Post by Andrew Jacobsen on Jan 28, 2018 20:33:22 GMT
Once, just once I'd like things to end without controversy. Is that so much to ask for? Just one match where things don't leave the door open, or it doesn't all get thrown out. Thankfully, I think we may have finally found a way for that to happen. Fatal Four-Way. No disqualifications. Four competitors. One winner. One champion. You three gentlemen have wanted this for a long time, each and every one of you. You've all wanted to be the one to call yourself Imperial Champion, to sit atop it all and know that the title around your waist means you're the best of the best.
I'm going to have to keep you waiting a bit longer. I'm not done yet.
Bob, I know how long you've wanted this. I know how much it eats at you that Spike gets recognized as a legend, and you're just filed away on the side, like you don't matter. Let me tell each and every person listening tonight, with no uncertainty: Bob Pooler is one of the finest wrestlers I have ever had the privilege and challenge of wrestling against. He's a World Champion in skill and dedication, if not in record yet, and that part's only a matter of time.
And I know you don't want to hear "a matter of time." You want it now, Bob. You want it now more than ever, and you're the best you've been in years. Better than you were as Invictus Champion, better than you were in NCW, better than I've ever seen you, and that's a scary thought. You're hungry, you're ready, and you're going to go as far as you need to in order to walk out Imperial Champion...just like I'll do whatever I have to in order to stay Imperial Champion.
You're my friend, Bob. I have a lot of respect for you. That's why I'm going to hit as hard as I will, throw you as far as I will, stretch you as much as I will. I'm doing this because I respect what you're capable of. I know if I give you an inch, you'll take a mile and then another half-mile for good measure. I can't afford to rest on my laurels with you. None of us can. And if one of us does...we're going to pay for it. Big time.
You're there, Bob. No matter what anyone else says, you've got everything you need to take this title from around my waist. And it will take everything I have to even have a chance of stopping you. But I'm going to give it that shot. I'm going to throw it all against the wall and make something stick, because I've run this far with this title and I won't stop running as long as I have a say in the matter. I'm here to go the distance. Do you want to be my roadblock, Bob? Do you want to step up and be the one to deny me one more day? Sunday's the day, Bob. Yours to take, mine to hold...and I just have two words for you.
Carpe. DIEM.
We open on Andrew sitting atop an equipment crate backstage, feet dangling over the side of the crate as he cradles his cellphone against his ear. His expression could best be described as one of worry, and he bites his lower lip as he listens to the dial tone. Finally, the person on the other end picks up. "Hello?"
"Dad." Andrew seems to sag slightly in relief, as if he'd let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. "How're things going with...well, everything?"
"They're going." Jason replies, weariness evident in his voice. "Ophira's a lifesaver right now. She sent us invites to the funeral, apparently against Jacob's strict wishes. Her words were something along the lines of 'this is a time for healing, not grudges'. Hell of a sentiment...you holding up okay, boy? Nerves getting to you again?"
Andrew manages a chuckle, shaking his head at his father's goading. "No, Dad, I'm not nervous. I mean, I'm taking things seriously, but I'm not losing my head or anything. I just..." he pauses, searching for the words. "I know how important David was. I just want to make sure you know I'm here if you need to talk."
"You know you're the fourth person to say that to me?" Jason chuckles back, rumbling voice incapable of losing all of its warmth. "Your mom, Rick, and Cassandra all said the same thing. I bet I'll be getting something from Danielle any minute now." He pauses, the silence hanging in the air for a long moment before he continues. "I don't want you losing sleep on my account, Andrew. You've got a lot on your plate right now. The last thing you need is to worry about your old man. I'll be fine. I can take it."
"I know you're tough, Dad." Andrew nods, a hint of frustration worming its way onto his face. "But this isn't about being tough, it's about knowing that you don't have to be. This is a lot of weight for all of us. David was the guy you got tangled up with all the time on the road. You and him were like me and Rob Diamond if Rob were less of an asshole." That earns a guffaw from the other end of the phone, and Andrew sighs, shaking his head. "Bad example. Me and Spike, then. I mean, I think I'm still invited to the wedding..."
"Find that out before you rush out and buy a present, would ya?" Jason sighs, stifling a brief yawn. "Sorry. Been running all over the place...thanks, son. I appreciate you reaching out. But I mean it. Take care of yourself too. Just because you can help everyone else bear the weight doesn't give you license to neglect your own." He pauses, and you can practically hear the grin down the phone line. "I think the phrase I heard was 'treat yourself'?"
Andrew groans, burying his face in his palm. He speaks through his hand, voice half-muffled. "Great. It's dead. You've killed that phrase stone dead." He looks up at the ceiling, shaking his head in despair. "Lord, what have I done to deserve this?"
"We have eight years of nationally-televised video evidence of what you've done to deserve this, boy." Jason remarks good-naturedly. "Alright, I have to go. I've got to make a chiropractor's appointment, and the last thing anyone needs is me trying to multitask. I'll talk to you later, Andrew."
"Talk to you later." Andrew pauses for a second. "I love you, Dad."
Jason pauses for just a moment, and when he speaks again his voice is quiet and sincere. "I love you too, Andy. See ya."
Jason hangs up the phone, and Andrew pulls the phone away from his face, staring at the pulled-up contact. The picture in his phone is one of his parents from a few years ago, smiling out at the camera. Their expressions are clearly from a happier time, vibrant and full of life. Andrew cracks a brief smile, thumb unconsciously running over the picture. He stares at it, eyes beginning to water, before abruptly locking and pocketing his phone, slipping off the crate and landing on his feet. He turns and begins to walk down the hall, swallowing his emotions, as we fade to black.
Mike. Got what you wanted, didn't you Mikey? You've finally got a shot at the Imperial Championship, after half a year of hunting and trying and desperately attempting to claw your way back into contention. You've got your chance to become only the second two-time Imperial Champion in IWF history. And you'd be doing it by ending the longest Imperial Championship reign in company history, with the most title defenses in IWF history. You'd be stopping me from claiming the record of the longest singles title reign in IWF, period. Longer than Spike. Longer than Eternity. You'd have that feather in your cap...
Question is, what would you do with it?
Would you coast on it, as so many have accused you of doing with your Imperial Championship victory over Angel? Would you strive to live up to that self-obtained moniker of Best Period, pushing yourself harder and harder with every passing day to be the best Imperial Champion you can? That's my problem, Mike: I don't know what I'm going to get out of you. It makes you a wild card, an uncontrollable variable that could be anything from a world-beater to a disappointment. I know what I want from you, Mike. I want the Best Period. I want the overachiever, the man who uses the chip on his shoulder to actually do something great instead of just talking about how he can do great things. I want THAT Mike Laszlo.
And you know why. You know why I want that, because I would hope you want nothing less than me at my best. I would hope that you welcome the challenge ahead of you, because it'll mean you've definitively earned wearing this title. You want to silence every critic who's ever spoken ill of you, Mike? You want to make sure none of us ever forget your name or what you're capable of? This is your moment to make it happen. You either step up and seize destiny, or you pull up short and you fall by the wayside. Again.
See, I wasn't ignoring your words either. I listened to you. I listened to you call me a coward, say I was trying to duck challenges, accuse me of trying to manipulate management. I was just as angry as you were that Triple Threat got thrown out. I didn't think I wouldn't have an opponent. Of course not. What kind of idiot thinks you just get to go without a #1 contender? Point is, you're not going unheard, Mike. I've heard you insult me and talk about how this is reality, how the hero doesn't always win. Buddy, I know you've steeped yourself in so much embittered cynicism it's impossible for you to believe anymore, but I promise you...
After Metamorphosis, you WILL believe in heroes.
Of all the people in this match, Mike, I'm most upset with you. I'm upset with you because I expected better from you. I don't know why. Call it blind optimism. But every time you open your mouth, you betray your own potential, because it becomes more and more clear that you have your head shoved so far up your own ass that every time you open your eyes you're performing a colonoscopy. If you could just stop buying your own hype for a damn minute, realize that you don't know everything, and stop coasting on your hubris? You could be great. You might even be able to be as great as you say you are. But right now, all you've got is a whole lot of wasted potential and hollow titles you can't live up to.
Does that make you angry, Mike? Does that make you want to come after me and take my title? Good. Get pissed off. Use it. Open your eyes for once and really see where you stand in the world. Realize that you control your own fate a hell of a lot more than you realize. And then, once you've got all your tantrums about being overlooked out of your system, once you've learned the meaning of the word accountability, you can step up to the table where the big boys are playing. And if you're ready, Mike? Only one thing to say.
Ante up.
A knock comes at the door. From her place at her desk, IWF's trauma counselor, Shannon McGinnis, looks up. "Come in." The door opens, and to her surprise Andrew steps through, wearing thick jeans that look like they've been through a lot and a Minnesota Wild T-shirt. Shannon blinks, surprised, but nevertheless smiles. "Andrew. I haven't had the pleasure of really getting to talk to you before. What brings you in?"
"Life. Work. The usual." Andrew manages a weary smile, stepping inside and looking around. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" Shannon shakes her head, smiling, and gestures to a couch near her desk. Andrew reaches back to close the door. He moves and sits on the couch, leaning forward, and sighs, shaking his head. "I should have done this a long time ago."
"Well, I am a trauma counselor. Maybe you didn't feel that you'd undergone severe enough trauma to warrant counseling? You weren't remanded to my office by IWF medical staff, after all." Shannon looks over to Andrew, locking her computer screen as she turns to give him her attention. "It's never too late to start seeking out counseling. I might not be the right fit for what you need, but I can certainly try to refer you in the right direction."
"That'd be nice." Andrew admits. "I've been trying to wrestle down all of my problems for so long it's just become part of my routine. Wake up, force myself out of bed, shower, brush my teeth, choke down my anxiety, get dressed, and so on. Every day...I love Dani, and I love my family, but..." he pauses, taking a deep breath and exhaling before continuing. "I need help. I can't keep this up forever."
"Nor should you have to." Shannon nods understandingly. "You're taking on a lot of emotional labor by helping others out. I know you've been supporting a lot of people. Danielle, Emma, Vivienne, your father, even some of the kids at the Performance Center." Andrew blinks in surprise, and Shannon smiles, a bit shamefaced. "I hazarded a guess. I'm a big fan of the territory days, and your father's feud with David Rodgers is legendary. Moreover, it means you've been parceling out your emotional energy. Feeling is exhausting, as exhausting as any match you're going to go through in your career. And unlike a match, you don't get to have the bell ring. You're always going to feel."
Andrew nods, running a hand through his hair. "Alright...where do you think I should start? I mean, I don't know, I haven't seen a therapist since college."
Shannon pauses, nodding, and pulls out a notepad. "Hm. Okay, here's what I'm going to suggest. I can ask you some questions to get a baseline, cross-reference what I'm finding with your medical records, and we can use that to try to find you someone. Does that sound like it'd work for you?"
Andrew pauses for a moment himself, nodding slowly as he looks up and meets Shannon's eyes. "Yeah. Thank you, Doctor. That means a lot."
"Not a doctor, unfortunately." she smiles. "But you're welcome all the same. Let me know when you're ready to begin."
Andrew nods again, taking a deep breath. "Yeah. I'm ready." Shannon nods, clicking her pen, and we end our scene as she begins making header notes on her notepad, Andrew looking back into the unfocused distance as we fade.
Angel.
I don't want to call you God, because that gives you power. It means that I'm buying into what you're selling, that you're here to take in the worthy and cleanse the unworthy in fire and blood. No, I'm remembering you as you were. I'm remembering the man that won the very first Riot Match in NCW, only a couple of months into my career. I'm remembering the former World Champion, the daredevil, the absolutely insane high-flying hardcore legend. I'm remembering the man, not the myth. And that's what I know is still there, at the core of it all: a man.
I'm not here to save you, Angel. I've thrown myself on too many fires to think that I can save everyone. You don't want to be helped, you don't want to be better. You are what you want to be, and there's nothing to bring you back. Spike Kane was still more man than monster, and he's found a road back. I know there's still a monster lurking underneath the surface, but he controls it. With you, Angel...the monster's subsumed the man so much that it's hard to remember he's even there to begin with. So I'm not here to save you. I'm here to survive. I'm here to win. You want to take what's mine...and I'm here to stop you.
I can't pretend I'm a perfect hero. I'm not without sin. I'm not without flaw. I'm human. I've made my mistakes, and I swore that I'd work to atone for them as long as it takes. Maybe I never will. But I'd rather walk the road of trying to be better than refuse and revel in that which is wicked. I'm done sitting on the sidelines as corrupt and wicked men try to drag IWF down to their level. That includes you.
You want to reign supreme again. You want to strike fear into the men and women of IWF, and what better way than to live up to your words and break their hero? You said you wanted to nail me to the cross. You said you would break me into a million pieces and crush my heart beneath your boot. Angel, I don't know if you haven't been paying attention recently, but a whole lot of people have been trying to break me for the last year. All it's ever done is seen me walk out stronger, tempered, more resilient. They couldn't break me...and not even a would-be God can shatter me. I will not be broken by you. I will stand tall. I will stand proud. I will stand STILL Imperial Champion. And you will learn, as every single person before you has, the undeniable truth...
I. Am. UNBREAKABLE. I'll see you Sunday, gentlemen.
I'm going to have to keep you waiting a bit longer. I'm not done yet.
Bob, I know how long you've wanted this. I know how much it eats at you that Spike gets recognized as a legend, and you're just filed away on the side, like you don't matter. Let me tell each and every person listening tonight, with no uncertainty: Bob Pooler is one of the finest wrestlers I have ever had the privilege and challenge of wrestling against. He's a World Champion in skill and dedication, if not in record yet, and that part's only a matter of time.
And I know you don't want to hear "a matter of time." You want it now, Bob. You want it now more than ever, and you're the best you've been in years. Better than you were as Invictus Champion, better than you were in NCW, better than I've ever seen you, and that's a scary thought. You're hungry, you're ready, and you're going to go as far as you need to in order to walk out Imperial Champion...just like I'll do whatever I have to in order to stay Imperial Champion.
You're my friend, Bob. I have a lot of respect for you. That's why I'm going to hit as hard as I will, throw you as far as I will, stretch you as much as I will. I'm doing this because I respect what you're capable of. I know if I give you an inch, you'll take a mile and then another half-mile for good measure. I can't afford to rest on my laurels with you. None of us can. And if one of us does...we're going to pay for it. Big time.
You're there, Bob. No matter what anyone else says, you've got everything you need to take this title from around my waist. And it will take everything I have to even have a chance of stopping you. But I'm going to give it that shot. I'm going to throw it all against the wall and make something stick, because I've run this far with this title and I won't stop running as long as I have a say in the matter. I'm here to go the distance. Do you want to be my roadblock, Bob? Do you want to step up and be the one to deny me one more day? Sunday's the day, Bob. Yours to take, mine to hold...and I just have two words for you.
Carpe. DIEM.
We open on Andrew sitting atop an equipment crate backstage, feet dangling over the side of the crate as he cradles his cellphone against his ear. His expression could best be described as one of worry, and he bites his lower lip as he listens to the dial tone. Finally, the person on the other end picks up. "Hello?"
"Dad." Andrew seems to sag slightly in relief, as if he'd let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. "How're things going with...well, everything?"
"They're going." Jason replies, weariness evident in his voice. "Ophira's a lifesaver right now. She sent us invites to the funeral, apparently against Jacob's strict wishes. Her words were something along the lines of 'this is a time for healing, not grudges'. Hell of a sentiment...you holding up okay, boy? Nerves getting to you again?"
Andrew manages a chuckle, shaking his head at his father's goading. "No, Dad, I'm not nervous. I mean, I'm taking things seriously, but I'm not losing my head or anything. I just..." he pauses, searching for the words. "I know how important David was. I just want to make sure you know I'm here if you need to talk."
"You know you're the fourth person to say that to me?" Jason chuckles back, rumbling voice incapable of losing all of its warmth. "Your mom, Rick, and Cassandra all said the same thing. I bet I'll be getting something from Danielle any minute now." He pauses, the silence hanging in the air for a long moment before he continues. "I don't want you losing sleep on my account, Andrew. You've got a lot on your plate right now. The last thing you need is to worry about your old man. I'll be fine. I can take it."
"I know you're tough, Dad." Andrew nods, a hint of frustration worming its way onto his face. "But this isn't about being tough, it's about knowing that you don't have to be. This is a lot of weight for all of us. David was the guy you got tangled up with all the time on the road. You and him were like me and Rob Diamond if Rob were less of an asshole." That earns a guffaw from the other end of the phone, and Andrew sighs, shaking his head. "Bad example. Me and Spike, then. I mean, I think I'm still invited to the wedding..."
"Find that out before you rush out and buy a present, would ya?" Jason sighs, stifling a brief yawn. "Sorry. Been running all over the place...thanks, son. I appreciate you reaching out. But I mean it. Take care of yourself too. Just because you can help everyone else bear the weight doesn't give you license to neglect your own." He pauses, and you can practically hear the grin down the phone line. "I think the phrase I heard was 'treat yourself'?"
Andrew groans, burying his face in his palm. He speaks through his hand, voice half-muffled. "Great. It's dead. You've killed that phrase stone dead." He looks up at the ceiling, shaking his head in despair. "Lord, what have I done to deserve this?"
"We have eight years of nationally-televised video evidence of what you've done to deserve this, boy." Jason remarks good-naturedly. "Alright, I have to go. I've got to make a chiropractor's appointment, and the last thing anyone needs is me trying to multitask. I'll talk to you later, Andrew."
"Talk to you later." Andrew pauses for a second. "I love you, Dad."
Jason pauses for just a moment, and when he speaks again his voice is quiet and sincere. "I love you too, Andy. See ya."
Jason hangs up the phone, and Andrew pulls the phone away from his face, staring at the pulled-up contact. The picture in his phone is one of his parents from a few years ago, smiling out at the camera. Their expressions are clearly from a happier time, vibrant and full of life. Andrew cracks a brief smile, thumb unconsciously running over the picture. He stares at it, eyes beginning to water, before abruptly locking and pocketing his phone, slipping off the crate and landing on his feet. He turns and begins to walk down the hall, swallowing his emotions, as we fade to black.
Mike. Got what you wanted, didn't you Mikey? You've finally got a shot at the Imperial Championship, after half a year of hunting and trying and desperately attempting to claw your way back into contention. You've got your chance to become only the second two-time Imperial Champion in IWF history. And you'd be doing it by ending the longest Imperial Championship reign in company history, with the most title defenses in IWF history. You'd be stopping me from claiming the record of the longest singles title reign in IWF, period. Longer than Spike. Longer than Eternity. You'd have that feather in your cap...
Question is, what would you do with it?
Would you coast on it, as so many have accused you of doing with your Imperial Championship victory over Angel? Would you strive to live up to that self-obtained moniker of Best Period, pushing yourself harder and harder with every passing day to be the best Imperial Champion you can? That's my problem, Mike: I don't know what I'm going to get out of you. It makes you a wild card, an uncontrollable variable that could be anything from a world-beater to a disappointment. I know what I want from you, Mike. I want the Best Period. I want the overachiever, the man who uses the chip on his shoulder to actually do something great instead of just talking about how he can do great things. I want THAT Mike Laszlo.
And you know why. You know why I want that, because I would hope you want nothing less than me at my best. I would hope that you welcome the challenge ahead of you, because it'll mean you've definitively earned wearing this title. You want to silence every critic who's ever spoken ill of you, Mike? You want to make sure none of us ever forget your name or what you're capable of? This is your moment to make it happen. You either step up and seize destiny, or you pull up short and you fall by the wayside. Again.
See, I wasn't ignoring your words either. I listened to you. I listened to you call me a coward, say I was trying to duck challenges, accuse me of trying to manipulate management. I was just as angry as you were that Triple Threat got thrown out. I didn't think I wouldn't have an opponent. Of course not. What kind of idiot thinks you just get to go without a #1 contender? Point is, you're not going unheard, Mike. I've heard you insult me and talk about how this is reality, how the hero doesn't always win. Buddy, I know you've steeped yourself in so much embittered cynicism it's impossible for you to believe anymore, but I promise you...
After Metamorphosis, you WILL believe in heroes.
Of all the people in this match, Mike, I'm most upset with you. I'm upset with you because I expected better from you. I don't know why. Call it blind optimism. But every time you open your mouth, you betray your own potential, because it becomes more and more clear that you have your head shoved so far up your own ass that every time you open your eyes you're performing a colonoscopy. If you could just stop buying your own hype for a damn minute, realize that you don't know everything, and stop coasting on your hubris? You could be great. You might even be able to be as great as you say you are. But right now, all you've got is a whole lot of wasted potential and hollow titles you can't live up to.
Does that make you angry, Mike? Does that make you want to come after me and take my title? Good. Get pissed off. Use it. Open your eyes for once and really see where you stand in the world. Realize that you control your own fate a hell of a lot more than you realize. And then, once you've got all your tantrums about being overlooked out of your system, once you've learned the meaning of the word accountability, you can step up to the table where the big boys are playing. And if you're ready, Mike? Only one thing to say.
Ante up.
A knock comes at the door. From her place at her desk, IWF's trauma counselor, Shannon McGinnis, looks up. "Come in." The door opens, and to her surprise Andrew steps through, wearing thick jeans that look like they've been through a lot and a Minnesota Wild T-shirt. Shannon blinks, surprised, but nevertheless smiles. "Andrew. I haven't had the pleasure of really getting to talk to you before. What brings you in?"
"Life. Work. The usual." Andrew manages a weary smile, stepping inside and looking around. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" Shannon shakes her head, smiling, and gestures to a couch near her desk. Andrew reaches back to close the door. He moves and sits on the couch, leaning forward, and sighs, shaking his head. "I should have done this a long time ago."
"Well, I am a trauma counselor. Maybe you didn't feel that you'd undergone severe enough trauma to warrant counseling? You weren't remanded to my office by IWF medical staff, after all." Shannon looks over to Andrew, locking her computer screen as she turns to give him her attention. "It's never too late to start seeking out counseling. I might not be the right fit for what you need, but I can certainly try to refer you in the right direction."
"That'd be nice." Andrew admits. "I've been trying to wrestle down all of my problems for so long it's just become part of my routine. Wake up, force myself out of bed, shower, brush my teeth, choke down my anxiety, get dressed, and so on. Every day...I love Dani, and I love my family, but..." he pauses, taking a deep breath and exhaling before continuing. "I need help. I can't keep this up forever."
"Nor should you have to." Shannon nods understandingly. "You're taking on a lot of emotional labor by helping others out. I know you've been supporting a lot of people. Danielle, Emma, Vivienne, your father, even some of the kids at the Performance Center." Andrew blinks in surprise, and Shannon smiles, a bit shamefaced. "I hazarded a guess. I'm a big fan of the territory days, and your father's feud with David Rodgers is legendary. Moreover, it means you've been parceling out your emotional energy. Feeling is exhausting, as exhausting as any match you're going to go through in your career. And unlike a match, you don't get to have the bell ring. You're always going to feel."
Andrew nods, running a hand through his hair. "Alright...where do you think I should start? I mean, I don't know, I haven't seen a therapist since college."
Shannon pauses, nodding, and pulls out a notepad. "Hm. Okay, here's what I'm going to suggest. I can ask you some questions to get a baseline, cross-reference what I'm finding with your medical records, and we can use that to try to find you someone. Does that sound like it'd work for you?"
Andrew pauses for a moment himself, nodding slowly as he looks up and meets Shannon's eyes. "Yeah. Thank you, Doctor. That means a lot."
"Not a doctor, unfortunately." she smiles. "But you're welcome all the same. Let me know when you're ready to begin."
Andrew nods again, taking a deep breath. "Yeah. I'm ready." Shannon nods, clicking her pen, and we end our scene as she begins making header notes on her notepad, Andrew looking back into the unfocused distance as we fade.
Angel.
I don't want to call you God, because that gives you power. It means that I'm buying into what you're selling, that you're here to take in the worthy and cleanse the unworthy in fire and blood. No, I'm remembering you as you were. I'm remembering the man that won the very first Riot Match in NCW, only a couple of months into my career. I'm remembering the former World Champion, the daredevil, the absolutely insane high-flying hardcore legend. I'm remembering the man, not the myth. And that's what I know is still there, at the core of it all: a man.
I'm not here to save you, Angel. I've thrown myself on too many fires to think that I can save everyone. You don't want to be helped, you don't want to be better. You are what you want to be, and there's nothing to bring you back. Spike Kane was still more man than monster, and he's found a road back. I know there's still a monster lurking underneath the surface, but he controls it. With you, Angel...the monster's subsumed the man so much that it's hard to remember he's even there to begin with. So I'm not here to save you. I'm here to survive. I'm here to win. You want to take what's mine...and I'm here to stop you.
I can't pretend I'm a perfect hero. I'm not without sin. I'm not without flaw. I'm human. I've made my mistakes, and I swore that I'd work to atone for them as long as it takes. Maybe I never will. But I'd rather walk the road of trying to be better than refuse and revel in that which is wicked. I'm done sitting on the sidelines as corrupt and wicked men try to drag IWF down to their level. That includes you.
You want to reign supreme again. You want to strike fear into the men and women of IWF, and what better way than to live up to your words and break their hero? You said you wanted to nail me to the cross. You said you would break me into a million pieces and crush my heart beneath your boot. Angel, I don't know if you haven't been paying attention recently, but a whole lot of people have been trying to break me for the last year. All it's ever done is seen me walk out stronger, tempered, more resilient. They couldn't break me...and not even a would-be God can shatter me. I will not be broken by you. I will stand tall. I will stand proud. I will stand STILL Imperial Champion. And you will learn, as every single person before you has, the undeniable truth...
I. Am. UNBREAKABLE. I'll see you Sunday, gentlemen.
Well howdy there pardner.