Post by Deleted on Dec 19, 2007 15:58:13 GMT -5
Dearest D.C.,
Let’s do a quick overview of what you’ve "made" in this business I dominate.
Money – Oh, wait, that’s right: my facing you twice this year saved you from the abject poverty your success wrought, liberating your family from the shackles of whoredom.
And since my name has outgrown even the most epic or proportions . . . the money you're going to make THIS time around? crap. Keep in mind the next time you slice your sirloin that without my philanthropy you’d be choking down corned beef.
Excuses – "Oh, woe! They won’t let me be me! I’m not Dane Christian! It’s D.C.!" That one worked out well for you. Who's busted again?
"Uh, yeah . . . well . . . there’s some black on my mom’s side."
"Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! I suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!"
WFWF – From whining out of the ring and biting people's style, to infecting it with your own touch of douche; you're single-handedly taking the greatest federation on the planet and turning it into a laughingstock. Soon enough we'll be bankrupt.
Fans – That Slash kid still marks out for you, doesn’t he?
The National Title – Oops. That was me. You’re the one whose cowardice could never bring it home.
Hmmm. Let’s see here. Surely there’s more. Oh right.
The Deville – In your dreams.
You think you made me? Do you really think that me facing you has anything to do with where I'm at today? That's what you said at Survival of the Fittest, right?
Bite your filthy
ing tongue. I’ll never be a hollow shell, living off the charity of rivals, clinging desperately to a renaissance I only wish I’d ushered in. I’ll never undermine or steal the accolades of others, claiming them as my own. I’ll die before I become a recycled failure.
I’ve never been the next anyone. The similarities others note are of stardom . . . of dominance . . . not personality. And they only note those for a split second, until it became painfully obvious to all that I’d moved well beyond any ceiling, that I was strutting on top of it, moonwalking over heads like I was dancing on graves. People are benchmarks only until I break them and nobody confuses that fact but you.
I pick up where others leave off; carrying the ball farther than they could have ever hoped, spiked it, riverdanced, and lined up to do it again.
You made me? All you made me was pissed me off, grating on my last nerve with your feigned benevolence and fickle demands for credit forever after. I’ve already proved your passing of the torch was a falsehood, an attempted extinguishing of my flame, and your latest rhetorical horsecrap proves that intent. I didn’t whoop your ass at Survival of the Fittest to show people how far I’ve come. I reacquainted you with the ring to show you what’s always been true: I defeated and moved beyond you because I’m better than you, not because you thought fit to "make" me.
I also did it to test the comparison, to see if your heart truly was that of a lion, to force you to roar. I thought that if I brought you to the jungle, that if it was truly your kingdom, you’d return for more than a silly paycheck. I thought you’d rediscover your love, your skills, your pride.
Wrestling me should have inspired you. As the champion you profess to want to be, you shouldn’t have had a choice. True kings don’t abdicate. Lords don’t pay mere lip service to their sovereignty.
When I first arrived, you seemed to be someone headed in the right direction. I once thought we could have stood side-by-side in WFWF, columns of prosperity supporting the monolithic masterpiece. We could have done wonderful and wondrous things, could’ve aligned and been unstoppable, beyond reproach. Or, at the very least, we could have continued our feud, made our matches something to cherish in the here and now instead of a hat-tip to yesteryear. We could have, but you couldn't. You're too pathetic.
You're too obsessed with securing your "future" and cementing your past. The opportunity passed you by because you were too stupid or cowardly to seize it. You made yourself a relic, and as archaeologists often do only on their death-beds, I came to the sad conclusion that I’d spent far too long chasing after little more than a trinket. A mundane arrowhead so far removed from usefulness or importance, sentimental only because it existed before me.
Maybe I was mistaken and you’re not what I was led to believe. Maybe you made dupes of us all. I’m struggling to find an argument against it, to rediscover the nobility I thought I saw as a rookie to this place.
You’ve never understood, and I’m beginning to believe you never will. The past is nothing but a foundation to develop beyond, the future an intangible hallucination. All we can touch is the present, building from the past. Take care of the now and the future will look after itself.
"Make" no mistake about it . . . I’ve never confused past accomplishments with current success, and I’ll never steal from the present or future in a vain attempt to justify or laud my past. I’ll never ride the coattails of former successes. I’m constantly building, constantly plotting, living for the moment.
I’ve always appreciated that no one is ever "made", that it’s an ongoing process, that we’re constantly growing, forever making our own way and our own selves. You never did, and you still don’t. In clinging to the past, always trying to elevate it beyond the present, you’ve shrunk. I continue rising, you continue falling. I continue creating, you continue destroying. I live, and you . . . you died a long time ago.
That’s why I’m still atop the mountain, while you’re about to get buried under an avalanche.
Enjoy your grave, Dane, D.C., whatever you’re embracing today, as it’s all you have to look forward to now. Enjoy your static eternity, locked in a depressing nostalgic loop of your own infernal making.
Yours Truly,
Pierce Deville
P.S. If you're looking at this match as a way to cling to the teet of the prized cow, you better think again . . . because the only milky substance coming from this bull is one that I'd hope only your mother is familiar with.
Let’s do a quick overview of what you’ve "made" in this business I dominate.
Money – Oh, wait, that’s right: my facing you twice this year saved you from the abject poverty your success wrought, liberating your family from the shackles of whoredom.
And since my name has outgrown even the most epic or proportions . . . the money you're going to make THIS time around? crap. Keep in mind the next time you slice your sirloin that without my philanthropy you’d be choking down corned beef.
Excuses – "Oh, woe! They won’t let me be me! I’m not Dane Christian! It’s D.C.!" That one worked out well for you. Who's busted again?
"Uh, yeah . . . well . . . there’s some black on my mom’s side."
"Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! I suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!"
WFWF – From whining out of the ring and biting people's style, to infecting it with your own touch of douche; you're single-handedly taking the greatest federation on the planet and turning it into a laughingstock. Soon enough we'll be bankrupt.
Fans – That Slash kid still marks out for you, doesn’t he?
The National Title – Oops. That was me. You’re the one whose cowardice could never bring it home.
Hmmm. Let’s see here. Surely there’s more. Oh right.
The Deville – In your dreams.
You think you made me? Do you really think that me facing you has anything to do with where I'm at today? That's what you said at Survival of the Fittest, right?
Bite your filthy
ing tongue. I’ll never be a hollow shell, living off the charity of rivals, clinging desperately to a renaissance I only wish I’d ushered in. I’ll never undermine or steal the accolades of others, claiming them as my own. I’ll die before I become a recycled failure.I’ve never been the next anyone. The similarities others note are of stardom . . . of dominance . . . not personality. And they only note those for a split second, until it became painfully obvious to all that I’d moved well beyond any ceiling, that I was strutting on top of it, moonwalking over heads like I was dancing on graves. People are benchmarks only until I break them and nobody confuses that fact but you.
I pick up where others leave off; carrying the ball farther than they could have ever hoped, spiked it, riverdanced, and lined up to do it again.
You made me? All you made me was pissed me off, grating on my last nerve with your feigned benevolence and fickle demands for credit forever after. I’ve already proved your passing of the torch was a falsehood, an attempted extinguishing of my flame, and your latest rhetorical horsecrap proves that intent. I didn’t whoop your ass at Survival of the Fittest to show people how far I’ve come. I reacquainted you with the ring to show you what’s always been true: I defeated and moved beyond you because I’m better than you, not because you thought fit to "make" me.
I also did it to test the comparison, to see if your heart truly was that of a lion, to force you to roar. I thought that if I brought you to the jungle, that if it was truly your kingdom, you’d return for more than a silly paycheck. I thought you’d rediscover your love, your skills, your pride.
Wrestling me should have inspired you. As the champion you profess to want to be, you shouldn’t have had a choice. True kings don’t abdicate. Lords don’t pay mere lip service to their sovereignty.
When I first arrived, you seemed to be someone headed in the right direction. I once thought we could have stood side-by-side in WFWF, columns of prosperity supporting the monolithic masterpiece. We could have done wonderful and wondrous things, could’ve aligned and been unstoppable, beyond reproach. Or, at the very least, we could have continued our feud, made our matches something to cherish in the here and now instead of a hat-tip to yesteryear. We could have, but you couldn't. You're too pathetic.
You're too obsessed with securing your "future" and cementing your past. The opportunity passed you by because you were too stupid or cowardly to seize it. You made yourself a relic, and as archaeologists often do only on their death-beds, I came to the sad conclusion that I’d spent far too long chasing after little more than a trinket. A mundane arrowhead so far removed from usefulness or importance, sentimental only because it existed before me.
Maybe I was mistaken and you’re not what I was led to believe. Maybe you made dupes of us all. I’m struggling to find an argument against it, to rediscover the nobility I thought I saw as a rookie to this place.
You’ve never understood, and I’m beginning to believe you never will. The past is nothing but a foundation to develop beyond, the future an intangible hallucination. All we can touch is the present, building from the past. Take care of the now and the future will look after itself.
"Make" no mistake about it . . . I’ve never confused past accomplishments with current success, and I’ll never steal from the present or future in a vain attempt to justify or laud my past. I’ll never ride the coattails of former successes. I’m constantly building, constantly plotting, living for the moment.
I’ve always appreciated that no one is ever "made", that it’s an ongoing process, that we’re constantly growing, forever making our own way and our own selves. You never did, and you still don’t. In clinging to the past, always trying to elevate it beyond the present, you’ve shrunk. I continue rising, you continue falling. I continue creating, you continue destroying. I live, and you . . . you died a long time ago.
That’s why I’m still atop the mountain, while you’re about to get buried under an avalanche.
Enjoy your grave, Dane, D.C., whatever you’re embracing today, as it’s all you have to look forward to now. Enjoy your static eternity, locked in a depressing nostalgic loop of your own infernal making.
Yours Truly,
Pierce Deville
P.S. If you're looking at this match as a way to cling to the teet of the prized cow, you better think again . . . because the only milky substance coming from this bull is one that I'd hope only your mother is familiar with.