It is now with great pleasure that I bring to you this man.  He has procured for himself something none of you can attest to: self realization.  I have sat back for years and watched, and watched closely.  I have seen his mind and soul move from strata to strata, lurking, searching, grasping, yet not quite finding.  Now he has.

Robert Lancaster is Avarice.  Avarice is Robert Lancaster.

Yet I know among you, among each and every one of you, whom he might have the pleasure of encountering in the so called Match Beyond.

You are doubters.  You are skeptics.  You believe this Avarice is nothing but a facade.  A shield for something he is not.  A mask.

Ignorant sons of bitches.

He need not prove himself to any of you. Nor shall he.

Scene.  The great wine cellar in the depths of the Lancastrian Ancestral Estate.  Hewn from the Earth and completed in the 17th century in cold heartless brick.  The air is frigid, light almost nonexistent save for a few isolated light bulbs installed near the turn of the 20th century.  In the corners lay bottles that have gone untouched and have not seen the day of the light since the days when Charles II was on the throne.  Cobwebs lay undisturbed, the dust, thick, in those corners.  Newer bottles lay silently as well, and are the target of his consumption.

And now:




Contempt.

From the 1966 Palmer Margaux

Cole Christenson.

Cole fucking Christenson.

This is whom I am given?  This is Bishop's idea of a joke perhaps?

A man who we utterly out-wrestled so much so that the bastard decided to take a count out defeat?

Shit. What have I done to deserve this?  What the hell is this going to prove?

Need we prove myself to him, and Dawn, his bitch - or is he her bitch - that when Avarice was wrought from Lancaster's death, we would show himself to be the finest specimen in the world.

Whom can prove us wrong thus far.  Not Phoenix.  Not Curtis.  Not Cyrus.  And not Christenson.

Have at us son of a bitch.  You're over your head anyway in this CRW versus OLW nonsense.  All the better though.

While the idiot's eyes are transfixed on some piece of skirt's arse, I shall have mine transfixed on his throat, so that I shall end his match - or his career if needs be.


Arrogance.

From the 1982 Chateaux Petrus, Pomeral

My allegiance is firm and clear.  It's not to OLW or CRW.

My allegiance is to myself.

I have given up any sense of loyalty or devotion in this business.  Why waste one's breath.

Look at the record. CWF. NAWA. WWA. MSWA. CSWA. BWWa.  Why fucking bother.

Devotion is overrated.  I don't know what I've been devoted to in my life.

Sure as hell not to my father and mother.  Not to Stephanie, that bitch, nor to Simkins, the treasonous old bastard.  If I had either of them here with me at this moment - either of them - I would spit in their faces, and to Simkins, smash this bottle.

Who needs them.  I have what I need.

A woman most men would kill for.  Endless wealth.  Cars.  A body carved from granite.  The blood in my veins runs colder and deeper with the blood of other men more than almost anyone on this earth.  I am proud to be a Lancaster...and all you bastards out there must remember one thing.

I am nobility.

And you are lower than the dust.

By virtue of my pedigree I am destined to succeed.  And who - or what - are any of you to stop me.  ME.

Quite simply thou art nothing.


Uncertainty.

From the 1997 Solaia Marchesi Piero Antinori

But yet. I am but mortal.

I have this Godforsaken reputation of choking in main events, in the big shows.

I've even heard some argue that during my World Tag Team run...Seamus...that...that...bastard...he was the one that carried the team.

That he lifted Lancaster.

Is it true? Possible?

Defeat to Destiny Hunter.  Still laughter rings throughout the locker room.  The bitterness and humiliation - I try to hide it - still resonates.

I am but human!

Now once again I am thrust onto centre stage.  Against not just one but perhaps six or seven of the finest in the world.

What am I to do.


Resoluteness.

From the 1976 Chateaux D'Yquem, Sauternes

I know what to do.

We - ourselves - Avarice. THE DESTROYER OF WORLDS.

Live up to your title.

MAKE them beg for mercy.

CRUSH their dreams.

END their worlds.

DESTROY.

We shall lay siege to Christenson, throw caution to the wind and this shall be our cry:

TO WAR.