cd&p but also balls
EAW Hall of Famer
I'm just getting warmed up. This week, Veena Adams, one of EAW's foremost cockwhores, a trailblazer for wrestlers who moonlight as escorts in their downtime, and this week on Dynasty the woman who will be receiving the esteemed luxury of being mi piñata personal. The fact is my nuts hang lower than anybody else on this roster, on that roster, wherever. You can compare these drooping grapefruits to those of anybody else anywhere and the truth becomes apparent: These melons got mileage. You saw what I'm capable of this past week on Dynasty, the way I savaged Johnny Airhart, the way I took all the wind out of his sails and reduced him to simply Johnny Hart, and very soon all of you are going to realize that kind of dismissive, look-past-you type of victory is exactly what I'm capable of doing to every wrestler willing to go toe-to-toe with me in that ring, none of you withstanding. Right now it sounds like wishful thinking, but when the pieces come together, when the buzz is caught, there's nobody in this industry that can fuck with me. Veena Adams, I don't have to ask what makes you think you can defeat me. I already know the answer to that question. I've been struggling to rediscover consistent form over the past year and some change, and you're yet another wrestler looking to exploit the perceived chinks in my armor and capitalize on that vulnerability. There is no underlying story here, that's the simple fact of the matter and it's honestly not a bad thought process on your part. It's the same thought process Johnny Airhart had before I crushed his windpipe, from damaged trachea to thrown in the fuckin' trash with the speed of a prime Randy Johnson fastball. I can't fault you for seeing an opening, not unlike the opening many wrestlers before you have seen, but what I can do? Close the opening. Bridge the gap that exists between me and demolition of this roster on a weekly basis, night after night clinics of which ninety-nine percent of the company thinks I'm no longer capable -- for good reason. I have underserved this community over the past year-plus, with flashes of the main event pedigree that made me Extremist of the Year sprinkled between canned-in performances, and I have underserved our wrestlers in that I have not dispensed the kind of indiscriminate asskickings all of them so desperately deserve as a comeuppance for the way they've ridiculed and mocked me during my most grievous time of need. In the back I've seen wrestlers who were not willing to lend a helping hand, wrestlers who preyed on my downfall, bit commercials during the very brand that I compete on poking fun at my physique. I've been equated to Christopher Columbus by a race-baiting fraud in an effort to generate higher viewership in our program, and it's this kind of battery EAW has put in the back of people like Johnny Airhart, who just this past week on Dynasty was ever the jester, maligning me for the same tired tropes so many of you have come to associate me with -- the implication of comorbidities, screaming my failures to execute a maneuver in a joke clip making rounds on social media, and in the same breaths not so much as a whisper of my accomplishments, like the fact that I created the platform for there to even be a Johnny Airhart. I effectively deplatformed him, and guess what? Veena Adams' stilettos be damned, that's exactly what I'm going to do to her on Dynasty.

You're by Charlie Marr's side in an effort to further draw attention to him, and only this week after months on the brand did Jake Mercer notice Charlie was bald so clearly you're doing a pretty fucking shitty job. Jake Mercer never fails to recognize what it is when I step into the arena: The Impact Zone, babes. You're a fucking table setter for me, but more important than Veena Adams herself? What a match against Veena Adams represents. On the surface, it means nothing, it's a meaningless throwaway. But meaning isn't some inherent trait that exists through the nature of the match; meaning is what you lend to it. Every showcase reflects the effort you exert either into making it a great and worthwhile encounter or making it a forgettable afterthought. And while I can't make Impact vs. Veena Adams the headliner of Pain for Pride, that shouldn't have any bearing on how the participants in the bout feel about it. Their anticipation shouldn't affect my participation. Their reactions shouldn't alter how I perform. This epiphany has been the missing link for me, cables always disconnected a few inches from each other that are finally beginning to connect and coalesce to form the basis of a deeper understanding of this business. I think over the past year I've spent too much time harping on my competition, yearning for a more favorable season, and in doing so I've wasted a lot of time I could be further cementing my status as this industry's most solid fixture. I've cost myself the kind of championship opportunities I've complained about not getting by being indifferent to matches just like this one I'm competing in against Veena on Dynasty. Make no mistake, detractors have tried to dance on my grave, and I fully intend on bringing every wrestler in EAW who misspoke about my name and dragged it through the mud to my personal brand of justice, and that doesn't in any way contradict the realization that I've also made many mistakes over the the course of downward spiral that could have been easily corrected and instead I allowed to float over my head. By deferring to all of you, I'm submitting to the higher power, the puppeteers stringing me along, and I'm allowing them to determine my fate. Now, fate is slowly but surely being gripped back in the clutches of EAW's favorite villain, the guy so many of you love to hate, and I'm back where I belong, not in the backseat, but behind the wheel. That is a wheel I have foolishly allowed everyone else except me to steer over the course of the past year, with my highlights largely being in tag team wrestling. Iron sharpens iron, so of course I was going to rise to the greatness of Mr. DEDEDE and Serena Bennett and return to the kind of form present in all my highlight videos for Territorial Invasion. Of course I was going to reach the finals of the Grand Prix, in the process toppling a murderer's row of competition. There was no question. In the finals, The Blicky Boyz got the edge, and when they got that edge the larger defeat wasn't simply at the hands of the Liquid Swordz collectively, but at my hands specifically, because without a Grand Prix stimulus and no obvious way to reshape the Liquid Swordz' fortunes, I became exposed. Short of a career-saving victory against Charlie Marr, I've been lackluster in singles competition over the past year, not a standout, but just another face in the crowd. When the final bell sounded in the Grand Prix, I was met with a lethal dose of that reality. I reversed course and I began doing the same juggling act I'd been on for the past year-plus, with the Territorial Invasion brand warfare, Liquid Swordz bandaid ripped off. And all that was left was Impact, a guy who committed to being The Remix but much of the time was just on a Re-Up of previous downfalls. That's not who I am, but you show who you are through your actions, and so I can't deny anyone who claims otherwise. That's the most frustrating part. I can't deny it, I can only come to grips with it. I haven't been able to create a momentum for myself in what seems like forever. This is the last chance for Impact to do that, to gain the kind of head of steam that invokes images of volcanic eruptions, not to continuously go out with a whimper, but to go down the right way: Swinging, as fast on the draw as ever, with a bang. And let's be honest, I'll never have a better chance to leave anywhere with a bang than a match with Veena Adams. ;)
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