One And Done [a blog]

"Bingo." Rather than the blinding, vitriolic wall of words that this blog usually contains, the reader – or is it viewer now – is treated to a video. There's no theatrical lead-in, just the current Paradigm Champion's untouchable, beautiful face and the familiar derisive smirk upon her lips. She looks down at the table in front of her and the camera follows, catching sight of a bingo card and a neon pink dabber. There's also a tablet propped there, freeze-frame video of Hayley Robinson standing in the middle of a wrecked room.

"Forty-five seconds to complete a line – I'm impressed, honey. That's a rare gift. See, I made this two weeks ago, after our little encounter at Little Big Horn. It contains all the cheapest tropes, the worst excuses I've heard over the course of my career. Blame game. Misplaced anger and/or angst. Free space, of course. Idle and empty threats. And our final space, the mother-lode, you went there. Of course, you did. You played the rookie card. You feigned ignorance, as though I crossed a line? Of course. We wouldn't want facts to ruin a good portrait being painted here. It's too bad you're colour-blind and can't see you're using shades of mediocre yellow rather than heroic blue."

She pushes to her feet, revealing the pristine face of the Paradigm Championship and the slender and curvaceous waist around which it rests. Her midriff is bared above the glorious gold until the edges of a black Under Armour sports bra. Over this she has layered an over-sized black hooded HOW sweatshirt.

"It always starts small, doesn't it? A little wish. A little dream. A push in the right direction. Maybe a little money and a kind word that makes you think you have what it takes to become a TV star, a diva, a princess... or even..." Kitty shudders, looking horrified, "a professional wrestler."

Shrugging, she tosses her hair from her face, "not that I think it's wrong to encourage someone – hopes and dreams are what separate us from the animals, after all. It's amusing to me, almost maddeningly so. Take a look around, Hayley. Pinch yourself to make sure you're really here and you're not locked deep in the middle of some delusion. You think this is personal? You think I even care about you beyond a warm body across from me in that ring? Blow more hot air. Waste more time. We're in the gloaming now – do you know what that means? Do you understand what's happening? There won't be a next week. You're not going to make it past me and face Mike Best for your career. That all happens on Monday, you weak little piece of trash. I thought I had you pegged..."

She gestures to the table and then overturns it casually, walking away without looking as everything crashes to the floor. "I thought running your mouth against The eMpire was the epitome of lunacy. You kept pushing the envelope, kept gnashing those teeth in sheer desperation, hoping the sounds you made came out coherent enough to gain a following – like the brainwashed idiot you are, you thought you could stand a chance. You thought they would all rally behind you and a part of me almost feels bad for the circumstances. Almost. You've been conditioned and coddled, you have a moronic trainer filling your head with the notion that you have the skill to compete with me. Let's face it, little girl. You're mediocrity personified. Before tonight, I only suspected you'd bought it – hook, line AND sinker – what a punchline. You've already done all the heavy lifting for me."

Kitty shakes her head, making her way down a darkened hallway, her red-lacquered nails trailing against the wall. "Kudos to you, Hayley. You've managed to surprise me."

She lets that thought hang for a moment, chuckling softly to herself. "Don't get me wrong – this isn't some elitist bullshit about how rookies don't belong in MY ring. I'll face anyone. Red. Brown. Purple. Green." That smirk is back for a moment, "it's always great when people who think they can... step into my world. Those are the ones I can't wait to knock down a peg. The liars. The delusional. The ones who cling to these ridiculous notions of perfection, even after losing multiple matches against people who are even more pathetic than they are – that's right, sweetie, I mean you. You lost to Bifford, after all. But don't take my word for how head-fucked this little girl truly is – listen to her speak. She believes there's a conspiracy afoot. She thinks there's a plot to destroy and erode the very fabric of OCW. She doesn't understand that buy-rates are up and there's a constant influx of new and promising talent. What do you want? For your little pond to stagnate until it dries up?"

She shakes her head in mock sadness. "Hayley Robinson is insane. She's a danger to this business and I'm doing this place a service in melting the last of the special snowflakes. It's not everyone conspiring against her. She actually believes this company, the wrestling industry as a whole even, wants nothing more than to keep her down. Of course, the real reason isn't because she's hot garbage and a black hole of charisma – heavens no! She's obviously so amazing that we can't handle it. The truth is a bit more concrete, but it never sinks in. She sucks. She's an idiot. She never deserved this opportunity and there's not a day that's passed since that I didn't wish I was facing someone else."

Those full lips quiver in amusement, managing to keep the sarcastic smile at bay. "It always starts small, Hayley. An avalanche can start with a snowball. A rock-slide with a single grain of sand. They say that everything starts with an idea. An original thought. Pity for you that it'll never happen. You wouldn't know originality if it bit you on your flat little ass. You wouldn't know talent if it slapped you into next week. The fact that you're still angry at being ousted from the tournament so that you need to twist around what really happened to make yourself look better speaks volumes. Those of us who are actually seasoned veterans know that a single loss can happen. We know that it's not the end of a career. We don't dwell on things like that, or have childish tantrums when our betters prove their superiority. I mean granted, it's Big Bifford we're talking about here, but in the grand scheme of things, he is still better than you are. There's a scale. It goes a bit like this…"

She bends down, leveling her hand at her ankles. "We have the amoebas down here. Your Windy City Weirdos and Jason Kortares," she moves her hand up to her knees, "then we have the lower mid-carders like Chastity Temple and Lilith... they might be big someday, but they're just getting their feet wet now that the green's worn off."

She lifts the hand a bit higher, to her waist now, "then we have the mid-carders like Andrea Hernandez and Alice Knight... they're confident there as long as you don't push them too much. They're able to hold their own out there, to win championships. They grow egos because they're better than that bottom half." She lifts her hand again, this time around her breasts, taking a big breath so that they heave as she does. "Then we have the upper-mid-carders... folks like PerZag, Max Kael and Ed Houston – they're not awful. They're legends, they're Hall of Famers who can put on a show and really draw a crowd, but can't really captivate an audience on their own. They need someone else to really help them shine."

She grins, placing both palms against her chin, "and then there's the main event crew. Like me and..." she sighs, fluttering her eyelashes, "well you know who else – our esteemed champion. Nobody else is in this league. So now I guess you're wondering why I didn't tell you your place." She taps her foot against the ground, the heel of her stiletto boot rapping against it to draw attention. "You're down here, sweetie. So low, so completely pathetic that you don't even register." She grinds her boot against the floor, grinning, "under my boot, squished like the annoying little gnat you are."

She nods, "and if that metaphor doesn't work, I'll lay it on thicker and harder. Give that knife a little twist so you don't think I was kidding when I called a spade a spade and said you were unworthy from the beginning. I could go to any company and find another one like you, completely identical even down to the annoying accent and cookie-cutter rhetoric. I'd urge you to keep trying, but like you said already: this is personal and I never fancied myself a role model."

She giggles, "the first thing people see of you is usually the thing that sticks. A new era of OCW is upon us and The eMpire has been clearing the chaff for over a month now – you can feel the heat getting closer to your little nest where you're gnawing away at the fibre of our industry, can't you? Poor little termite, believes she's a roach and that she can withstand the holocaust that's coming. You can't change what you are. You won't even if you had a thousand more years to prepare."

Grinning, she presses her palm to her lips, leaving a lipstick imprint there before blowing towards the camera. "Kiss that ego goodbye, sweetie. I am the only woman in this company worthy of the Paradigm Championship. On Monday, I plan to drive that truth right into your thick skull, ending your dreams and your career at the same damn time. You don't get another shot. One and done, Hayley. That's a promise."