Three Missives

Lotta shots being fired, huh? Cool. Far be it from me to butt in, but given that one of the principles drugged me, another I’m fighting this show, and the third a man I’d like to consider a friend, I might as well weigh in.

First thing’s first. Brandon. The pinnacle. The ace. The Diamond. I heard stories about you before I got here. Few of them were good. I was nervous before our Almasy quarterfinal, not because of your legacy, but because the last thing I wanted to do in my third match back was give the man with the reputation of a pit bull reason to leap at my neck and not let go.

Don’t believe everything you hear.

All the stuff I heard about the ReVolution Era, whether it be from Tariq or Lindsay or whoever other wrestler I knew who passed through the doors then, it didn’t feel real, at least it didn’t feel real until I got into the ring with you, and you showed it to me in the flesh. That’s why I sat in rapt attention at the Wrestle House, in the locker room in Cardiff before WarGames, hanging off every word. Because when you spoke, you had the gravity of this promotion pulling me in, educating me, both good and bad.

That’s why when I hear you speak about this place, as a fortress of wrestling, I believe it as much as I do after every match I compete in, be it a hard loss like to Paxton or a thunderous win over Snow. It’s because the personification of this promotion speaks through you. I’m proud to call you a friend, and I’m glad I got to sit front row for both your coronations, well-deserved coronations.

And that’s the reason why some day, I have to face you one last time. It may not be after UltraViolence. My dance card is pretty full up until then anyway. It may be months, even years down the line. But it has to happen.

I don’t know if I’m going to win. The first two matches we fought against each other, wars of the will, two athletes, their bodies removed from their primes but still better than anyone you can find in the gasbag fed on Lake Michigan, better than probably anyone in any other promotion save your top guys like Lindz and Breedlove. I came up short, but I need to know if the third time will be the charm or if my place is as the lieutenant in this era, the sergeant, the gatekeeper.

When I set off on this path to prove to myself, to PRIME, to the world, that I was wrestling embodied, a third match against you, the yardstick, the ace, the Diamond, was always going to be the endgame. Beat me if you can. Kill me if you must. But I have to find out sometime.

Rose, you might think that there’s some invective coming your way, but you’re wrong. The entitled brat that drugged me and laid me bare a year ago from UltraViolence has grown up substantially. Like I knew any child of Dusk, of Craig, would. Your words are sharp. They may be tinged with bitterness, but it’s hard not to be after living the life you did.

Your idealism might seem to be your undoing to an ignorant observer, but as one who faced the Red Army head on, it’s the only way those fuckers will learn. You learned the hard way not to trust them, and even though their teeth got knocked out and sent to SHOOT Project, they are still as diabolical and grotesquely evil as they were the moment Ivan decided he needed lackeys greater than his lapdog.

I can only offer this advice. When you hit him, hit him in the jaw. DO not back down, play cat and mouse. You might be a quarter of his size, but your fists pack power. He only understands force, even as much of an intellectual he pretends to be.

Finally, Anna Daniels.

I would have a diatribe ready for you, but I feel like if I uncorked it, I might be breaking a few rules. See you in the ring.