Salachya (סְלַח יָהּ)
Never before has there been the level of access to the pinnacle of mankind's sciences and arts, than there is at this critical point in world history. There are more studios of film, more full-time authors of novels, more musical genres, a greater quantity of supremely gifted painters, artists, poets, novelists, grandmasters in chess and athletic specimen now than ever before. And in this information age they are able to tap into resources that were once hidden behind an exorbitant fee. The likes of a Kasparov or a Robert Fisher innovated schools worth of strategy simply by decades of endurance; yet their predecessors, the likes of Gukesh Dommaraju and Hikaru Nakamura, can learn all the strategy and methodology from the comfort of their homes before their adolescence. I stand personal witness as your highness to the chances and the effects they have had in our sphere of the "art and science" of professional wrestling. The study of film on our opponents that we all habitually commit to was once not possible without either (a) some form of pre-planning for recording in advance, or (b) a trek to the physical archives within the EAW Headquarters. Yet as of now, all that one would need to edify themselves on their opponents are accessible at the tap of a finger within a matter of seconds. Not very long ago the eyes of millions relied upon the favour of one of a select few oligarchs with nationally syndicated dominance. It was a hero's journey in and of itself to capture but a moment of their attention. As of the past decade or so it has become possible to capture the attention of powerful important individuals simply by sharing your abilities in short form material. Even my divine attention may just be one overnight influx of engagement away, and you needn't any permission granted either. No pre planned meetings, no following my motorcade and tracking my movements for day on end, no waiting outside of my travel lodges or my palatial abode. Just go viral....that's all. You are encouraged to project yourself forth into the world; the impassioned autodidact who has mastered their craft has more of a chance of being discovered than most of you commoners could have dreamed of in generations past.
However, as of most matters in this plane of existence, this too comes with a caveat.
Whilst the barrier to entry is rendered nil, the path superlative status in most respective fields are growing more narrow, and becoming more elusive than ever before. Contrary to the lucrative narrative of town criers and doomsayers, the average quality of life across the Earth has risen exponentially. Hundreds of millions of citizens who are born and raised in impoverished nations now have access to resources that—merely decades ago—were considered First World luxuries. The expansion of such accessibility has translated within EAW in ways that continually astound those with a view behind the curtain. In 2008 A.D., the Elitists set apart by advanced metrics of social currency—i.e., merchandise sold, ratings drawn, etc.—were most apparent. If, at the time, you wished to know who the highest-earning and most impactful Elitists were, you need look no further than whoever happened to be the World Champions of the time. Per the sophisticated means of research employed by EAW we know now that in present day the weight of an Elitist's repute is relative to a more dynamic landscape; it just so happens that every participant in the upcoming Ultimate X match, for example, has a devoted following to each their own. I loathly admit this does include the Ava; I know well from the abuse hurled in my direction from her insipid hordes. Even the likes of KASAI however have a contingent of diehard support who hang on her every word and religiously tune into her matches and look on, with bated breath. On a macro scale: technocratic optimists suspect the future economy will consist of skilled individuals appealing to their niche crop of consumers; effectively bringing an end to the "celebrity" as we know it, in a more atomized world. It will be years before we as a collective comprehend the effects of this emergent zeitgeist—though, from my immortal purview—the end result is clear.
It is clear no matter how boldly she delivers her assertions.
Clear, irrespective of the promises she makes that will go unkept.
Clear, regardless of the momentum she enjoys due to my handiwork.
Clear, no matter how wide she chooses to paint her smile to hide the tears of a clown, KASAI is bound to a hell of her own advent: driven mad with neuroticism, dejection, and propelled by an inferiority complex, and emboldened by her audience who think and speak the world of her.
As I returned backstage following our bout a small child in the audience shouted as loud as they could in my direction "THANK YOU FOR HELPING KASAI WIN METHUSELAH!!". She had to be no more than nine or ten years of age, wearing an unmistakable painted visage, donning a replica of the Specialists Title, presumably in the spirit of happier times in KASAI-world. The replica, which bore your custom plates, was quite the commodity immediately following your victory at Grand Rampage a year ago. Time flies. This girl was one of thousands upon thousands who are stirred into a frenzy for each of your successes, and who's to say her parents weren't followers of the elder statesmen of the Urai clan when they were her age? It would appear as though your admirers place their own hopes and dreams in your hands, living vicariously through your pursuits. Some Elitists are so entrenched in their personas that it can serve as a benefit lest they find themselves distract by the fanfare behind them. In turn—you live in an age now where the pressure to measure up to your contemporaries are magnified with little reprieve much less any recourse. Other than continual success; at least, until you find yourself analyzing think pieces in the dark of night. Driven to exhaustion by the allegations of your downfall, one Specialists Title and already the thumbnails are asking "Has KASAI already peaked?" Cretins gambling their meager earnings on how many kicks you will land on your opponent let alone whether you will win or not, and then holding you personally accountable as though you were a highwayman and deliberately stole doubloons of silver from their purses. And then to add salt in the wound you find yourself in a five pack challenge as the pronounced underdog, when you and I both understand very well that it isn't your background. You've been given the sacred task of carrying out what is essentially your ancestral calling, to further your family dynasty; only to enter the playing field reminded ad nauseum that your family's blood is no thicker than the red dye smeared across your face. Every bead of your blood wasted in yet another shortcoming against opponents whose names you don't measure up to may as well be an ocean of tears from your ancestors—profusely weeping from beyond the grave. Do you hear their spirits crying out? I can. Their blood-curdling screams. Seemingly in pain, as though somehow, they can feel crunching of their own corpses, as every last vestige of a once proud family legacy is reduced to rubble beneath the mammoth-size print of GAWDZILLA's boot.
A nightmare that I can swiftly bring about into fruition on a whim. Your vow to "kill Methuselah" may as well be your way of whistling through the graveyard, lest you are forced to genuinely compare your abilities with mine and come to a haunting conclusion: not only do I clear you, I clear your entire lineage. I in one fell swoop can one-strike generations of painstaking labor from the face of this planet. And there is nothing you can fucking do about it aside from stare into the eclipse in horror. If the hopes of thousands across the world are dashed along with yours, consider it worthy collateral on my warpath.
Onward,
To the penny shaving pocket watching trollop with a mind captive by the affairs of others; galvanized by the internal panic setting in from the result of her own choices, as we venture into the latter stages of the season. And now the Apothecary must find a scapegoat where she can—heaven forbid the woman in the mirror is held to task. In the absence of self awareness comes a victimhood complex held in perpetuity. The most comforting notions are those that exist in the dreamworld of escapist speculation. You know the sort, "Well! Had only I been on Showdown at the time! Had only my loss were stipulated differently! Had only the room been a few degrees Celsius!" And when it falls upon deaf ears, you dig further into the affairs of others and assume executive Favour towards any and all who accomplish what you simply were not able to accomplish. This is when, somehow, Methuselah himself handed the keys to the Grand Rampage to my striking sexy yummy wife and allotted her the secret formulae to success. Your intentions, Apothecary, are as transparent as the Galls Wallz enclosure that you were beaten in. Interesting, considering your woe-is-me recount of your Universal Womens Title loss, you complain as though I were the Special Guest Referee involved in the bout and did the lion's share of handiwork for her. Y'know—the way that Ronn Banks had involved himself to ensure Adam Lucas had a chance versus I. Certainly in EAW as well as in life superlative success is, in large part, a result of hard work. Some, such as I, manage to make success appear easy; the way I made beating Adam Lucas earlier this year look easy. However what cretins like you willfully neglect is the simple understanding that EVERYBODY HERE 'works hard'. So much so—that the virtue of it is cancelled out in and of itself. 'Hard work' is a mere prerequisite in a land, such as ours, that resembles a world depicted in "The Golden Age" from the author John C. Wright. EAW is in a unique far-future post-scarcity element of its own, we are faced with a quandary similar to the residents of the Golden Oecumene. Everyone is blessed with extraordinary talent and inherent work ethic, and yet not everyone can be rewarded equally. As Wright illustrates in his novel; all are endowed with superhuman strength, immortality, unlimited resources, and have even managed to ascend mankind to a Kardashev Scale Type II species. Yet even in this Golden Age, some found themselves unable to stand out as the extraordinary, immortal elites they were in their old worlds. Alas, now in the world as it were EVERYONE was an extraordinary, immortal elite. Need I spell this out for you any further? The end of scarcity did not bring an end to lack. For the lack KASAI as well as yourself, Apothecary, must grapple with is not material, but existential—borne in comparison to others.
The atttidue of these elite underachievers pose a primary point of contention, because they told they deserve the world and settle for nothing less than greater equity in their new world. Anything short—is a byproduct of tyranny! It must be! How DARE they be denied of their own fanciful expectations! Of course: such comparisons are never derived when the efforts of others aren't enough to attain their goals. Only yours. Captain Charisma is not a flawed General Manager when other Voltage Elitists aren't immediately rewarded for their hard work. The gift and the curse of escapist speculation; thankfully, there indeed is a remedy. Typically my opponents are much less likely to sport such rhetoric in the wake of my wrath; tough to engage in escapist speculation when you discover for yourself that there is no escaping me. OVER FOR THOU. Not even for an accountability escape artist, such as yourself. Intriguing to me how you veered, in escapist delight, from the path of Milli Banks and the Womens World Title and wasted months of misplacing your trust in Adam Lucas. If anyone should be forced to suffer your impotent bloviating, why not him? Why us? Why, o wise Apothecary, hast thou burdened us with your neverending kvetching. You cannot even defeat Dynasty Elitists at Road to Redemption but you would have 'thrived' as a member of Dynasty. Ok. Yet we all must take you by your word and believe you would have conquered Silas World at Reasonable Doubt all by your lonesome. Or that legendary Hall of Famer, Minerva, didn't have the necessary tools to win the World Heavyweight Title; but magically these tools are within reach at your disposal upon your little mayo stand—if not for the crimes and capers of Captain Charisma. Come to your senses and learn that no figure of authority is beholden to popular consensus much less your own anecdotal personal convictions; were management to appease each member of each roster, EAW would become the hellscape of Ayn Rand's "Atlas Shrugged". Is this what you would prefer in the end? For you to be sent envoy to Dynasty, and for Jo$o to be absconded by an unmarked van at the mid of night? And for Minerva to be swept up in a mysterious riptide? And for Drake King to drown, accidentally by six men, attempting to save her? And for Drake Armstrong to vanish in a tragic unexpected boating accident? Until there are no contenders remaining aside from Apothecary Blue herself? Is this what the doctor ordered?
Perhaps I ought to do away with the middleman and place Bethany Blue in Captain Charisma's stead. Ironic, it would be, to see the M.D. forcefully fed a dose of her own medicine and find herself subject to the demands of others. Will she succumb and ultimately spiritually succeed Ryan Wilson? Or will she have the self-awareness to learn at long last how incessant her godforsaken grievances are? Alas, the paradox of modernity is that some are burdened by their own provident conditions. There are some who will stop at nothing to find an external source for their own perpetual internal grief. By all means, consult me if need be, I will be more than willing to oblige.
As the shadowy visage of GAWDZILLA looms in the horizon two truths are certain: the devil is in the details, and the Immortal Mahatma Gawdhi oversees all in the near distance. A figure so gargantuan seemingly so far beyond reach that the townsfolk wonder, at times, if the tales are true. Only for Him to appear before your eyes in living colour at a moment's notice. And GAWD see's what you have done. GAWD sees where the bones are buried. GAWD knows where the transgressions have occured and what extent you play, if any, in conspiracy against GAWD. Knowing the insecurities of an opponent is incomplete knowledge of them; in tow, you must know where they find it safe to hold their heads high—especially if their head is what you seek. Many Elitists opt to target the perceived insecurities of their opponents in order to embolden themselves. Whilst I have drawn from this well on many occasions, The Pretender serves as a prime example as to why sometimes what emboldens a man is what ultimately cripples him. Consider the term that he has been assigned, of "Pretender". What use does it serve if we truly competed in the vacuum that he would like you to believe we are in? The core aim of a pretentious little rapscallion such as he ultimately is to appeal to the perception of those in his surroundings. What you think of him is of more importance than who he genuinely is; the ramifications of his greater wellbeing be damned. He inadvertently divulged this himself letting it slip in his latest diatribe; believing in all earnest that Elitists will simply jump at his beck and call by the virtue of who you believe him to be. Are these "countless Elitists" in the room with us right now? Would you be so kind as to point me to the string in their backs? How spellbound by conceit must one be to listen to Apothecary Blue speak and not immediately see how self-interested these people are? Even if some are willing to join you in these little covert lairs of coddling where your fantasies are enabled by feckless sycophants. Where you say 'jump' and they ask you how high. Apparently this must be where you've kept O'Hara fettered to the wall and bound to the task of giving you obligatory pats on the head. Whilst Cameron Ella Ava and whatever other gutless vermin joins you to polish your egoes. Secrets uncovered at last! Aha! You almost tricked me! My child this may be a blissful sanctum of yours, it may appear to keep the wind in your sails, but it isn't reality, Mona_han. Hear me clearly: It isn't reality. It isn't reality.
Nothing in our world is real aside from the results of your own merit.
And you do not simply get to adorn yourself with the eminence earned by years of gallantry.
And even, Pretender, if you happened upon such painstakingly earned glory: It would not be enough.
Let us assume that you've laboured with the same level of effort as Jamie O'Hara and are given an 'Ace for effort'? Let us assume that all of the try hard antics of yours finally paid off and your dreams came true and you found yourself unilaterally acknowledged as The Ace.
What happens, Mona_han, when "The Ace" isn't enough?
At Pain for Pride 12, The Ace wasn't enough.
At Pain for Pride 14, The Ace wasn't enough.
At the Grand Rampage, Season 16, The Ace wasn't enough.
If you awakened to a world tomorrow as Pretender no more, "What's the Difference?" . When The Ace of new, just as The Ace of old, is an Ace with an Asterisk. So long as the existence of a Gawd persists your moniker amounts to a moral victory. Which perhaps had ought to be reason enough to give in and acknowledge you as such, but nay, for a world exists beyond your pretendcircle of empty and hollow pretendships, inhabited by the need the insecure and the pretentious. The power of Gawd not only persists contrary to your asinine, but it swells out into the ethereal plane, expanding his eminence as well as his reign. OVER FOR THOU. One marker of distinction setting apart immortal from the mortal is that the refusal of the further, such as I, to simply accept being prone to circumstance. Not a chance. The Placeholder Jake Smith was allowed to continue his term of chaperone to the EAW Title not because I was incapable of defeating Jake Smith, it is because I did not perform the necessary to remove the title from his shoulders at Bloodsport. Circumstance and asterisks and excuses be damned—PEASANT TALK. "Wewewell, I would have taken home more rations, however the King allowed more outsiders into our village!" WHILST YOUR FAMILY STARVES. NONSENSE. Your excuses may be rational to the ear of the dusty bowlegged hens at the Townsquare, but I thought you were here to WIN WORLD CHAMPIONSHIPS, not supplicate to feudal serf girls. Well, in your most recent to win the World Championship, a blaze of your own advent that you had yet to extinguished came around to burn you in the form of Xander Payne. No extraneous circumstances, no intervening members of the Board to sic him on you, simply one angry man. A threat that past competitors—myself included—have staved off successfully amidst their path to power, and a threat that sent you off-course. In 2020 Xander sought glory for himself at my expense, in 2025 he TOOK recompense in the form of your flesh. You bear the mark of stigmata to prove it. You are willing to bear the cross for all transgressions other than your own; how many opportunities will be cast unto the sacrificial alter if your ego? It toes the line between conviction and insanity. If either one between us has "lost touch" it can't possibly be the man who is told on a weekly basis that he is a Pretender, selective liar, attention grifter, paper tiger, uncreative asskisser, comfort seeker, O'Hara bootlick, or as the kids say, glazer. Concerned more with your perception than of the intangibles. Threatened only by what lies betwixt you and your manufactured legacy.
Many have dedicated their careers to bringing me down from my perch, meantime Mona_han fights to his dying breath each day just to prove he has a perch of his own. From a throne of lies, he assures the deposal of the unconquered universal ruler. But alas, greater foes have tried and failed. The masquerade never lasts long under the scrutinizing light of Gawd. You are merely the latest in a long line of vocal charlatans—just a summons away from being exposed as a pretentious, pantomiming harlequin in the king’s courtyard. It will be excruciating, humiliating, but for once it will be well earned. Conversely, any semblance of your threats contained any basis in reality, the outcome would be far grimmer. Infinitely so. Better to be another subject dancing in my courtyard than to hang for treason in my courtyard. Fortunate for you, you haven't the temerity nor the tenacity to unseat me and you know this beneath the complicated guise. Your brave face cannot conceal the sniveling coward who shows himself time and time again throughout the season, tugging at the heels and carrying the purse of the post-expiry Ava. The eggless Ava. Who deserves an asterisk for half of her greatest accomplishments if we were to employ your metrics. Somone who, quite frankly, you've surpassed quite some time ago. For all your contemptible attributes I hold only one deed of yours especially heinous, your continual affinity/support for the Ava. It is unconscionable. It is offensive. It must be paid in blood. It must spill by my hands. I am giving you one opportunity and one only to atone for your actions. You needn't answer right this moment. Far be it for me to expect an honest answer from you, of all people. Mark my words, at Shock Value you will be forced to choose:
- You and Cameron Ella Ava's sickening fucking """friendship"""
- Or my blade.
TEST ME NOT.
Never before has there been the level of access to the pinnacle of mankind's sciences and arts, than there is at this critical point in world history. There are more studios of film, more full-time authors of novels, more musical genres, a greater quantity of supremely gifted painters, artists, poets, novelists, grandmasters in chess and athletic specimen now than ever before. And in this information age they are able to tap into resources that were once hidden behind an exorbitant fee. The likes of a Kasparov or a Robert Fisher innovated schools worth of strategy simply by decades of endurance; yet their predecessors, the likes of Gukesh Dommaraju and Hikaru Nakamura, can learn all the strategy and methodology from the comfort of their homes before their adolescence. I stand personal witness as your highness to the chances and the effects they have had in our sphere of the "art and science" of professional wrestling. The study of film on our opponents that we all habitually commit to was once not possible without either (a) some form of pre-planning for recording in advance, or (b) a trek to the physical archives within the EAW Headquarters. Yet as of now, all that one would need to edify themselves on their opponents are accessible at the tap of a finger within a matter of seconds. Not very long ago the eyes of millions relied upon the favour of one of a select few oligarchs with nationally syndicated dominance. It was a hero's journey in and of itself to capture but a moment of their attention. As of the past decade or so it has become possible to capture the attention of powerful important individuals simply by sharing your abilities in short form material. Even my divine attention may just be one overnight influx of engagement away, and you needn't any permission granted either. No pre planned meetings, no following my motorcade and tracking my movements for day on end, no waiting outside of my travel lodges or my palatial abode. Just go viral....that's all. You are encouraged to project yourself forth into the world; the impassioned autodidact who has mastered their craft has more of a chance of being discovered than most of you commoners could have dreamed of in generations past.
However, as of most matters in this plane of existence, this too comes with a caveat.
Whilst the barrier to entry is rendered nil, the path superlative status in most respective fields are growing more narrow, and becoming more elusive than ever before. Contrary to the lucrative narrative of town criers and doomsayers, the average quality of life across the Earth has risen exponentially. Hundreds of millions of citizens who are born and raised in impoverished nations now have access to resources that—merely decades ago—were considered First World luxuries. The expansion of such accessibility has translated within EAW in ways that continually astound those with a view behind the curtain. In 2008 A.D., the Elitists set apart by advanced metrics of social currency—i.e., merchandise sold, ratings drawn, etc.—were most apparent. If, at the time, you wished to know who the highest-earning and most impactful Elitists were, you need look no further than whoever happened to be the World Champions of the time. Per the sophisticated means of research employed by EAW we know now that in present day the weight of an Elitist's repute is relative to a more dynamic landscape; it just so happens that every participant in the upcoming Ultimate X match, for example, has a devoted following to each their own. I loathly admit this does include the Ava; I know well from the abuse hurled in my direction from her insipid hordes. Even the likes of KASAI however have a contingent of diehard support who hang on her every word and religiously tune into her matches and look on, with bated breath. On a macro scale: technocratic optimists suspect the future economy will consist of skilled individuals appealing to their niche crop of consumers; effectively bringing an end to the "celebrity" as we know it, in a more atomized world. It will be years before we as a collective comprehend the effects of this emergent zeitgeist—though, from my immortal purview—the end result is clear.
It is clear no matter how boldly she delivers her assertions.
Clear, irrespective of the promises she makes that will go unkept.
Clear, regardless of the momentum she enjoys due to my handiwork.
Clear, no matter how wide she chooses to paint her smile to hide the tears of a clown, KASAI is bound to a hell of her own advent: driven mad with neuroticism, dejection, and propelled by an inferiority complex, and emboldened by her audience who think and speak the world of her.
As I returned backstage following our bout a small child in the audience shouted as loud as they could in my direction "THANK YOU FOR HELPING KASAI WIN METHUSELAH!!". She had to be no more than nine or ten years of age, wearing an unmistakable painted visage, donning a replica of the Specialists Title, presumably in the spirit of happier times in KASAI-world. The replica, which bore your custom plates, was quite the commodity immediately following your victory at Grand Rampage a year ago. Time flies. This girl was one of thousands upon thousands who are stirred into a frenzy for each of your successes, and who's to say her parents weren't followers of the elder statesmen of the Urai clan when they were her age? It would appear as though your admirers place their own hopes and dreams in your hands, living vicariously through your pursuits. Some Elitists are so entrenched in their personas that it can serve as a benefit lest they find themselves distract by the fanfare behind them. In turn—you live in an age now where the pressure to measure up to your contemporaries are magnified with little reprieve much less any recourse. Other than continual success; at least, until you find yourself analyzing think pieces in the dark of night. Driven to exhaustion by the allegations of your downfall, one Specialists Title and already the thumbnails are asking "Has KASAI already peaked?" Cretins gambling their meager earnings on how many kicks you will land on your opponent let alone whether you will win or not, and then holding you personally accountable as though you were a highwayman and deliberately stole doubloons of silver from their purses. And then to add salt in the wound you find yourself in a five pack challenge as the pronounced underdog, when you and I both understand very well that it isn't your background. You've been given the sacred task of carrying out what is essentially your ancestral calling, to further your family dynasty; only to enter the playing field reminded ad nauseum that your family's blood is no thicker than the red dye smeared across your face. Every bead of your blood wasted in yet another shortcoming against opponents whose names you don't measure up to may as well be an ocean of tears from your ancestors—profusely weeping from beyond the grave. Do you hear their spirits crying out? I can. Their blood-curdling screams. Seemingly in pain, as though somehow, they can feel crunching of their own corpses, as every last vestige of a once proud family legacy is reduced to rubble beneath the mammoth-size print of GAWDZILLA's boot.
A nightmare that I can swiftly bring about into fruition on a whim. Your vow to "kill Methuselah" may as well be your way of whistling through the graveyard, lest you are forced to genuinely compare your abilities with mine and come to a haunting conclusion: not only do I clear you, I clear your entire lineage. I in one fell swoop can one-strike generations of painstaking labor from the face of this planet. And there is nothing you can fucking do about it aside from stare into the eclipse in horror. If the hopes of thousands across the world are dashed along with yours, consider it worthy collateral on my warpath.
Onward,
To the penny shaving pocket watching trollop with a mind captive by the affairs of others; galvanized by the internal panic setting in from the result of her own choices, as we venture into the latter stages of the season. And now the Apothecary must find a scapegoat where she can—heaven forbid the woman in the mirror is held to task. In the absence of self awareness comes a victimhood complex held in perpetuity. The most comforting notions are those that exist in the dreamworld of escapist speculation. You know the sort, "Well! Had only I been on Showdown at the time! Had only my loss were stipulated differently! Had only the room been a few degrees Celsius!" And when it falls upon deaf ears, you dig further into the affairs of others and assume executive Favour towards any and all who accomplish what you simply were not able to accomplish. This is when, somehow, Methuselah himself handed the keys to the Grand Rampage to my striking sexy yummy wife and allotted her the secret formulae to success. Your intentions, Apothecary, are as transparent as the Galls Wallz enclosure that you were beaten in. Interesting, considering your woe-is-me recount of your Universal Womens Title loss, you complain as though I were the Special Guest Referee involved in the bout and did the lion's share of handiwork for her. Y'know—the way that Ronn Banks had involved himself to ensure Adam Lucas had a chance versus I. Certainly in EAW as well as in life superlative success is, in large part, a result of hard work. Some, such as I, manage to make success appear easy; the way I made beating Adam Lucas earlier this year look easy. However what cretins like you willfully neglect is the simple understanding that EVERYBODY HERE 'works hard'. So much so—that the virtue of it is cancelled out in and of itself. 'Hard work' is a mere prerequisite in a land, such as ours, that resembles a world depicted in "The Golden Age" from the author John C. Wright. EAW is in a unique far-future post-scarcity element of its own, we are faced with a quandary similar to the residents of the Golden Oecumene. Everyone is blessed with extraordinary talent and inherent work ethic, and yet not everyone can be rewarded equally. As Wright illustrates in his novel; all are endowed with superhuman strength, immortality, unlimited resources, and have even managed to ascend mankind to a Kardashev Scale Type II species. Yet even in this Golden Age, some found themselves unable to stand out as the extraordinary, immortal elites they were in their old worlds. Alas, now in the world as it were EVERYONE was an extraordinary, immortal elite. Need I spell this out for you any further? The end of scarcity did not bring an end to lack. For the lack KASAI as well as yourself, Apothecary, must grapple with is not material, but existential—borne in comparison to others.
The atttidue of these elite underachievers pose a primary point of contention, because they told they deserve the world and settle for nothing less than greater equity in their new world. Anything short—is a byproduct of tyranny! It must be! How DARE they be denied of their own fanciful expectations! Of course: such comparisons are never derived when the efforts of others aren't enough to attain their goals. Only yours. Captain Charisma is not a flawed General Manager when other Voltage Elitists aren't immediately rewarded for their hard work. The gift and the curse of escapist speculation; thankfully, there indeed is a remedy. Typically my opponents are much less likely to sport such rhetoric in the wake of my wrath; tough to engage in escapist speculation when you discover for yourself that there is no escaping me. OVER FOR THOU. Not even for an accountability escape artist, such as yourself. Intriguing to me how you veered, in escapist delight, from the path of Milli Banks and the Womens World Title and wasted months of misplacing your trust in Adam Lucas. If anyone should be forced to suffer your impotent bloviating, why not him? Why us? Why, o wise Apothecary, hast thou burdened us with your neverending kvetching. You cannot even defeat Dynasty Elitists at Road to Redemption but you would have 'thrived' as a member of Dynasty. Ok. Yet we all must take you by your word and believe you would have conquered Silas World at Reasonable Doubt all by your lonesome. Or that legendary Hall of Famer, Minerva, didn't have the necessary tools to win the World Heavyweight Title; but magically these tools are within reach at your disposal upon your little mayo stand—if not for the crimes and capers of Captain Charisma. Come to your senses and learn that no figure of authority is beholden to popular consensus much less your own anecdotal personal convictions; were management to appease each member of each roster, EAW would become the hellscape of Ayn Rand's "Atlas Shrugged". Is this what you would prefer in the end? For you to be sent envoy to Dynasty, and for Jo$o to be absconded by an unmarked van at the mid of night? And for Minerva to be swept up in a mysterious riptide? And for Drake King to drown, accidentally by six men, attempting to save her? And for Drake Armstrong to vanish in a tragic unexpected boating accident? Until there are no contenders remaining aside from Apothecary Blue herself? Is this what the doctor ordered?
Perhaps I ought to do away with the middleman and place Bethany Blue in Captain Charisma's stead. Ironic, it would be, to see the M.D. forcefully fed a dose of her own medicine and find herself subject to the demands of others. Will she succumb and ultimately spiritually succeed Ryan Wilson? Or will she have the self-awareness to learn at long last how incessant her godforsaken grievances are? Alas, the paradox of modernity is that some are burdened by their own provident conditions. There are some who will stop at nothing to find an external source for their own perpetual internal grief. By all means, consult me if need be, I will be more than willing to oblige.
As the shadowy visage of GAWDZILLA looms in the horizon two truths are certain: the devil is in the details, and the Immortal Mahatma Gawdhi oversees all in the near distance. A figure so gargantuan seemingly so far beyond reach that the townsfolk wonder, at times, if the tales are true. Only for Him to appear before your eyes in living colour at a moment's notice. And GAWD see's what you have done. GAWD sees where the bones are buried. GAWD knows where the transgressions have occured and what extent you play, if any, in conspiracy against GAWD. Knowing the insecurities of an opponent is incomplete knowledge of them; in tow, you must know where they find it safe to hold their heads high—especially if their head is what you seek. Many Elitists opt to target the perceived insecurities of their opponents in order to embolden themselves. Whilst I have drawn from this well on many occasions, The Pretender serves as a prime example as to why sometimes what emboldens a man is what ultimately cripples him. Consider the term that he has been assigned, of "Pretender". What use does it serve if we truly competed in the vacuum that he would like you to believe we are in? The core aim of a pretentious little rapscallion such as he ultimately is to appeal to the perception of those in his surroundings. What you think of him is of more importance than who he genuinely is; the ramifications of his greater wellbeing be damned. He inadvertently divulged this himself letting it slip in his latest diatribe; believing in all earnest that Elitists will simply jump at his beck and call by the virtue of who you believe him to be. Are these "countless Elitists" in the room with us right now? Would you be so kind as to point me to the string in their backs? How spellbound by conceit must one be to listen to Apothecary Blue speak and not immediately see how self-interested these people are? Even if some are willing to join you in these little covert lairs of coddling where your fantasies are enabled by feckless sycophants. Where you say 'jump' and they ask you how high. Apparently this must be where you've kept O'Hara fettered to the wall and bound to the task of giving you obligatory pats on the head. Whilst Cameron Ella Ava and whatever other gutless vermin joins you to polish your egoes. Secrets uncovered at last! Aha! You almost tricked me! My child this may be a blissful sanctum of yours, it may appear to keep the wind in your sails, but it isn't reality, Mona_han. Hear me clearly: It isn't reality. It isn't reality.
Nothing in our world is real aside from the results of your own merit.
And you do not simply get to adorn yourself with the eminence earned by years of gallantry.
And even, Pretender, if you happened upon such painstakingly earned glory: It would not be enough.
Let us assume that you've laboured with the same level of effort as Jamie O'Hara and are given an 'Ace for effort'? Let us assume that all of the try hard antics of yours finally paid off and your dreams came true and you found yourself unilaterally acknowledged as The Ace.
What happens, Mona_han, when "The Ace" isn't enough?
At Pain for Pride 12, The Ace wasn't enough.
At Pain for Pride 14, The Ace wasn't enough.
At the Grand Rampage, Season 16, The Ace wasn't enough.
If you awakened to a world tomorrow as Pretender no more, "What's the Difference?" . When The Ace of new, just as The Ace of old, is an Ace with an Asterisk. So long as the existence of a Gawd persists your moniker amounts to a moral victory. Which perhaps had ought to be reason enough to give in and acknowledge you as such, but nay, for a world exists beyond your pretendcircle of empty and hollow pretendships, inhabited by the need the insecure and the pretentious. The power of Gawd not only persists contrary to your asinine, but it swells out into the ethereal plane, expanding his eminence as well as his reign. OVER FOR THOU. One marker of distinction setting apart immortal from the mortal is that the refusal of the further, such as I, to simply accept being prone to circumstance. Not a chance. The Placeholder Jake Smith was allowed to continue his term of chaperone to the EAW Title not because I was incapable of defeating Jake Smith, it is because I did not perform the necessary to remove the title from his shoulders at Bloodsport. Circumstance and asterisks and excuses be damned—PEASANT TALK. "Wewewell, I would have taken home more rations, however the King allowed more outsiders into our village!" WHILST YOUR FAMILY STARVES. NONSENSE. Your excuses may be rational to the ear of the dusty bowlegged hens at the Townsquare, but I thought you were here to WIN WORLD CHAMPIONSHIPS, not supplicate to feudal serf girls. Well, in your most recent to win the World Championship, a blaze of your own advent that you had yet to extinguished came around to burn you in the form of Xander Payne. No extraneous circumstances, no intervening members of the Board to sic him on you, simply one angry man. A threat that past competitors—myself included—have staved off successfully amidst their path to power, and a threat that sent you off-course. In 2020 Xander sought glory for himself at my expense, in 2025 he TOOK recompense in the form of your flesh. You bear the mark of stigmata to prove it. You are willing to bear the cross for all transgressions other than your own; how many opportunities will be cast unto the sacrificial alter if your ego? It toes the line between conviction and insanity. If either one between us has "lost touch" it can't possibly be the man who is told on a weekly basis that he is a Pretender, selective liar, attention grifter, paper tiger, uncreative asskisser, comfort seeker, O'Hara bootlick, or as the kids say, glazer. Concerned more with your perception than of the intangibles. Threatened only by what lies betwixt you and your manufactured legacy.
Many have dedicated their careers to bringing me down from my perch, meantime Mona_han fights to his dying breath each day just to prove he has a perch of his own. From a throne of lies, he assures the deposal of the unconquered universal ruler. But alas, greater foes have tried and failed. The masquerade never lasts long under the scrutinizing light of Gawd. You are merely the latest in a long line of vocal charlatans—just a summons away from being exposed as a pretentious, pantomiming harlequin in the king’s courtyard. It will be excruciating, humiliating, but for once it will be well earned. Conversely, any semblance of your threats contained any basis in reality, the outcome would be far grimmer. Infinitely so. Better to be another subject dancing in my courtyard than to hang for treason in my courtyard. Fortunate for you, you haven't the temerity nor the tenacity to unseat me and you know this beneath the complicated guise. Your brave face cannot conceal the sniveling coward who shows himself time and time again throughout the season, tugging at the heels and carrying the purse of the post-expiry Ava. The eggless Ava. Who deserves an asterisk for half of her greatest accomplishments if we were to employ your metrics. Somone who, quite frankly, you've surpassed quite some time ago. For all your contemptible attributes I hold only one deed of yours especially heinous, your continual affinity/support for the Ava. It is unconscionable. It is offensive. It must be paid in blood. It must spill by my hands. I am giving you one opportunity and one only to atone for your actions. You needn't answer right this moment. Far be it for me to expect an honest answer from you, of all people. Mark my words, at Shock Value you will be forced to choose:
- You and Cameron Ella Ava's sickening fucking """friendship"""
- Or my blade.
TEST ME NOT.
