A Missive From The Ashes [a blog]

I haven't posted anything on this damned site in over a month. I suppose that's long enough for the speculation to begin, isn't it? Maybe that carnage shown on OCW was legitimate. Maybe I really did have my head caved in by a pair of mouth-breathing former plagiarist Twitter lesbians. Maybe I was in the hospital, clinging to life. Maybe I was desperately trying to pen a new version of my will in the lucid moments and nodding off during my last rites – we all know I have nothing of value to pass on and my black, black soul is far beyond redemption.

I'm fine.

Definitely not dying and the only thing that's been drilled into my head is the certainty that there's no such place as paradise. If it seems too good to be true, just wait. The other shoe will drop. The curtain will eventually move and you'll see the disgusting inner workings – relax, kids. I'm not here to get political or throw shade at former employers.

I'm here because this is where I excel.

I'm talking about the battle royal, of course. I've won every single match of this type that I've ever been in. I don't expect this will turn out much differently, if I'm being honest. I've already beaten Noah Hanson (and the events that followed certainly left a distinct taste of BUYERS REMORSE in my mouth).

Some might speculate that I followed him here, dwelling on that easy win as if I were wont to chase him into oblivion, like the sun chasing the moon. Who shines brighter in that metaphor? I'll give you a moment to mull that over.

Tag, kids. You're it. You're shit – you're on the hit list. Can I make up a clever little ditty to get my point across too? If I were to go that route, I could think of far better musicians to emulate than an accused child molester.

No. I think I'll skip that. Outright copying something seems a tad gauche, really. Parody and plagiarism seem more like something that other place would do and we all know I'm no Rocket Raccoon. I just played a mouthy sidekick briefly on TV.

Let's keep it classy, hmm?

Bombastic statement time: I'm the best wrestler in this thing. You doubt me? Do a little digging. The marks know it already. The odds-makers do too. Take a look at accomplishments, at time spent toiling in this business. You won't find anyone better (sorry, Kandi).

I don't think I can make it much more concise than that. It's too late for a spiritual awakening and I honestly wouldn't want it even if it was handed to me on a silver platter like the whole of OCW was to the trolls. I've been taking my meds like a good girl. All my urges and vices are firmly in check and I'll certainly be doing my best out there to keep it professional and minimize the damage done to those actually on the Trinity roster.

It's way past the point where any of you can spin a little lie and tell me that you've got the touch and the power. It's time for all of you to face reality, and stop believing the bullshit your mommy and daddy and all the promoters who coddled your worthless asses told you. You're nothing. You're meant to be the rubble that gets stepped on consistently – you make me look better as I scale to the summit.

This isn't hyperbole.

This is fact.

Kandi Washington is proof that this battle royal was meant to be won by someone better. Her name on the marquee was a cry for help and the trash that blew in behind her just cemented that fact.

This place is ripe for the picking and I am hungry for gold, hungry for a phoenix rebirth from the ashes to reclaim my rightful place at the top of the heap. If I have to scale garbage mountain to plant that flag, so be it. I will.

You're not the best. You're not special. This is not your opportunity, Lex Collins – go back to the indy league ponds you've been treading water in since WWH threw your worthless ass out. Go back to whining about how Finn Whelan proved you were the bitch that everyone said you were.

It's unfortunate that you can't educate sheep. They just latch onto the best, and loudest broadcast idea, and follow it right off the cliff. Oh wait, was that lemmings? I thought I read somewhere that it was a myth. That actual lemmings don't do that.

It doesn't matter much in the grand scheme of the narrative.

You want a hug, Pasha? Sure. I'll squeeze you as hard as I can, until something pops. I'll send your communist ass packing to the hospital – I'm sure you'll especially love how much that will cost you on the American health care system.

The rest of you can draw straws for the scraps, fighting over the shadows before the asses are even in the seats. Whatever floats your collective boats. Go nuts.

I want you to waste time filling the silence with your words. I want to hear and see all the carefully constructed sentences to tell me just how little I mean. Don't spare my feelings.

Tell me exactly how you feel. You don't hate me. You don't care about me but you want to beat me – of course you do. You want me to know that my moment of undeserved accolades is over, and that I'm miles removed from the legend that I probably think I am. You want to drive that point home, humiliate me again, I'm sure.
DREAM ON.

Your research should have taught you something about me: I don't chicken out. I don't cut and run when the place gets ugly. I don't get tossed out like trash.

I do things on my own terms.

I walked away from OCW when it grew too toxic to stomach any longer. Let Best and his cronies run it into the ground.

I don't care anymore.

That was never my fight. I don't want to save anything. I'd much rather watch the napalm spread and then toss a match from on high if we're still being honest.

This, however? This has my name written all over it. Engraved invitation, filigree and all the works.

And I don't back down.

Not now. Not ever