Trail to 2020 (Part 3 of 4): Their Custody
Dec 12, 2019 22:10:58 GMT -5
Karlie Nash, Derrick Vayden, and 1 more like this
Post by Quixote Della Torre on Dec 12, 2019 22:10:58 GMT -5
Still seething from Tawny’s bombshell, my webcam’s set to livestream my promo onto the AW Network. Thoughts nag that this is a bad idea in my present state but I proceed against better judgement.
At Execution, my 8 month condemnation back to the division I built, but far transcended, turned from threat into reality. That moment, I resolved not to waste even a second moping. I immediately started mapping my trail back to the top. Mental list - purge out the poison - tick. Heal - tick. Return - tick. Decimate anyone corrupting Cruiserweight into “Loserweight” - tick, tick, tick, tick, tick. Regain MY Title, win the Rumble and start 2020 glittering again - tick, tick, fuckin’ BOOM.
Derrick Vayden, thanks for goading me into a dick measuring contest on Twitter. You yank the shaft of that 119 day reign; milking ‘til it bleeds. Impressive length. Though a stat geek DMed me more revealing numbers than your classroom ruler can measure.
We’ve both been Cruiserweights for slightly over 7 months. Vayden - active throughout, save the occasional disastrous flirtation with heavyweight competition. QDT - 2 spells, punctuated by an acclaimed 5 month main event run.
Vayden - Victories over 14 different wrestlers. QDT - Vanquished 16… in my first spell alone! Only victims still around - Jaice Wilds and… well, you know the other. Second spell so far - 9 wrestlers defeated, 0 losses. Case you can’t count, that’s 25 scalps to your 14.
You edge me on length, albeit shrivelled… but I got ALL THE GIRTH to truly hit the sweet spots.
Sorry but I’m angry. Angry that I’m angry… with you. In sympathy, I might consider you friend. Feels like I’m shooting Bambi here, so let’s get this over quick.
We felt ethereally entwined from Havoc onwards - the night I made you a star and passed on my legacy, as my star ascended to new stratospheres. You later received my gold... and wore it well.
I returned and revealed the “klews” to you; HYPED TO FUCK for a collision between the two towers of the Cruiserweight cosmos. Destiny, right?
Wrong. You collapsed.
I so wanted the succession narrative to be even halfway true. I weaved a sentimental story, perpetuating it faithfully... because I LOVE my Title and wanted it in safe hands. But like Santa - sorry kids, Krampus is coming - all childish fables are exposed one day.
Shit luck because you’re a “gee golly gosh” nice boy. The people adore you. But I’ll be far from Santa’s good list, yet the masses like me a little more than you, for whatever twisted reasons.
You’re skilled… I’m superior. And tragically... so was The Raging Dead.
44 years old, 45 career title reigns; not bad. You’re over double my age and your shrewdness shone when you got in Vayden’s head at Turmoil. He was spellbound, muzzling you with gauze, while you picked him apart.
If you really think that zombie fuckery will faze me, I invite you to take a bite because you’ll taste something none of your adventures traversing the little leagues could feed you… virtuosity. Can’t promise I’ll return your teeth though.
You’re laborious, with admirable perseverance; slaving away for eternity to soak in the spotlight I’ll share with you at Thirteen. You’re good, maybe great. A real testament to hard work. But you’re not QDT; you’re dying embers while I’m a white hot firestorm.
… Or is “white hot” not PC these days? Who cares. Way more acceptable than “Whiteface Thriller” or whatever creepy Michael Jackson inspired nickname you carry.
You woke up 2 years ago with no memory of your family and a feeling you’d trespassed into a life you never belonged. I’m sure things got better. But tomorrow morning, hours before Thirteen with my shadow looming, that alien sense of unearned privilege will trouble you more agonisingly than your original trauma. You weren’t meant to be here, Cruiserweight Champ, but your effort trumped Vayden’s spirit once he realised he was no longer within my safety net. Let my mastery take your struggle away. Let me lay The Raging Dead to rest.
This is my rescue mission. Time to get my baby back.
At Execution, my 8 month condemnation back to the division I built, but far transcended, turned from threat into reality. That moment, I resolved not to waste even a second moping. I immediately started mapping my trail back to the top. Mental list - purge out the poison - tick. Heal - tick. Return - tick. Decimate anyone corrupting Cruiserweight into “Loserweight” - tick, tick, tick, tick, tick. Regain MY Title, win the Rumble and start 2020 glittering again - tick, tick, fuckin’ BOOM.
Derrick Vayden, thanks for goading me into a dick measuring contest on Twitter. You yank the shaft of that 119 day reign; milking ‘til it bleeds. Impressive length. Though a stat geek DMed me more revealing numbers than your classroom ruler can measure.
We’ve both been Cruiserweights for slightly over 7 months. Vayden - active throughout, save the occasional disastrous flirtation with heavyweight competition. QDT - 2 spells, punctuated by an acclaimed 5 month main event run.
Vayden - Victories over 14 different wrestlers. QDT - Vanquished 16… in my first spell alone! Only victims still around - Jaice Wilds and… well, you know the other. Second spell so far - 9 wrestlers defeated, 0 losses. Case you can’t count, that’s 25 scalps to your 14.
You edge me on length, albeit shrivelled… but I got ALL THE GIRTH to truly hit the sweet spots.
Sorry but I’m angry. Angry that I’m angry… with you. In sympathy, I might consider you friend. Feels like I’m shooting Bambi here, so let’s get this over quick.
We felt ethereally entwined from Havoc onwards - the night I made you a star and passed on my legacy, as my star ascended to new stratospheres. You later received my gold... and wore it well.
I returned and revealed the “klews” to you; HYPED TO FUCK for a collision between the two towers of the Cruiserweight cosmos. Destiny, right?
Wrong. You collapsed.
I so wanted the succession narrative to be even halfway true. I weaved a sentimental story, perpetuating it faithfully... because I LOVE my Title and wanted it in safe hands. But like Santa - sorry kids, Krampus is coming - all childish fables are exposed one day.
Shit luck because you’re a “gee golly gosh” nice boy. The people adore you. But I’ll be far from Santa’s good list, yet the masses like me a little more than you, for whatever twisted reasons.
You’re skilled… I’m superior. And tragically... so was The Raging Dead.
44 years old, 45 career title reigns; not bad. You’re over double my age and your shrewdness shone when you got in Vayden’s head at Turmoil. He was spellbound, muzzling you with gauze, while you picked him apart.
If you really think that zombie fuckery will faze me, I invite you to take a bite because you’ll taste something none of your adventures traversing the little leagues could feed you… virtuosity. Can’t promise I’ll return your teeth though.
You’re laborious, with admirable perseverance; slaving away for eternity to soak in the spotlight I’ll share with you at Thirteen. You’re good, maybe great. A real testament to hard work. But you’re not QDT; you’re dying embers while I’m a white hot firestorm.
… Or is “white hot” not PC these days? Who cares. Way more acceptable than “Whiteface Thriller” or whatever creepy Michael Jackson inspired nickname you carry.
You woke up 2 years ago with no memory of your family and a feeling you’d trespassed into a life you never belonged. I’m sure things got better. But tomorrow morning, hours before Thirteen with my shadow looming, that alien sense of unearned privilege will trouble you more agonisingly than your original trauma. You weren’t meant to be here, Cruiserweight Champ, but your effort trumped Vayden’s spirit once he realised he was no longer within my safety net. Let my mastery take your struggle away. Let me lay The Raging Dead to rest.
This is my rescue mission. Time to get my baby back.