07.30.06 Avarice

I: Sunday, July 30, 2006, London, England - Trump International Hotel and Tower, New York City, New York

I have a great deal to smile about in recent days, despite what lesser peons may hope to surmise about my life and about the direction of my career.

Including myself.

Just when I thought I had hit a roadblock with Edwards, Fate yanked the son of a bitch out of the way courtesy a few select individuals, and a lovely weapon called a sai.

His blood spewed flowingly and very elegantly out of his open wound and right into our little bottle of joy. What a profound moment that was.

Alas poor Keith. A defeat to mar his record, a taste of his own bullshit to throw the wrenches into his gears.

But I know otherwise than to expect that the tyranny of his ignorance will fade off into the sunset like so many John Wayne films - he will return, and return again, as a child, seeking his favourite sweet, demanding it, wanting just one taste of it, but he will fall just too short each and every time. And even then, he will never learn.

I feel worst of all for his valet-manager-playtoy, that waif Vanessa. What a dish, but to associate herself with one so coarse and juvenile?

Women have no taste. Save for my wife.

Women associate themselves with assholes and then bemoan their fates later on...like Vanessa and this oaf; like Dawn and Cole Christenson; like Heidi and her former beau and dear colleague of mine slash son of a bitch, Jefferson D'Ar...Andrews.

It's hard to appreciate her beauty fully in this pictorial I obtained from the World Wide Web, in some promotional photographs she did for her various wrestling companies.

And at this time of day - late at night, my wife sound asleep, with a port wine in my hand - there is no better time to do this than now.

New York may be sleeping (to an extent), as with my wife, but my mind and my desires are wide awake.

Heidi has always captivated me.

She reaches the climax (and I choose my words deliberately) of beauty.

Her looks are lethal, as is her move set.

I have seen her disassemble the finest in the world. Men larger than I, faster than I. They have tapped out like bitches.

And nothing would please her - or Edwards, or Cole...her sibling...or Phoenix, or Andrews, or Vicious - than to make me submit or pass out from pain.

I look up into nothingness in our bedroom and run through those names once again.

I am loathed. I am despised.

What enmity has OLW for us.

And I could not be more happier for this fact more than any other.

I am hated. But I am the best in the world.

I flipped the glossy pages to see one of Heidi smiling sensually, wearing a tight fitting bikini work-out top, in bright sunshine.

My eyes strain over every square inch of the page, absorbing it all into my mind, sending all the wonderful chemicals surging through my mind.

Surely she is the goddess of the ring.

A lady - no, a woman - in every sense of the word.

I anticipate this match more than any other in a long time, more so than with Edwards. He is talent, but is more mouth than talent.

Heidi is purer. And this, and her femininity, is alluring.

I will get to feel her skin against mine, her touch, her breathe, her chest.

I will feel some guilt, although not much, of having to wrestle her, when I would rather take her out, dress her in the finest clothing in the world, and treat her to the best restaurants in Paris and London.

I will try and treat her like a lady, a woman, before the contest, and after it.

Because during it, I might just have to break her neck.

What further enmity awaits.