To call Seth Raide a parasite would be to give credit where it simply isn't due.  He's nothing more than an annoying, fluttering wasp.  His time will have come and gone before he knows it.  He won't even have time to realise precisely how little ANYBODY thought of him before some random boot puts an end to his flash-in-the-proverbial-pan of a career.  I happily sit idly by listening to him drone on and on - blindly rehashing MY old material - finding limitless comfort in the fact that he just won't know what hit him.  A glorious day it'll be when somebody...anybody...cuts Raide's stubby little legs from underneath and he plunges hopelessly into a dark, dark crevice - suffice to say, never to be seen again.

It sounds like a fairytale.  Make-believe.  Pure fantasy.  It's not.  It's real.  It's going to happen.  People've been saying that since Heatwave II, but finally a date has been set.  Finally, this bloodthirsty roster has been given a legit, open forum in which to lynch the living snot out of Seth Raide.  They - WE, even - are after that sack of shit's head.  And not for the reasons he'd like.  We're after him not for the title he UNINTENTIONALLY put on life support, but simply to run him out of our midst.  I say we and taste the irony.  As a Lone Gunman, I can't be running around saying things like that.  Give Raide two seconds before he hops on that and tells me I'm contradicting myself...

...Actually, on that note:

STOP!

Seth, listen to me.  Get off the thoughtless offence for once and actually open those big, tough ears of yours.  I'll say this nice and slow.  Nice and clear.

EVERYTHING  you say and do is a contradiction of something else you've already done.

Stop harping on about sucking corporate dick and friends upstairs and just look at the FACTS.  YOU are the corporate enthusiast amongst us.  YOU are the one given the handouts, given concessions and shortcuts.  Let's start at the beginning, shall we?

Heatwave II.  You were HANDED a title shot when there was an array of people harder working and all-around BETTER than you that deserved it fifty times more.  'My' friends in suits sat without batting an eyelash as you decorated my face with a sledgehammer and STOLE my title.  There was no rematch ordered, no complaints filed...NOTHING.  

It's about time that you realised the rest of us aren't so downright naive as to believe that you are doing all of this on your own accord.  GZW2K1 is a business.  You, believe it or not, are a contracted worker for said business.  If you were truly acting out of line, said contract would've been axed MONTHS ago.  Quite clearly, it wasn't, so you must be doing something right.  Tell me...us...what your angle is.  What do you think it is that you're doing that's kept Logan Corzair and his subordinates firmly behind you.  You're no rebel or independent body.  You're not tearing this company apart from within.  You're a fucking actor, playing a fucking role.

You still work for this company because they've allowed it.  They've allowed you go months without a clean title defence because you're the only halfway-active wrestler willing to whore himself out and emulate Pimp Bizkit.  Management loves a cheater champion.  They just love somebody who'll be content to go down in the annals of time as a spineless, mindless piece of putty, ever ripe for their moulding.  That's it.  Nobody else wanted Pimp's scraps, so they called in The Downfall.

Convinced yet?

If not...if you still have a disdain for 'living in the past'...then look at the here and now.  Lord Of The Coliseum, 2005.  Speak ill of those that have made it all you like, but go back and watch Glory Through Honor first.  No, I don't mean your classic with Monarch - with it's three person audience - I mean the actual hard graft, the meat of the show to your main event's spoilt dessert.  Visualised it yet?  Good.  Ask yourself one teeny, tiny little question...  If Vernon Vanderbilt, Zac Sharp, The Root and nWo's own Necron couldn't make it through the qualifiers, could YOU?!

Every person in this organisation knows the answer.  Say it if you want, but realistically I'll just be expecting another private letter.

For one second I want you to realise just how well-off you are, you ignorant fucking pig.  Nobody in GZW2K1 history has been unjustly handed as much as you have.  NOBODY.  And yet, what return do you give these people?  Words of protest and anarchy that only they want to hear aside, nothing.  Sweet fuck all.  You're no king, lord or champion...  You're a bottom feeder, protected by miles and miles of red tape.  Now and only now have they been forced to lift that tape and expose you.  Now it's all up to you, Downfall.

When I say 'all', of course, I don't mean the tournament itself, or the direction of your GZW2K1.  Monarch's not your puppet and you could never beat me, one on one.  Seven and Nathan Williams have worked harder than you and Pimp Bizkit played the better pussy titleholder.  I'll be the first to admit you managed to get one up on me at Heatwave.  You pulled a fast one.  Key word: Fast.  All of this hit you too soon, Raide.  In the aftermath of one 'victory' you hadn't time to even hear cries of foul play before fluttering over to the next.

Now it comes full circle.

Now the only thing Seth Raide has any control over is whether he'd like to take his chances in having Quake be the one to show him up or genuinely push himself to my brick wall.  I've got Eddie Fever to deal with beforehand, Seth, but I will be in our bracket's semi-final.  Can you say the same?

You asked me in that little letter of yours what my objective was in coming back to this tournament.  Another 15 minutes of fame (I've used that one myself a couple of dozen times, by the way), some temporary glory (mine again)?  What?  I'll tell you what.  You.  You've been allowed coast for long enough.  EVERYBODY and his cousin were sick of it three months ago.  Overkill and saturation left the building halfway through the Summer Heat tour.  You're what's left over.  What did you say, a crumb?  Fitting enough.

You can't beat me...you won't.

Believe it or not, I'm probably the only person involved that actually gives a shit about you entering.  Fever, Quake, Cairnsy?  Nope.  Not Vyle or Kellar.  Nobody cares anymore.  Except me.  What I want from this year's tournament is very simple.  Your head on a stake.  Your career in shreds.  Your pride non-existent.  Your mouth shut.  You...

...Gone.

Seth, you don't know how far I'm willing to go, how high I'm willing to ascend - and similarly how LOW I'm willing to stoop - to put you, the irritating little insomniac, to bed for once and for all.

It's not fantasy.  My head isn't in the clouds.  My feet are planted firmly on the ground and I can humbly say that I will not let you past the semi-finals.  And please, for both of our sakes...just TRY to make it that far.  OK?

Something tells me that you're not going to like this one bit...