So a second time they called for the man who had been blind and said, “Give glory to God! We know that this man is a sinner.”
He answered, “Whether He is a sinner I do not know. There is one thing I do know: I was blind, but now I see!”
John 9:24-25
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May 20, 2019
Where was he?
How long had he been unconscious?
How long had he been unconscious?
Was he falling? It felt like he was falling. A sensation of falling forever, with no clear destination.
JC had a definite sense that he was being propelled backward. He tried to move his arms and couldn't. Something held them in place. He felt weak and didn't bother resisting. Whatever was holding him could keep doing so for now.
He tried to open his eyes and found that he couldn't. His left eyelid was stuck for some reason. He felt something caked on it, something he was sure he could wipe away if he could move his arms. As for his right eye, it wasn't that he couldn't open it, it was that it was already open, but his vision was still black.
He could see nothing.
His fall hit a bump and a jolt of pain fired off in his head like a shot, radiating from his eye socket. All at once he put the pieces together and realized what was going on. He wasn't falling. He was being pushed backward on a stretcher. He didn't know where he was, but he was being pushed on a stretcher.
Why couldn't he see out of his right eye? Why did it hurt so much?
The pain was growing now that he was awake. It was radiating from a central spot, and every time he felt a slight twitch of his eye, the pain got worse. As strange as it sounded in his head, he had the sensation of something scraping against his eye socket. Against his orbital bone.
He opened his mouth to speak and felt more dried liquid on his lips. He stuck out his tongue and tasted it, and the familiar copper flavor made him realize it was blood. His throat was incredibly dry, but as the stretcher came to a stop outside of what he assumed was a waiting ambulance, he managed to get a few words out.
"My...eye."
"Yes sir, your eye is damaged. We're taking you to get it taken care of."
The dryness in his throat made him give a sharp cough, and he felt the scraping sensation again. He felt the stabbing sensation again. The radiation. A wave of nausea hit him but he managed to hold it together.
"What...happened...to it?"
At this point, he knew that Ragnarok attacked him with a camera. He tried to get his hand up with the camera but the man was too quick. Or maybe he was too slow. Perhaps he blacked out from a concussion. Maybe it was blood loss. Maybe he had more pain than he realized and simply couldn't take it.
"Sir, you really shouldn't try to talk. Everything will be fine."
"Damn it, I asked you a question."
His eyes was definitely swollen. Perhaps it popped out. He heard about that before in wrestling. But if that were the case, why hadn't someone popped it back in? Why was there so much blood? What weren't they telling him?
"I'm not permitted to..."
"Stop talking to him and get him loaded up. We've got to get him to John Hopkins before...."
"Wait!!!"
He heard the shouting from far away, but even the loudness of that seemed to reverberate in his head and cause vibrations that gave him misery. He uttered a low groan but stopped because even that seemed to hurt. The sound of running footsteps got closer and closer until finally he heard someone stop. Then heavy breathing, punctuated with shocked speech.
"Jesus."
Lucy. Of course she made it. But didn't see have a match? Did she blow it off? He didn't bother asking. He didn't want to talk. The pain in his head was now a steady throb and he didn't want to make it worse.
"Miss, if you're going to ride with him, let us load him inside first."
"That's...that's fine."
He could hear her voice wavering. His eyes were closed so he was relying mostly on his hearing at the moment. And her voice was definitely shaky. It sounded like she had a lump in her throat. Perhaps there were tears on the edges of her eyes, close to falling down.
Damn it, what the hell is wrong with my eye?
"Christ, can't you people at least clean this blood off of him?"
He hears some murmuring from the EMTs and then he begins to move again. He feels him self going up and then a jolt as he thuds up onto the ambulance. A new wave of pain and nausea fills up his being and he's almost sure he's going to pass out, throw up, or both. He feels himself drifting away for a moment, back into the blackness, and he almost welcomes it. Anything to make the pain stop. It's a heavy throb, and it's so bad that he can't imagine the damage that is causing it.
He decides to let himself get carried into the blackness. Let sleep take him so that maybe things will be better when he wakes up. But then he feels coolness on his cheek.
"It's okay, Joe. I'm here."
Lucy. She could be one of the most violent, one of the most fiercest competitors in the ring but here she was, touching him with a wet cloth as gently as she possibly could. Perhaps she feared she might break him. Perhaps she was right. She dabbed at his left eye, wiping away what he was sure was dried blood. He blinked a few times and opened it. Once he was able to adjust to the light, he moved it over and saw her face. She was pale, more so than her usual fair complexion. Whatever color she had was drained and her eyes were definitely wet.
In spite of the perpetual dryness in his throat, he tried to choke out a few more words.
"Lucy..."
"Shh, we're not far from the hospital."
"No...please just...my eye."
"Your...your eye?"
She gave a quick, terrified glance at his right eye and gulped.
"What happened? They won't tell me."
Every word hurt. It shook his head. Every syllable. But he had to know. He needed to know.
"Please."
She stared at him for a moment and nodded. If there was one thing the two of them could count on, more than anyone else in the world, is that they would never lie to each other. That was an unspoken promise made early on, before they even realized they loved each other.
No matter how hard the truth might be.
"I.. uh. Your eye.. They're just trying to be careful with it Joe.. You're hurt. They don't know how bad it is yet..."
He tried to open his eyes and found that he couldn't. His left eyelid was stuck for some reason. He felt something caked on it, something he was sure he could wipe away if he could move his arms. As for his right eye, it wasn't that he couldn't open it, it was that it was already open, but his vision was still black.
He could see nothing.
His fall hit a bump and a jolt of pain fired off in his head like a shot, radiating from his eye socket. All at once he put the pieces together and realized what was going on. He wasn't falling. He was being pushed backward on a stretcher. He didn't know where he was, but he was being pushed on a stretcher.
Why couldn't he see out of his right eye? Why did it hurt so much?
The pain was growing now that he was awake. It was radiating from a central spot, and every time he felt a slight twitch of his eye, the pain got worse. As strange as it sounded in his head, he had the sensation of something scraping against his eye socket. Against his orbital bone.
He opened his mouth to speak and felt more dried liquid on his lips. He stuck out his tongue and tasted it, and the familiar copper flavor made him realize it was blood. His throat was incredibly dry, but as the stretcher came to a stop outside of what he assumed was a waiting ambulance, he managed to get a few words out.
"My...eye."
"Yes sir, your eye is damaged. We're taking you to get it taken care of."
The dryness in his throat made him give a sharp cough, and he felt the scraping sensation again. He felt the stabbing sensation again. The radiation. A wave of nausea hit him but he managed to hold it together.
"What...happened...to it?"
At this point, he knew that Ragnarok attacked him with a camera. He tried to get his hand up with the camera but the man was too quick. Or maybe he was too slow. Perhaps he blacked out from a concussion. Maybe it was blood loss. Maybe he had more pain than he realized and simply couldn't take it.
"Sir, you really shouldn't try to talk. Everything will be fine."
"Damn it, I asked you a question."
His eyes was definitely swollen. Perhaps it popped out. He heard about that before in wrestling. But if that were the case, why hadn't someone popped it back in? Why was there so much blood? What weren't they telling him?
"I'm not permitted to..."
"Stop talking to him and get him loaded up. We've got to get him to John Hopkins before...."
"Wait!!!"
He heard the shouting from far away, but even the loudness of that seemed to reverberate in his head and cause vibrations that gave him misery. He uttered a low groan but stopped because even that seemed to hurt. The sound of running footsteps got closer and closer until finally he heard someone stop. Then heavy breathing, punctuated with shocked speech.
"Jesus."
Lucy. Of course she made it. But didn't see have a match? Did she blow it off? He didn't bother asking. He didn't want to talk. The pain in his head was now a steady throb and he didn't want to make it worse.
"Miss, if you're going to ride with him, let us load him inside first."
"That's...that's fine."
He could hear her voice wavering. His eyes were closed so he was relying mostly on his hearing at the moment. And her voice was definitely shaky. It sounded like she had a lump in her throat. Perhaps there were tears on the edges of her eyes, close to falling down.
Damn it, what the hell is wrong with my eye?
"Christ, can't you people at least clean this blood off of him?"
He hears some murmuring from the EMTs and then he begins to move again. He feels him self going up and then a jolt as he thuds up onto the ambulance. A new wave of pain and nausea fills up his being and he's almost sure he's going to pass out, throw up, or both. He feels himself drifting away for a moment, back into the blackness, and he almost welcomes it. Anything to make the pain stop. It's a heavy throb, and it's so bad that he can't imagine the damage that is causing it.
He decides to let himself get carried into the blackness. Let sleep take him so that maybe things will be better when he wakes up. But then he feels coolness on his cheek.
"It's okay, Joe. I'm here."
Lucy. She could be one of the most violent, one of the most fiercest competitors in the ring but here she was, touching him with a wet cloth as gently as she possibly could. Perhaps she feared she might break him. Perhaps she was right. She dabbed at his left eye, wiping away what he was sure was dried blood. He blinked a few times and opened it. Once he was able to adjust to the light, he moved it over and saw her face. She was pale, more so than her usual fair complexion. Whatever color she had was drained and her eyes were definitely wet.
In spite of the perpetual dryness in his throat, he tried to choke out a few more words.
"Lucy..."
"Shh, we're not far from the hospital."
"No...please just...my eye."
"Your...your eye?"
She gave a quick, terrified glance at his right eye and gulped.
"What happened? They won't tell me."
Every word hurt. It shook his head. Every syllable. But he had to know. He needed to know.
"Please."
She stared at him for a moment and nodded. If there was one thing the two of them could count on, more than anyone else in the world, is that they would never lie to each other. That was an unspoken promise made early on, before they even realized they loved each other.
No matter how hard the truth might be.
"I.. uh. Your eye.. They're just trying to be careful with it Joe.. You're hurt. They don't know how bad it is yet..."
"Trust me...I know it's hurt. What's wrong with it?"
She took his hand, which was still strapped down at his side, into both of hers. She held it firmly and a tear rolled down her cheek. He didn't like it. Something was seriously wrong. He almost wished his other eye was still closed.
"He broke a camera into your face... Baby.. they had to remove a lot of glass and metal shards from your eye and face."
He closed his left eye. He didn't know the damage done exactly, but he could guess. He could fucking guess. He could see his career slipping through his fingers. His life as he knew it ending. Everything he ever knew changing in an instant. All because he had a moment of vanity and wanted to unmask some asshole.
Why couldn't he leave well enough alone?
"But..."
But? What could possibly be worse than this?
"There's still a piece in there..."
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May 23, 2019
JC had been in and out of sleep for days. The surgery was over. The glass and metal were removed from his face. From his eye. However, the swelling made it difficult to tell the extent of the damage, beyond the fact that they were able to save the eye.
Luckily for him, it wasn't punctured. But how badly was it cut? Was it cut at all? It had to have been. A shard of glass basically pinned between it and his orbital bone. It was a gruesome thought and one that pained him to even think about. So he pushed the thought out of his head. He'd rather wait for the doctors to worry about that kind of thing.
The pain was exquisite. His entire head ached. His face was in various stages of healing thanks to stitches and bruises. The swelling was in the process of going down and his eyelid (which had been half cut-off, and was stitched back on) felt like it was on fire. Luckily the medicine they gave him put a stop to that. It also put a stop to most of his thinking, as he usually drifted in and out of dreamless sleep.
He realized he didn't really know where he was. Still in Baltimore? Back in New York? Who knew? He didn't know where he was. He didn't know when he was. Was is still Monday? How long ago was his match? Did he just get out of surgery?
He supposed these were all questions that were best left for another time.
The one constant, every time he woke up, was Lucy. She was always at his side, in the same chair. Sometimes she was sleep. Sometimes she was reading something on her phone. Sometimes she was talking to the nurse. But she was always there. Either this was sweet or really impressive, depending on how long he was actually there, but he really appreciated it.
He loved her before, but every time he opened his eyes and saw her, he loved her a little more.
"What..."
He coughed. His throat was once again dry. Lucy rushed over and handed him a cup with water in it, which he slowly sipped at. He wanted to gulp it down, but every muscle in his face felt sore and weak.
"What time is it? What day is it?"
"Thursday afternoon. You've been sleeping a lot since they operated."
"Thursday?! Jesus, Luce. Have you been here this whole time?"
She glanced to the side, almost as if she didn't want to answer.
"Somebody had to be."
"Well, I'm fine. You should go home."
Whether that meant taking a flight or driving a short distance he had no idea, but the sentiment was there. He heard that Lucy was saying something in reply, but he couldn't quite make it out. It was muffled, because he was slipping back into the darkness again.
He slept.
-----
He woke up again several hours later. At least, it could have been several hours later. For all he knew, it might have been another thirty minutes. It seemed darker in the room, at least. Lucy was still there. She was stubborn, of course. He could imagine what her response was.
"If you think I'm leaving your side for anything, you're crazy."
For the moment, he was wide awake. Everything ached, even his body, mostly because he hadn't used it in days. He had been laying in the same position for days.
He needed to move.
Joe blinked, moving the only eye he had left (as far as he knew) to scan his immediate surroundings. It seemed that he was only hooked to a portable IV and could roam freely if he wanted. That was good. He didn't want to be strapped down anymore, even if it had been 'for his own safety.' He lifted his head off the pillow, even though the act caused everything to ache. Then he slipped off the side of the bed and let his feet hit the floor.
His knees immediately popped and he let out a groan. Age was not kind to him on the best days.
More than needing to move, he needed to see. As much as he could. He moved, hobbling at first due to the stiffness in his muscles, to the mirror on the bathroom door. There was a light over the sink and so he flipped the switch. What he saw caused his heart to sink.
Joe was not a vain person. He never particularly prided himself in his appearance, as he cared more about his passions in life. But standing there and barely recognizing himself certainly gave him a sense of depression he was unfamiliar with.
To start with, a hard plastic piece was affixed to his right eye. It wasn't explicitly visible (though the bulge was), but when he lightly touched the spot, he felt the grooves of it. It was covered with bandages and plenty of tape to keep it firmly in place. It looked like a big white patch slapped to his face, covering up a good fourth of it.
Beyond that, he could see remnants of the rest of the damage. There was plenty of yellowing surrounding the edges of the bandages, which would be the bruises. The minor cuts from the glass on his face were healing and scabbing over. One cut on his cheek, which was stitched, was poking out from the bandage. He probed the stitch gently and frowned.
In addition to that, he just looked extremely pale. He supposed he hadn't eaten anything since Monday.
"Everything's gone."
The words came out before he realized he was talking to no one. Lucy was asleep, after all. He looked over and she didn't even stir. But it was true. Say goodbye to Golden Intentions. Farewell to saving Carnage Wrestling from Paragon. He doubted he'd even get to get revenge on Ragnarok at this point.
Says who?
A voice from deep inside, an inner monologue that luckily was not the voice his antipsychotic medication kept at bay, spoke up in his mind.
But it was wrong. Doctors. Doctors would say so. Wrestling promoters would say so. No promoter in their right mind would sign off on allowing him to compete in his condition. Even with a waiver.
Like you haven't lied about your condition before. Remember Wargames? The concussion?
That was different. You can hide concussion symptoms.
You can lie about the seriousness of this too. 'Just a scratched cornea. No big deal.'
Would they buy that? Would it be that easy? Could he really gaslight his way into the Golden Intentions rumble that way? He'd love to do just that. It's not like they'd examine him personally.
Plus...you saw Jack talking to CWF backstage at Chaos.
He had. He didn't know if Michaels announced his participation in the Rumble, but he assumed he had. That fucker did love taking glory without putting in the effort. And of course, if JC's status in the match was in question, he'd probably rush to announce himself.
Why not? He'd be all too happy to try to put the focus back on him. That's what he does, make everything about him.
Just thinking about it made his blood boil.
You know he's in it. You need to be in it. Throw him out. Get that world title shot.
But what if he lost his eye for good?
What if you already have?
His hand turned into a fist. He stared at the ghost in the mirror, the assault victim that stared back. The man that would have a couple of new scars to add to the collection. He hated what he saw. It was then that he made his decision. He didn't care how bad the damage was.
The anger bubbled over and suddenly, without thinking, he lashed out and punched the mirror. It didn't shatter upon impact, but merely crunched with a spiderweb pattern out from his fist. A few trails of blood began to stream down the mirror. He heard Lucy stirring in her seat.
"Joe? What the fuck? Are you okay?"
JC sighed. This was no way to live. He was no one's victim.
Ragnarok. Michaels. Paragon.
The Golden Intentions Rumble.
He was coming for all of it. All of them.
He was no one's victim.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
What's the song? "I once was lost, but now am found. Was blind but now I see." A song about, I assume, being lost in the darkness only for God's light to show the way. There's a problem with that song though. It assumes that everyone can be saved from the darkness.
May 23, 2019
JC had been in and out of sleep for days. The surgery was over. The glass and metal were removed from his face. From his eye. However, the swelling made it difficult to tell the extent of the damage, beyond the fact that they were able to save the eye.
Luckily for him, it wasn't punctured. But how badly was it cut? Was it cut at all? It had to have been. A shard of glass basically pinned between it and his orbital bone. It was a gruesome thought and one that pained him to even think about. So he pushed the thought out of his head. He'd rather wait for the doctors to worry about that kind of thing.
The pain was exquisite. His entire head ached. His face was in various stages of healing thanks to stitches and bruises. The swelling was in the process of going down and his eyelid (which had been half cut-off, and was stitched back on) felt like it was on fire. Luckily the medicine they gave him put a stop to that. It also put a stop to most of his thinking, as he usually drifted in and out of dreamless sleep.
He realized he didn't really know where he was. Still in Baltimore? Back in New York? Who knew? He didn't know where he was. He didn't know when he was. Was is still Monday? How long ago was his match? Did he just get out of surgery?
He supposed these were all questions that were best left for another time.
The one constant, every time he woke up, was Lucy. She was always at his side, in the same chair. Sometimes she was sleep. Sometimes she was reading something on her phone. Sometimes she was talking to the nurse. But she was always there. Either this was sweet or really impressive, depending on how long he was actually there, but he really appreciated it.
He loved her before, but every time he opened his eyes and saw her, he loved her a little more.
"What..."
He coughed. His throat was once again dry. Lucy rushed over and handed him a cup with water in it, which he slowly sipped at. He wanted to gulp it down, but every muscle in his face felt sore and weak.
"What time is it? What day is it?"
"Thursday afternoon. You've been sleeping a lot since they operated."
"Thursday?! Jesus, Luce. Have you been here this whole time?"
She glanced to the side, almost as if she didn't want to answer.
"Somebody had to be."
"Well, I'm fine. You should go home."
Whether that meant taking a flight or driving a short distance he had no idea, but the sentiment was there. He heard that Lucy was saying something in reply, but he couldn't quite make it out. It was muffled, because he was slipping back into the darkness again.
He slept.
-----
He woke up again several hours later. At least, it could have been several hours later. For all he knew, it might have been another thirty minutes. It seemed darker in the room, at least. Lucy was still there. She was stubborn, of course. He could imagine what her response was.
"If you think I'm leaving your side for anything, you're crazy."
For the moment, he was wide awake. Everything ached, even his body, mostly because he hadn't used it in days. He had been laying in the same position for days.
He needed to move.
Joe blinked, moving the only eye he had left (as far as he knew) to scan his immediate surroundings. It seemed that he was only hooked to a portable IV and could roam freely if he wanted. That was good. He didn't want to be strapped down anymore, even if it had been 'for his own safety.' He lifted his head off the pillow, even though the act caused everything to ache. Then he slipped off the side of the bed and let his feet hit the floor.
His knees immediately popped and he let out a groan. Age was not kind to him on the best days.
More than needing to move, he needed to see. As much as he could. He moved, hobbling at first due to the stiffness in his muscles, to the mirror on the bathroom door. There was a light over the sink and so he flipped the switch. What he saw caused his heart to sink.
Joe was not a vain person. He never particularly prided himself in his appearance, as he cared more about his passions in life. But standing there and barely recognizing himself certainly gave him a sense of depression he was unfamiliar with.
To start with, a hard plastic piece was affixed to his right eye. It wasn't explicitly visible (though the bulge was), but when he lightly touched the spot, he felt the grooves of it. It was covered with bandages and plenty of tape to keep it firmly in place. It looked like a big white patch slapped to his face, covering up a good fourth of it.
Beyond that, he could see remnants of the rest of the damage. There was plenty of yellowing surrounding the edges of the bandages, which would be the bruises. The minor cuts from the glass on his face were healing and scabbing over. One cut on his cheek, which was stitched, was poking out from the bandage. He probed the stitch gently and frowned.
In addition to that, he just looked extremely pale. He supposed he hadn't eaten anything since Monday.
"Everything's gone."
The words came out before he realized he was talking to no one. Lucy was asleep, after all. He looked over and she didn't even stir. But it was true. Say goodbye to Golden Intentions. Farewell to saving Carnage Wrestling from Paragon. He doubted he'd even get to get revenge on Ragnarok at this point.
Says who?
A voice from deep inside, an inner monologue that luckily was not the voice his antipsychotic medication kept at bay, spoke up in his mind.
But it was wrong. Doctors. Doctors would say so. Wrestling promoters would say so. No promoter in their right mind would sign off on allowing him to compete in his condition. Even with a waiver.
Like you haven't lied about your condition before. Remember Wargames? The concussion?
That was different. You can hide concussion symptoms.
You can lie about the seriousness of this too. 'Just a scratched cornea. No big deal.'
Would they buy that? Would it be that easy? Could he really gaslight his way into the Golden Intentions rumble that way? He'd love to do just that. It's not like they'd examine him personally.
Plus...you saw Jack talking to CWF backstage at Chaos.
He had. He didn't know if Michaels announced his participation in the Rumble, but he assumed he had. That fucker did love taking glory without putting in the effort. And of course, if JC's status in the match was in question, he'd probably rush to announce himself.
Why not? He'd be all too happy to try to put the focus back on him. That's what he does, make everything about him.
Just thinking about it made his blood boil.
You know he's in it. You need to be in it. Throw him out. Get that world title shot.
But what if he lost his eye for good?
What if you already have?
His hand turned into a fist. He stared at the ghost in the mirror, the assault victim that stared back. The man that would have a couple of new scars to add to the collection. He hated what he saw. It was then that he made his decision. He didn't care how bad the damage was.
The anger bubbled over and suddenly, without thinking, he lashed out and punched the mirror. It didn't shatter upon impact, but merely crunched with a spiderweb pattern out from his fist. A few trails of blood began to stream down the mirror. He heard Lucy stirring in her seat.
"Joe? What the fuck? Are you okay?"
JC sighed. This was no way to live. He was no one's victim.
Ragnarok. Michaels. Paragon.
The Golden Intentions Rumble.
He was coming for all of it. All of them.
He was no one's victim.
What's the song? "I once was lost, but now am found. Was blind but now I see." A song about, I assume, being lost in the darkness only for God's light to show the way. There's a problem with that song though. It assumes that everyone can be saved from the darkness.
It assumes everyone wants to be saved.
I shouldn't be here folks. I don't have doctor clearance. I have a target on my face that might as well be a blinking neon light that reads, 'ATTACK HERE'. I'm nowhere near 100%. My equilibrium is off, my coordination is unsteady and I'm weaker than I've ever been. I'm practically begging for someone to put me down for good.
God knows there are people in this match that would love to try. Bryan Ford has tried. Ataxia doesn't even know me and he would. Jack Michaels, if he even deigns to make an appearance, would probably salivate at the chance to end me. Jay Mora is by all accounts a dick. There's a lot of you I don't really know, but I'm willing to bet money that you'd want to take me out just for the infamy of it.
So why would I put myself through that? Why am I, at my lowest point, subjecting myself to one of the most grueling matches in the business? A match that requires you to endure attacks from 29 or more other people for possibly an hour or longer? That's simple: A chance to be a champion. A chance to redeem myself after I was embarrassed the last time I graced CWF. I want to be World Champion. I will be World Champion.
And if I have to put my body through hell and risk permanent injury to do it, then that's what I'll do. Because that's how much I love this.
And please, don't take this talk of my injuries and weakness to be preemptive excuses. I know exactly what I'm doing. I know the risk and I know the reward. This is no sob story. This isn't a way to build sympathy or ask people to take it easy on me. I know exactly what I'm walking into and I know that win or lose, I chose exactly everything that's going to happen to me at Golden Intentions.
Except here's the thing. I'm going to win.
A half-blind, uncoordinated, nearly-feral JC is going to win, and there's nothing any of you can do about it.
Except here's the thing. I'm going to win.
A half-blind, uncoordinated, nearly-feral JC is going to win, and there's nothing any of you can do about it.
And boy, none of you are going to be able to stand that.
I'm back here in this darkness. I can't see my way out but that's okay. I have to embrace it. I can't rely on my technical skills because my senses are dulled. No, there's no finesse to be had here. This is a fight. This is a chance for me to show you motherfuckers a side of me none of you have ever seen.
I'm not lost here. I'm at home here.
Ask anyone.
If I have to be more vicious, more cruel, more heartless in order to survive, let alone win, then that's what I'll do.
If I have to throw out my own girlfriend, she'll understand. I expect she'll try the same thing once we're at the final two. I'd be disappointed if she didn't. That's why we do what we do.
There's no amazing grace coming to save me. I'm saving myself. I'm at a disadvantage. I'm fucked up, but fuck all of you, I'm still going to win and claim my prize. A shot at the world title at Wrestlefest V and my chance to once again put my name in the history books. I want this. I need this. And once the last of you has hit the floor, I'll let myself fall back to the mat and listen as I'm declared the victor.
How sweet the sound.
