November 24, 2014

The screen fades in to reveal perfectly manicured nails typing on a laptop's keyboard, complete with an instrumental of the DOOGIE HOWSER, MD theme.

The words: AN OPEN LETTER TO ALL MY CRITICS appear on the screen before vanishing with a few carriage returns.

My darlings, the words almost ooze with sarcasm, even before Nessa's voice picks up on the next word, supplying the voice-over.

"I know I've been rather reticent lately, especially given my all but 'thief-in-the-night' quiet departure from Femme Fatale Wrestling, but I can assure you there's been a reason for my silence. Yes, my dears. I've been training because unlike Misty Whitmore, the ten second paper champion, I've been slated to defend my title more often than even Christopher Kane was. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. Heavens, no. I welcome these challenges, especially against the GIRL POWER WRESTLING World Champion herself in Jo-Jo. It's funny, I suppose, that a girl like her is facing me. You'd think after spending this much time mucking around in SVW that she'd be fighting on Colleen or Mika's level instead of vying for a shot at my belt. Wait. What's that? She hasn't been active here? Ah. She just signed back in April and has only had a few matches before that random chance win? I suppose I had her confused with her brother."

The words vanish along with Nessa's snarky tone, replaced with the sad trombone sound and the words I CARE ABOUT WHO YOU ARE, TRULY.

"Well, that match against the Williams skanks was utterly forgettable... besides, one wash out MacFarlane is the same as another in my books, really. Pink hair. Orange hair. Neither one of you have done a single memorable thing in my books. Yes, I'm aware you've both held titles. Let that sink in for a second, sweetie."

There's a pause followed by the Snarktopus' familiar caustic laugh.

"The critics have been at their best yet again. There's never a moment's peace when you're at the top of your game after all. The jealousy is just absurd and the haters gotta hate, hate, hate. You know how it is. Even Taylor Swift knows how that feels and she's borderline pants-on-head impaired. So the detractors have been spinning their lies, mocking both Matthew and I for what I consider to be a stunning display of teamwork and friendship when he faced Linda Ragnal just a few weeks ago. It's funny, really, that none of you were up in arms about a GLASS beer stein being whipped at my partner's head during a match, yet you feel fit to tear me down for using LEGAL ringside objects in an effort to inspire my dear friend. I had no intentions of using the Pride Championship as a weapon— surely you can understand that I hold my title in the highest regard. I was simply holding it up so that it caught the light. I wanted Matthew to see it and be inspired, spurred on to greatness like a missionary at Mecca. I was there as his spiritual and emotional support, and you people are accusing me of CHICANERY? Really?"

There's an audible gasp.

"It's outrageous! I had his back out there because he's my professional soul-mate and you horrible people are turning it into something vile and dirty! I just wanted him to win. I wanted to see his smile return after the horrible assault on his person by a deranged fan. That reminds me, I really need to find out what legal recourse one has for mental damages such as that heinous loss. We should still be in that tag tournament."

She pauses, clearing her throat.

"But, I digress. We were talking about the Pride Championship... my beautiful, perfect, shiny and you see, the belt is just as important to him as it is to me. Why else do you think he was there to witness my triumph over the usurping hordes first-hand, over and over again?"

Those flawless fingers continue to fly, rarely making a mistake as Nessa's voice continues to narrate.

"I know that nothing would give you more pleasure, hypocritical as it is, to watch me fall but I can assure you it won't happen, Josephine. Your little helper isn't going to come to your aid again. You can't count on someone else in the match to tenderize me first so that you actually have a shot. No, sweetie. It'll just me you and I out there. Champion and... well... we can't really call you a challenger, can we? You didn't really earn it on your own merit. You didn't fight your way to the top at all. Quite frankly, before Ground Zero, I actually had no idea you were even in this division. So if you think you've got any chance in hell to pull off this win? Well, you can enjoy the same message I have for my many detractors."

The fingers stop, steepling above the keys, followed by a crisp edit to an animated gif: