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01.17.07 Shit
I:
Wednesday, January 10, 2007, London, England, 11pm
The buzz of my microwave summons me
to the grocery store bought sludge that awaits me for a late supper.
"I speak on behalf of Quinn Tate. He is the future of
wrestling. You are too narcissitic, too cowardly, too unwilling
to take risks to wear that gold that you've worn for far too
long. You deserve death for your insolence. He has
repeatedly leveled charges at you, only for you to sit silent,
absorbing them, without the fortitude to answer these charges.
Quinn Tate has momentum. Passion. The driving force to be
what it takes to be champion. He risks his all for the fans, to
show the true fire that burns deep inside his soul. He yearns to
reach the pinnacle."
Avarice stares blankly from the gallows below.
"ANSWER ME!"
"You want answers from one who has no soul, no passion, no drive.
Our only passion has been to maim. Destroy. Shatter.
RULE. Quinn Tate wants answers? He shall find it at the end
of our boot placed on his neck, choking the youthful exuberance to the
end of his life."
I am become Death The Destroyer
of Worlds
