Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the Fandango?

“What the hell was I thinking?”

I'm sitting here with my head down – a towel drenched in sweat draped over it – and I seriously have no clue what the answer to that question is.

What I do know is that I was tired of listening to the Tower of Babble run his mouth about people renting out his house, about coming home like he is the only one worthy of living at the top.

I let my mouth write a check I'm pretty damn sure I can't cash, especially not after what happened here tonight.

I lost to Bobby Dean.

Not to discredit Bobby's ability in the ring, but I really needed this win after eating a big fat L against Sykes in the Almasy and I couldn't get the job done again.

Now here I am alone in my locker room, because I really don't want to deal with the guys telling me that it's going to be okay. I don't need them GASsing me up right now, trying to make me feel like I have what it takes to contend with Youngblood.

Just like me, that's a freaking joke, and not a funny one.

The question isn't what was I thinking, it's why the hell am I doing this. I'm not at the level I need to be to challenge Brandon, much less Ivan or Flamberge. I've been kidding myself for the last year, and tonight a chair across my throat with a man looking to end my pathetic career on top of it was an awakening I wasn’t expecting.

I'm just going to say no, tell him he's right and walk away with my tail tucked between my legs. My legacy here in PRIME is already written in the record books.

I can just walk away and remain one of the greatest to never hold the Universe title.

I'll let Victoria and Olivia know the truth about my health. They'll understand, and I can spend more time with them while I still can.

“Tell him you eggcept.”

The voice is familiar, but still catches me by surprise. I pull the towel off the top of my head and turn toward the door, where I see a little silhouetto of a man.