becomes. Isn’t being a massive blubbering vagina your whole thing? The Guardians’ whole thing, because they can’t even come through when their buddies are being screwed! Andre and Alex get their match ruined, Andre gets hurt, even your fearless leader Jay Omega wasn’t free of this kind of treatment. He got his first match with Crow ruined by Wentworth Updegraff and what did you guys do to stop it?

Oh, right. What you always do: absolutely nothing.

Story of your career, eh Bonnie?

What have I been doing since that fateful night, about a month and a half ago, when I pinned you and never looked back? Oh, right. Advancing to the semi-finals of that inaugural tournament, much further than any of my doubters expected. Ruined Andre Holmes’ hopes and dreams of becoming world champ. Then I ruined his hopes and dreams of beating Thursday Kerrigan. And then as the icing on the cake: I became the inaugural Rising Stars Champion and the first female champion in UCI history. How does that feel, Bonnie? Even at the condescending “female firsties” game, normally the only way you’ll snake your way onto the record books, I beat you.

Meanwhile, what have you done since I pinned you in my professional wrestling debut?

Right, a whole lot of nothing, eh? Going through the motions, a poor fucking shmuck who think she’s a rat in a maze, trying to find the way that’ll bring her as close to the top as she can get, when in reality she’s a hamster in a wheel: running in place endlessly. Drifting back and forth from meaningless tag matches against fractured teams and those who never had a chance in the first place, to getting your ass handed to you in the biggest match of your career. That’s you, Bonnie. That’s all you. This is your life: constantly biting off more than you can chew until you choke on it. Then, where are your buddies?

They’re nowhere to be found when you need help the most, just like how you are when they need you.

Congratulations, Bonnie. You can’t help but keep on playing yourself. It’d almost be funny, if it weren’t so sad. You’re not going to avenge your friends. Alex’s win will still be tainted, Andre will still have gotten brutalized after the match, and I’m going to walk out with another W on my record.

And there’s nothing you or the Guardians can do about that.

Don’t cry Bonnie; you still have your spaceship.





I’d never get used to airplanes. This much I was certain of; there was a certain unfocused dread that accompanied the giant gravity defying vehicles that tugged at the back of my brain and whispered nasty thoughts. Yet, the thought that always, without fail, rings out the loudest of them all was a thinly veiled desire for something to happen. For the plane to explode in midair or vanish entirely. Call it morbid, but I’ve always been curious what that’d feel like. To be trapped with no way out, to stare down your own mortality, to make peace with the pitch black void that awaits us all at the end.

I suppose I could always ask Bonnie Blue what it’s like to know you’re going nowhere but at the same time being completely unable to stop it. I assume that’s a similar feeling. Maybe a bit duller since it isn’t a life or death situation but I can’t imagine it being much different.

As was the usual, the cab ride from the airport to my hotel was a quiet, dull affair. The cabbie eyed me suspiciously – apparently a twitchy Bosnian woman with bloodshot eyes is suspicious – which I tried my hardest to ignore as I fantasized about driving an ice pick through his eye socket. It’d be an interesting subversion on the clichéd “evil taxi driver murders fares” thing, at the very least. That’s a cliché, right? In my heart it is.

I decided to indulge myself a little bit with my choice of hotel for my brief stay in Madison: spending $59 a night never sounded so appealing. As the cabbie pulled up to the brick exterior of the chain hotel whose sign I didn’t bother to read – they’re all functionally the same anyway – I fumbled with the money I’d gotten out to pay him, dropping it a few inches from his hand, scampering out of the car before the bills even hit the ground, bags in hand. I decided to keep them on hand the second I decided I was going to short him. Poor bastard never had a chance.

The hotel room was textbook generic-chic: gray carpeted floors, deep red walls, some modernist aesthetic bullshit I tried to pay no attention to as I threw my bags down on the floor and unzipped one, pulling out a manila envelope I found outside the door of the shithole in Chicago and looking it over for the fifth time today:

OPEN ME, JP





Is there a sadder story in the whole of professional wrestling than the horrible, twisting, never-ending nightmare that is Polar Phantasm’s career? The ever so iconic Kid Phantasm, not quite a kid anymore, and devoid of all the charm and success that presumably filled the early part of his career. Now, all that’s left of the once great, successful man is a spineless husk, another face in the Guardians machine. Seriously, who is Polar Phantasm? What separates a Polar Phantasm from an Alex Richards or a Bonnie Blue? One has a pair of tits, one has an obnoxious southern accent, and the other is the epitome of a washed up, slack-jawed moron who speaks almost entirely in shitty punchlines.

Is that why you let everyone else overshadow you to the degree you do? Think about it, you have Jay Omega as the de facto face of the Guardians; the one closest to the top of the card when he gets the shit beat out of him by Crow McMorris. Then you have Alex Richards and Bonnie Blue as your voices, dropping the Guardians name alongside drunken idiocy and false promises, respectively. This is your gang, Polar, and you’re the least memorable name. The weakest, easiest to forget member of a weak, easy to forget stable. I have to remind myself, week in and week out, that you guys do actually exist and I didn’t just hallucinate your existence during an existential crisis just to add fuel to that flame. You have no idea how easy it is to sink into a brief depression triggered by a momentary acknowledgement of the meaninglessness of life when you remember that the Guardians exist in the middle of it. Seriously, talk about a bummer.

Oh, look. I even made this little selection of verbal abuse directed at you personally and I’m still dipping my hand into the reserve Guardians jokes pot because, what is there to really say about you, Polar? Thank you, for being the most incompetent “legend” in the game and letting Andre Holmes sneak out with a victory right under your nose? After all, I couldn’t rip shit from Andre’s hands if you weren’t good enough to finish that job for me.

You’re just like Bonnie; worse even. You got thrown a bone, an opportunity you didn’t deserve in the slightest. Thrown into the main event of Election Day because they needed to fill a special needs quota and they managed to write-off “talent dementia” as a legitimate illness quick enough to get you tossed into the fray. What did you do with this big opportunity? The thing that could’ve immediately put you right back on the map. The opportunity that could’ve jumpstarted this part of your career. You let it fall right through your fingertips just like everything else. How do you do it? Just up and become a fucking nonentity like that?

Face it, Polar: you lost it. And you’re never going to regain it because you lack the real drive because every time things get too hard for you and your merry band of fucking cowards: you can just hop into your spaceship and fuck right off. So, please, Polar. I’m begging you for all of our collective sanity: just retire. Do your space shit on your own time but stop dragging your ass down the ramp to a wrestling ring, just to disappoint everyone again. Be it almost losing to a fractured tag team. To a tag team that was fucked from the start. Be it squandering the biggest opportunity you never deserved. Be it every time you walk around the halls with that washed-up, has-been swagger you try and convince everyone – yourself included – is still cool. It isn’t. It’s fucking sad. It’s saddening watching you shamble around like Junior Soprano, calling out for your old brothers at arms and only getting your new D squad.

What a bunch of fucking cowards. All of you.

You make me sick.