{__but.sleep.never.comes.to.you__}

�Morgy? Are you awake?�

Adora�s soft, almost silkily smooth voice cut unexpectedly through the darkness, and Morgana � a painfully light sleeper � groaned in response, burying her face deep into her pillow. Sleep hadn�t come easily to her after what she�d seen only hours before: the dismantling of a human being, blood smeared across a multitude of surfaces, flesh from unidentifiable parts of the body strewn across a chaotic platform� her first boyfriend�s cruelly smiling face as vital fluid slipped from her own. Undeterred by Morgy�s response, Adora reached into the darkness and grabbed what she thought was her shoulder, shaking it insistently.

�Have you ever had a dream that felt so real, you woke up after it and felt almost disappointed that it wasn�t?�

Adora�s question was spoken in a half-whisper, her voice breaking the small, silent gap between her and Morgana. Groaning again, the unintelligible noise guttural and wailing, Morgy turned onto her side to stare into the dark space where she thought Adora�s face would be. She reached out with arms nearly deadened with exhaustion to trace her fingers along the length of Adora�s hair; she couldn�t see her, but she could feel her, and that was almost just as good.

�All the time,� Morgy answered sleepily through swollen lips, her voice strangled and uncharacteristically low. Timothy was gone for the night; and after what she�s seen � what she could still see, and smell, and almost taste � she couldn�t sleep alone. So she�d crawled into Adora�s bed like a child, and Adora had wordlessly offered her half of the leopard print blanket she�d been hording, and sleep had come � eventually.

�I just had one of those,� Adora explained, louder this time, as if to render the space between them nonexistent. She could feel the heat of Morgy�s body, which was pressed as close to hers as she could be without them touching; and in the dark, lithe, scantily-clad bodies were tangled amid thin blankets and silken sheets, pink and platinum hair fanned prettily over their respective pillows.

�About what?� Morgy questioned, stifling a heavy yawn. She blinked slowly; there were red stars dancing before her field of vision even with her eyes open, and they made her feel almost dizzy.

�I think it was related to our match,� Adora speculated, attempting to silence her own yawn. �It was fucked up, but oddly satisfying� even sexy.�

�You�re dreaming about our match?� Morgy murmured, audibly unimpressed that she�d been woken up for this. �It�s not even that big a deal. Destiny Daniels and Casanova aren�t anyone I can say I�d lose sleep over.�

�It�s not as lame as it sounds,� Adora insisted. �Actually, it might be for you, considering you have so much scorn for all the unnatural goings-on among the roster � and rightfully so.�

�So what? You were a vampire?� Morgy questioned, rubbing her heavily-lidded eyes. �I do harp on vampires a lot, but it�s almost impossible not to. It�s just so fucking stupid.� Clearly, Morgy�s sleep-addled brain was still capable of producing profanity, scorn and mockery � all of which would be directed at the aforementioned Destiny Daniels and Casanova.

�No; better than that,� Adora replied almost indignantly. �And you have to admit, there�s nothing wrong with the mysticism of witches and vampires until somebody tries to make a career or lifestyle out of it like Casanova does.�

�True,� Morgy relented blearily, unable to smother a second yawn. �Same with hit men and mercenaries. Is the fact that Destiny Daniels is supposedly a �fighter of mind and body� supposed to intimidate us? I mean, realistically, aren�t we all?�

�So true,� Adora softly spoke in reply. �This had nothing to do with vampires, though. Supernatural, yes� but more along the line of witches.�

�Witches?� Morgy repeated incredulously, although she was clearly intrigued. She wrapped her section of the blanket tighter around her, as if expecting to hear the beginnings of a ghoulish ghost story. �This should be good.�

�It is,� Adora confirmed, and although Morgy couldn�t see it, she grinned eerily, her red lips obscured by deep shadows. �My little party�s just beginning.�

{__there's.no.place.like.home__}

Fierce winds whipped debris of all sizes violently around the small, wooden house as it coiled endlessly neither up, down, nor to any side in particular. It simply spiraled onward to what Dorothy was sure would be her death. Teetering from side to side, the contents of the house - furniture and knick knacks alike - lifted and slammed gracelessly into the opposite wall, until it all assimilated into a floating junk heap. Dorothy clutched her little black dog, Toto, and gasped a sigh of relief each time they avoided being crushed against one of the walls. Perhaps she held him so tightly more to comfort herself than to protect him, but at that point, it didn't matter. One way or another, they were surely doomed.

"Oh, Toto!" she cried dramatically, her eyes wide as she struggled to reach the window, where she clutched its sill and peered fearfully beyond the glass. No land was in sight, and she could see no sun, moon or clouds, only a vast sea of grey peppered with broken and jagged black objects as its fish. "What will become of us?" she cried again, her voice rising with hysteria. The small dog trembled in her arms and let out an ambiguous yap in response.

As if plucked deliberately from the air, a heavy, silver frame holding a photo of Dorothy and her family standing proudly in front of their home separated from the large mass of objects and, after swiveling pointedly in its spot for a moment, it shot forward, straight for Dorothy's head. Toto yapped once more, sensing how unnatural what he was seeing was, but Dorothy did not heed his warning. Her eyes darted frantically about as she watched the cyclone rise ominously around her, spinning faster and faster until she felt a lurch of nausea in her stomach.

And mercifully, the wayward picture frame finally connected with Dorothy's head, a sickening thud easily heard above the chaos as it cracked into her skull. Without a word or sound, she crumpled to the floor, leaving Toto to bark hopelessly for help from the cold, grey sky.

In the distance, somewhere far above or far below and altogether very hard to find, the Wicked Witch of the East stood, one hand on a shapely hip while the other shielded her eyes from the mellifluous sunshine that almost always flooded Oz. Just moments ago, she had heard a sharp wheezing coming from the sky, and upon inspection, she discovered that a pitiful-looking house was mere feet from hitting the very ground upon which she stood.

"Huh," she muttered curiously, stepping several feet out of the way without so much as blinking. "Bitch would have landed on me," she said, pursing her crimson lips with annoyance. Clad in black and white striped stockings, ruby shoes and a ruby sequined dress, the Witch seemed more bothered by the sun beating down on her chlorophyllous skin that she did by her near-death experience. She had removed her hat, its tip drooping forward and white gold buckle painfully reflecting light into the eyes of passersby, and the long, black gloves that usually adorned her arms and stuffed them into the hat. She ran a hand through her long blonde hair, which looked suspiciously unaffected by the hat that usually sat atop it, and idly adjusted the enormous emerald ring in its matching white gold setting - who said witches had to be mismatched? - that clung to the middle finger of her right hand.

Inside the house, Dorothy stirred upon the insistent licking of Toto. The dull ache the surged periodically through her head was quickly replaced by wonderment; everything around her was drenched in impossibly vibrant colour! She quickly shuffled to her feet, amazed by the peachy hue of her own skin. She gathered Toto in her arms and stumbled outside. Lush greenery filled this strange land, and perhaps that was why Dorothy did not immediately notice the Wicked Witch of the East.

"Oh, Toto, I don't think we're on the same roster in Kansas anymore!" she breathed, barely able to believe the elaborate and fantastical flowers that popped up through all the foliage. In the distance, she could see hundreds of small houses and what appeared to be a town square. Even farther in the distance, she could make out two seemingly endless roads - yellow and red - peaking and dipping with the hills.

"How very rude," interrupted the Witch from a nearby bench, her legs crossed and arms spread along the bench's back rest. "You've destroyed my avocado garden. I was going to cultivate a whole orchard of trees!"

Gasping so deeply that she nearly choked, Dorothy whipped herself around in a quick circle, scanning the area for the source of the words. Upon seeing the brilliantly green woman, she gasped yet again, unsure of what to make of her. "Oh, I... I..."

"Pretty thing," concluded the Witch as she examined Dorothy. She had wavy, dark brown hair, full pink lips and a small mole on her face, halfway between her nose and mouth and slightly off to the side. "But apparently not very smart," she laughed throatily, flashing rows of pristine white teeth. "Here buddy," she sat forward, sticking her hand out for the little dog to sniff. "Come here," she cooed again, a command which the dog gladly obeyed.

"Toto, no!" Dorothy shrieked, doing little to disguise her apparent mistrust of the strange woman before here.

"Don't worry, sweet pea," the Witch assured the dog. "Judging by the catastrophe before us, I think you'll be safer in my charge." And with that, the Witch scooped Toto up and wordlessly began sashaying her way to the mysterious town square, spiked heels clicking thunderously against the cobblestone.

"Wait!" Dorothy called, watching nervously as the Witch got farther and farther away, her gait better suited to a catwalk. And just as she mustered the nerve to follow them, the woman began to sparkle and fade, as if she were a dream all along, until only a pair of sparkling red shoes were visible - and then they too disappeared.

For a moment, Dorothy could only flit her gaze from one spot to another, frantically patting her arms down as if to confirm that, yes, she was dreaming. Before she could sort her thoughts out, her legs were in motion, carrying her wildly down the path after the Witch, who had left glitter scattered over the road in her wake.

"Help! Someone please help me! Where is the sheriff?" Dorothy cried, her lungs burning as she ran and ran and ran. The town square was ghostly, the only sound of life coming in the form of a trickling fountain that sparkled brilliantly in the afternoon sunlight. "Please!" she wailed. "That awful woman took my dog! Help me find them, please," she implored again.

As if she had a flipped a switch, the square slowly began to fill with people - tiny, deformed people - who, for the most part, kept their heads and eyes lowered, each collective step they took tentative and shaky. Minutes passed and none of them said a word to ease Dorothy's sniffles and sobs. "Please," she choked out hoarsely.

"The Witch!" called one of the odd, small people. "The Witch did it!"

"And... and who are you?" Dorothy asked carefully, praying that they wouldn't run away.

"We're the Munchkins," called another. "We live here in Oz."

"It was the Witch! The Wicked Witch of the East!" yelled out yet another, as if she were revealing a new fact. �Run! Run before she gets you!" she urged. "We didn't always look like this," she cried to a chorus of astounded gasps from the other Munchkins - apparently, peace had been made with their current situation, and discussing any sentiment to the contrary was taboo and scandalous. A murmur rose in the crowd, quiet at first until it grew almost deafening. This was nothing like the place Dorothy last remembered being in; that place was comfortable and she belonged. Here, she just did not fit.

Suddenly, the murmurs turned to screams and scurrying, and an enormous, neon pink puff of smoke rose seemingly out of thin air. Coughing as the bright fog seeped into her lungs, Dorothy waved her hands rapidly in hopes of clearing the air. Her efforts were in vain, so she stood there helplessly until the smoke began to subside. The curvaceous outline of a woman began to etch itself before her, the outline made almost twice as tall as the woman herself by the pointed hat that rose high above her head.

Long, pink hair matching the smoke that continued to settle to the ground cascaded from the hat and rested around her shoulders, falling to her waist. This woman's skin was green as well, and despite the striking colour, it couldn't be argued that it was enviably flawless. Silken black fabric was wrapped tightly around her body in the form of a dress, revealing full breasts, and shapely, fishnet-clad legs beyond the mid-thigh hem. A feeling of dread welled up within Dorothy as her eyes reached the woman's feet and she realized that she wore shoes almost identical to those of the Wicked Witch of the East, only in her own trademark pink rather than red.

She stood proudly, abundant lips set in a warm smile that momentarily eased Dorothy's fear - until she spoke.

"Oh please, you didn't really think that someone was going to float down from the heavens in a pretty bubble and tell you everything would be okay, did you?" she demanded, her smile quickly changing to an irate frown as she observed the hopeful look on the girl's face.

"Well, sort of," Dorothy admitted. "That's how it usually goes. I descend upon Oz, kill your sidekick sister and eventually shove one of her ruby shoes up your precious cunt."

"Well not this time!" the Witch snapped. "God, you're getting so used to this routine of people fawning all over you that you've lost your touch. All you managed to do to my sister was crush her avocado tree and piss her off. Now she has to go procure some Mexicans to make us guacamole. What, you think this pigment comes easily? " she asked, sticking her hands out for Dorothy to see.

"So what the hell am I supposed to do? I was supposed to kill her and steal the Munchkin love. I'm not sure where to go from here."

"I'm thinking you need these," the Witch said, pointing a finger down at her shoes. "Or hers. Either way, you're pretty fucked. I don't foresee this working out for you like it usually does. You'll have to pry them off of our cold, dead bodies," she concluded.

"Y-you're not a witch!" Dorothy cried, her eyes wide with theatric horror. "You're a bitch!" The Witch threw her head back and cackled throatily.

"And for the record," she began between bursts of laughter she couldn't contain, "none of your buckets of water-type parlour tricks are going to work this time. You're going to have to try a lot harder if you plan on getting back to the top of the shit heap of Oz."

And with that, the Witch disappeared in the very smoke that brought her there, her hysterical laughter continuing to echo thunderously long after she was gone.

Dorothy looked around, fighting back the tears that stung her sinuses and threatened to come spilling out of her eyes - projectile style - and sighed deeply. Apparently, nothing was going to be the same, so with that thought in mind, she abandoned the promise of the yellow brick road and embarked on the red brick road she had ignored so many times before.

{__through.the.toxic.maze__}

"Are you sure you know where you're leading us?" Dorothy asked the Tinman, her voice strained with uncertainty. Along the red brick road, she had been surprised to find the same old gang: the Tinman, Scarecrow and Lion � although like everything else in this return to Oz, they weren�t quite as she remembered them. Once they�d been as their names suggested: the Scarecrow a rickety creature assembled entirely of straw, the Tinman a solid construct of tin, the Cowardly Lion more feline than human. The Scarecrow was now just a man in ragged clothing, tufts of straw poking through the sleeves and collar of his haphazardly pieced together ensemble and a drooping hat fixed atop his short blonde hair.

The Cowardly Lion � now more human than feline � wore a lion costume, rather than being able to call the fur he donned his. His hair was short and dark with a light blonde streak running through it, upon which rested a headband bearing cat ears. And the Tinman, once physically formidable with his reinforced body, was more comical than anything else; a silver funnel rested atop his head, from which tumbled a mass of long brown waves, and he had constructed a full body suit of armor out of a weak metal. The suit was held together with a combination of tape and string, and between the poorly connected plates peeked slivers of pale flesh and wiry muscle.

Nevertheless, she gladly welcomed the relative familiarity, as this new road was darker; the trees that lined it twisted and gnarled and black. The sun set in a deep, cloudy red sky and rose in a sickly green one - even during the afternoon hours, it seemed to bubble and boil, darkening ominously without warning, then returning to its naturally bright, clear state.

"Yes!" the Tinman cried indignantly. "I know this route by heart!"

"You don't have a heart, remember?" Dorothy reminded him flatly.

"What?" he stopped and turned to Dorothy, his features twisted with confusion. "I have a heart! What I need is a reflection."

"A-are you kidding?" Dorothy demanded, her tone icy and skeptical. "Motherfucker, please tell me you're kidding."

"Why would I?" he shot back, startled by this new, decidedly masculine Dorothy.

"So what are your problems?" she asked the Scarecrow and the Lion. "No brain and no courage, right?"

"No brain or personality for me," replied the Scarecrow, who was much more muscular and outspoken than she had remembered him being, but just as dumb. His eyes were more human than she could recall, but they remained devoid of thought or emotion nonetheless.

"I don't have any balls," the Lion said sadly, his tail twitching with embarrassment.

"How do you do that?" Dorothy asked, eyeing the tail curiously. "Is there like, a string in the costume to make it move or something?"

"Nah, there's a button buried in the paw," he said, pressing it again to demonstrate.

"Huh, nifty," she nodded her head in approval. "Hey, there's the field of poppies!" Dorothy exclaimed, dashing forward. "This is more or less how things are supposed to go, so we're going to be safe after all!" she panted, turning briefly back to her friends to urge them to follow quickly behind her.

The closer she got to the once familiar field, the more foreign it became. The usually crimson petals became a neon pink with a nuclear glow surrounding them, and they sat atop black, wrought iron-like stems.

As they reached the field and each knelt down to examine the strange flowers, they remained oblivious to the two pairs of eyes that loomed ominously in the sky above them, now a brilliant green. One by one, they each lost consciousness and crumpled to the ground, crushing the flowers and releasing the pink glow into the air. It rose into the sky in swirls and and wove itself into two hearts that stretched to each side until they formed leering grins, pearly white teeth peeking through each set of lips. The enormous eyes remained open, obscured only when grey clouds passed over them.

The bodies below remained motionless, without so much as a breath coming from any of them. Victoriously, the eyes above twinkled and gleamed, lips now parted in silent laughter - perhaps these four were once heroes, but now they had fallen.

Would they get up?

{__if.you're.feeling.sinister__}

When Dorothy started to regain consciousness in the cursed field of poppies, the Scarecrow, Tinman and Cowardly Lion were crowded around her still form, three worried pairs of eyes gazing nervously upon her. She began to stir, and with every movement the harsh stems of the odd pink poppies snagged at her hair; her clothing; her exposed skin, inflicting small tears along her otherwise milky flesh.

�She�s coming to!� the Cowardly Lion breathed with a sigh of relief, and collectively their eclectic group relaxed. �I don�t know what I�d do if I didn�t have Dorothy to mindlessly worship.�

�Me neither,� the Scarecrow agreed, wiping at his brow, which was dotted with sweat. �Despite the fact that there really isn�t anything special about her, damn it, she�s special to me.�

Dorothy�s eyes fluttered open, hazy and unfocused and barely recognizing the faces within the crowded horizon of her vision. She slowly rose to her feet with the help of her friends, ignoring the blood that seeped from her persistent yet miniscule wounds. The eyes in the sky had long since disappeared, although whether or not they were visible was irrelevant; regardless of where they were, the Witches saw everything that transpired in Oz.

�How long was I asleep for?� Dorothy asked through a long yawn, pausing momentarily to adjust the torn, jagged skirt of her light blue dress.

�We�re not sure,� the Scarecrow replied. �We�re just glad you woke up. For reasons we can�t explain, Oz just wouldn�t be the same without you, Dorothy, no matter how much more powerful its other inhabitants are.�

�Yeah, Dorothy,� inserted the Tinman. �You make mediocrity look so good.�

�Well thanks, guys,� Dorothy initially smiled, before furrowing her brow contemplatively. �I think.�

The way Dorothy remembered it, the Emerald City was supposed to loom beyond the strange poppy field � yet to their surprise, as they continued their seemingly endless travels, they stumbled upon not the Emerald City but the mouth of a forest. Dorothy hesitated angrily before entering; the trees before them grew taller and thicker than any she�d ever encountered before, baring foliage so dark and thick that no light could possibly pass through it.

�What? This can�t be right. Where�s the Emerald City, motherfuckers?� Dorothy demanded, whipping her head around to glare at her companions as if the development was their fault.

�This is a different route, remember?� the Tinman reminded her impatiently. He pushed ahead of her, fearlessly stepping into the forest, and the rest of the group, flanked by Dorothy, followed in his cheap metallic footsteps. �We have to go through the forest if you want to reach the Emerald City.�

�Fine,� Dorothy muttered, inexplicably livid � probably because she hadn�t had a very good childhood and thus had developed anger issues. As predicted, the forest was murky and cool, and long shadows stretched ominously upon every available surface. The smell of rotting, aging trees and sodden fallen leaves was prevalent; and small rodents scampered along the forest floor, snaking between the legs of the travelers. With great difficulty Dorothy stepped over the rotting remnants of a small fallen tree, her shoes sinking into a damp patch of earth as she did so.

�Disgusting,� she muttered, thoroughly shaking her legs in an attempt to toss the mud off of her shoes, sending her short skirt flying in the process. The Scarecrow eyed her bare legs and the slip of her bright red panties with a leering grin, then quickly averted his gaze before Dorothy could catch him doing so. What the Scarecrow didn�t know was that he wasn�t the only one who�d seen Dorothy so exposed.

�Are we almost out of here?� Dorothy shivered. The Tinman, still at the front of the group, opened his mouth to speak � and was abruptly interrupted by a ghostly peal of laughter, the origins of which they couldn�t pinpoint. Dorothy, with fear and shock registered upon her mousy face, swiveled in small circles in an attempt to figure out where the laughter had come from.

�Who�s there?� she cried with alarm. �Show yourself!� To this her followers offered a chorus of agreement, each peering suspiciously around their surroundings � seeing nothing but gnarled, gargantuan trees, and sticky mud at their feet, and the watchful yellow eyes of small animals in the brush. Another ethereal cackle interrupted the cacophonous sounds of the forest � shrieking birds, the sound of frenzied footsteps, the rustle of leaves � and seemed to wind its way around the small group.

It was when Dorothy tried to run away, fear evident upon her face, that she realized that she couldn�t � that the laughter, which she could have sworn she had felt snake around her, had the effect of an invisible length of rope. And before Dorothy could comprehend what was happening, an ominous cloud of neon pink smoke -- the one she knew signified the arrival of the Wicked Witch of the West -- materialized before her eyes. When the smoke settled the Witch stood before Dorothy, a grin of satisfaction playing at the corners of her full lips; and without speaking she extended her slender arms, a crackle of pink electricity shooting from her fingertips. It was with great horror that Dorothy realized the electricity had struck her comrades, and they slowly sunk to the ground, leaving Dorothy standing alone within the bonds the Witch had imposed upon her.

�I�ll get you, my pretty,� the Witch sneered as she advanced ever-so slowly upon the frightened Dorothy, whose face crumpled with anticipation. �This is the part where I�d normally say �and your little dog, too,� but we already have him, don�t we?�

The Witch circled leisurely around Dorothy, stepping over the fallen form of the Tinman � and then, deciding against being so charitable, offered him a swift kick to the face for good measure. She trailed her fingers over Dorothy�s hunched shoulders, lulling the girl into a false sense of security � before abruptly seizing her dark hair in one hand, her fingers clawing at the roots, and wrapping her other arm around Dorothy�s throat. She stood behind the thrashing, petrified girl, whose bonds rooted her to one spot but allowed her to freely � and ineffectively � flail her arms.

�Why are you doing this?� Dorothy choked, wrestling with futility against the Witch�s surprisingly strong grip. She gazed with horror upon the fallen forms of her comrades � one woman had managed to inflict such damage upon a group of strong, athletic men? Dorothy couldn�t see the Witch�s face, only the dark green arms that secured her against the Witch�s soft figure, but she could picture her grinning gleefully in triumph, and that infuriated her.

�Because,� answered the Witch in sing-song fashion, her oddly appealing voice lilting against Dorothy�s ear, �my sister and I don�t like you. If you had your way, she�d be dead and I wouldn�t be far behind � but this time, my pretty, it isn�t going to work like that. This time, I want to make it clear who the true rulers of Oz are � and it isn�t you, or your Tinman, or your Wizard in the Emerald City.�

�Are you going to kill me?� Dorothy whimpered through a sudden onslaught of chest-heaving sobs, and the Witch�s lips spread easily into a sinister smile. She seized Dorothy�s quivering jaw between her fingers, tilting the girl�s tear-stained face upward so she could gaze directly into her glassy eyes as she spoke.

�If you�re lucky,� she hissed, and before Dorothy could offer her protests, a violently pink cloud had formed around them. With the Scarecrow, Cowardly Lion and Tinman still prone on the forest floor, Dorothy and the Witch seemed to evaporate, leaving only bright pink curls of smoke and the remnants of Dorothy�s desperate screams in their wake.

{look.to.the.western.sky}

The sky�s eerily green hue promised torrential rain, but the Tinman, maddeningly determined, crawled on. Dorothy�s kidnapping at the hands of their own ineptitude � because oh, God, they hadn�t been able to save her in time � had driven the eccentric group to hysteria; they�d regained consciousness on the forest floor to find Dorothy gone. It didn�t take much contemplation to realize that she�d been spirited away by the Wicked Witch of the West, whose castle jutted on the horizon of the western sky.

And so, with the plan to travel to the Emerald City fading rapidly from their minds, they�d instead headed west. Entering the Witch�s stronghold would require scaling mountainous terrain, battling murderous flying monkeys in the process � but with Dorothy counting on them and precious minutes slipping away, what choice did they have?

A weary Tinman clutched jagged rocks with dirty, ragged nails and fingers worn nearly to the bone, all in an attempt to hoist himself to the top of the mountain. The plates of his armored suit scraped dully against the rocks, and he didn�t have to see it to know that it was as battered as he felt. He glanced over his shoulder, swallowing hard; he�d traversed the most treacherous part of the mountain, and the top wasn�t far off. The ground below and everything occupying it seemed miniscule and foreign from such great heights. Getting this far was a feat in itself; the problem was that he was alone.

He looked back again, barely able to suppress a billowing wave of nausea this time. He couldn�t see them, but he knew that somewhere � he couldn�t tell how far he�d managed to climb � lay the bodies of the Scarecrow and Cowardly Lion, all human and scarily mortal this time around. When the Tinman had reluctantly abandoned his friends in pursuit of his travels, the Scarecrow had been staring up at the ominous sky with bloody, vacant eye sockets, his unnaturally contorted body crushed against the serrated rocks. What remained of the Scarecrow�s broken ribs jutted through the torn skin and cloth covering his torso, and if the sun ever managed to rise in the sky again it would quickly bleach his exposed bones.

The monkeys: the trio had expected to encounter them, but they hadn�t expected to lose.

The Cowardly Lion�s eyes were still rooted firmly within his skull, and they gazed blankly somewhere over what was once the rainbow. A pack of ravenous monkeys � snarling, deformed creatures with too many extremities and too little compassion � feasted at his torso, which they�d incised with almost surgical precision. The remnants of his torn costume lay at the feet of the creatures, and every time they plunged elbow-deep into his stomach to remove oozing entrails it would spray the matted faux fur with blood. A monkey, screeching with perverse delight, sank his teeth into a coagulated clot of blood, and the vital fluid seeped from between his shattered teeth and down his chin. While their attackers tore through what remained of the Cowardly Lion, the Tinman had slipped away unnoticed; his armor, unimpressive as it was, had protected him from their assault, and with the inability to wound him had come his escape. And so the Tinman weakly ventured on, and foolishly, he felt immortal for having survived.

Synthetic immortality was a dangerous thing. It drove him, consumed him, pushed him toward crazy, impossible things � when all along, he was as fallible as anyone else was. Reaching the Witch�s citadel promised death. The problem was that he hadn�t realized it yet.

{__it's.only.forever__}

Looming high atop atop the mountain, perched on its pointed, narrow peak, was the Wicked Witch of the West's fortress; a castle so rugged and austere, it almost looked like an extension of rock beneath it. The bricks from which it was built were charred black from numerous attempts by the denizens of Oz to set it aflame. Every so often, they mustered the courage and the angry mob needed to complete such a task, but always they failed, leaving behind crumbling bones as proof - theirs was a losing battle.

The Witches fully anticipated at least one survivor to come save Dorothy, but this was only because they allowed it. The Tinman's triumph was by the grace of the Witches more than it was because of his own miraculous strength and drive.

Trapped in one of the castle's many turrets was Dorothy. Thrown unceremoniously into the large, stone room by the Witch of the West, Dorothy felt as though she had been locked there for days rather than hours. A soaring window allowed for a disheartening view of the east, and with her fingers pressed against the glass, Dorothy longed to leap from her perch to the jagged rocks below; if she was going to die regardless, she preferred it to be quick.

"The glass won't break, my dear," came a voice from behind. She hadn't heard a sound to suggest someone came into the room, but very little was surprising her anymore. "Just in case that's what you were thinking. Those rocks won't save you from this. You've found our secret out, however, and it's true: the only escape from here is through flight, and little girls can't fly."

Dorothy turned slowly around to face the Wicked Witch of the East, who stood with her arms crossed, her pretty red lips contorted smugly. A surge of rage passed through the girl; who did these witches think they were? They couldn't just displace her like this and destroy her legacy so nonchalantly. She was Oz, and they weren't about to take that away from her. As if physically energized by her fury, Dorothy dashed toward the Witch, eyes wild like an animal's. She would rip those shoes off her feet, and she would show them both. She would take them down just like she took everyone else down once upon a time.

With her index and middle fingers spread into a vee, the Witch raised her hand and released a torrent of ruby electricity at Dorothy. It struck her throat at her larynx, and before she could regroup, she was vomiting uncontrollably, hunks of her own flesh rising with bile and blood.

"Stop!" she begged, fighting back the sickly chunks in her throat that refused to come up or go back down. "Please, I can't breathe," she wailed, her voice constricted and wobbly.

"Soon," the Witch assured her, and before Dorothy could protest, another wave of vomit came spilling out of her, burning the lining of her esophagus raw. It flowed freely until all she could muster was pinkish-red stomach acid.

"Poor thing," the Witch lamented, "you must be starving. How about a good meal?" she grinned, a sick sparkle in her eye.

"Dinner's ready!" sang the Wicked Witch of the West, appearing silently just as her sister had, an enormous pewter platter balanced on the palm of her hand. She lowered the platter for Dorothy, who remained on her hands and knees, to see. With one quick motion, she raised the domed lid from the platter, revealing a lifeless Toto laying on his side, surrounded by roast potatoes and steamed vegetables. His eyes were shrivelled in their sockets, a result of the cooking process.

With her voice too raw to scream, Dorothy's body did the only thing it could think to: she heaved forcefully yet again, only nothing was left for her to retch.

"Eat up," commanded the Witch of the East.

"Why should I?!" spat Dorothy, nearly choking on her words. "What else have I got to lose?"

"Disobedience will get you nowhere," the Witch of the West chided as she pointed her fingers toward the fallen girl. Within seconds, Dorothy felt herself lose control of her body, and her fingers began tearing eagerly through the flesh of her closest companion. She gagged on pieces of furry skin, but it was not within her power to stop eating.

Tears streamed down her battered face, but Dorothy did not stop until each bone was licked clean.

"Don't forget your vegetables," the Witch of the East reminded Dorothy, her tone infuriatingly sweet.

"Don't forget to gag me!" bellowed the Tinman as he barged into the turret room, axe wielded in the air, high above his head. With almost bored indifference, the two sisters turned to face him, waves of electricity shooting from their fingertips. The cheap tin armour began to burn and melt around the human form inside, flesh fusing with the metal.

"Kind of funny, isn't it?" the Witch of the East mused. "He couldn't see himself in a mirror, but by the time he stops smouldering and cools, I'll be able to see my reflection in him!" She threw her head back theatrically and cackled, her sister following suit.

"Meanwhile, poor Dorothy over here just ate her best friend. Maybe we should call her Doto now, since they're one and the same!" laughed the Witch of the West.

"Not for long," her sister replied, as a final bolt of electricity came barrelling from her fingertips. "You can be the Ratman to our Freud, only we'll call you Totogirl; maybe we'll cure your futile obsession with trying to destroy us with some nice, archaic therapy."

"What does that mean?" croaked Dorothy, a sharp pain suddenly overcoming her. She wrapped her arms around her midsection as the pain intensified, doubling over then curling into a fetal ball.

"Toto's not dead, and he's not very happy that you ate him," the Witch of the East said, her tone scolding.

"And if you manage to survive this, we'll let you go," the Witch of the West said, as though the revelation was supposed to be of comfort. "The last grain of sand to pass through this hourglass marks your freedom. Let us know when Toto's out, he's getting a big treat for playing along." And with that, they were gone.

Time dragged slowly, but Dorothy had no way of tracking it; the world beyond her window did not change. The sun never rose or set and she never once saw a moon; there was no fluctuation in the weather to indicate season. An occasional newborn flying monkey would flap uncertainly past her window, telling her that somewhere in the distance, spring flowers bloomed beneath an endless blue sky.

Toto had long been taken back by the witches, but she had faith; faith that her ordeal would soon be over. Her reflection in the glass offered a withered, gray woman with yellowed skin and mummified entrails plastered to her trademark dress.

Maybe the witches didn't want to let her die, but there wasn't enough of her left to last much longer - even her past glory and reign as queen of Oz couldn't keep her alive.

{__blurring.the.lines__}

�And that,� Adora concluded with obvious satisfaction, �Is how you do fantasy. Needs less vampiric bullshit.�

�So, so true,� Morgy agreed, her voice still as raw as it had been when Adora woke her up. She had taken to staring up at the ceiling as Adora recounted her dream; the space was dark and nebulous and seemed to press down upon her in a way that oddly pleasant. A pregnant pause stretched between them, the kind that only close friends seem capable of having without feeling an immediate need to fill the silence.

�So what really happened tonight?� Adora asked after a long moment, and Morgy, whose chest had previously been rising a falling with soft regularity, audibly sucked in her breath, clearly not expecting the question. �No one believes that you fell into a door.�

�Would you believe me if I said that Christian hit me?� Morgy asked, her voice oddly strangled, as if her throat had contracted severely.

�Did I ever not believe you?� Adora reminded her, her own voice barely above a whisper now. Without shifting her eyes from the ceiling, Morgy snaked her hand across the bed to grasp Adora�s, lacing her fingers through hers. Morgy�s hands were hot and her grip was almost painfully tight, but if Adora noticed, she didn�t comment.

�When I left him,� she said slowly, parting her cracked lips with difficulty, �I told myself I would never be a victim again, and I have been, because I got complacent. And then I overcompensate at work, because it�s the one place where I�m almost always in control � and even when I�m not, I usually succeed in the end, anyway.�

�Is that really such a bad thing, though?� Adora contemplated, idly tracing the thin flesh at the inside of Morgy�s wrist with her thumb, causing her to shiver pleasantly. �To an extent, I think I�ve been doing the same thing � and look where it�s gotten us. We�re at the top of Sin Wrestling; people who don�t know us target us anyway, because they know going after us is the quickest way to the top. We�re dismissed as vapid, untalented whores by our competition because if they admitted that we�re better than they are it�d be like losing hope. And here we are, going against Casanova and Destiny, inductees into the hall of fame � because rightfully, we�ll probably be the next ones to follow. So really,� Adora pondered, pausing for a long moment, �is it so bad for us to overcompensate?�

�No,� Morgy replied almost inaudibly. �I guess it�s not.�

{__there's.no.place.like.home__}

Morgana

First of all, I�d like to address Stevie Swing, who took it upon himself to inexplicably talk about Adora and I in his trite idea of a promo. Like, do I know you? Is there any particular reason you�re trying to get my attention? Because really, in all of the time you spent talking about how you�re so unique and exactly what SW needs to pull out of the doldrums, I fucking fell asleep.

No, for real. If there�s anything special or new about you, I totally missed it. I mean, your promo had every clich� imaginable. Newcomer promising us that somewhere once upon a time, he meant something to somebody? Check. Talking about the main eventers in an attempt to elevate yourself to the same status? Check. Hilariously threatening bodily harm on your opponent? Check, check, check! What, pray tell, makes you so distinctive? The fact that you used to dance? Wow, so did I! I was even in a federation called New Era Wrestling, too! Still feeling unique? Because right now, you�re looking pretty run-of-the-mill to me.

You didn�t like watching me go to a movie? I�m so, so insulted. I didn�t like watching you fraternize with people who all pretend to know me, either � thanks for making me famous! � but you don�t hear me complaining. But here: let me formally introduce myself.

Hello! My name is Morgana. I wear a size six shoe. My natural hair colour is black, if I remember correctly. The last song I listened to on repeat was �Pints of Guinness Make You Strong� by Against Me!, and the last concert I went to was headlined by Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins. I hate watermelon, have no allergies, and speak fluent Greek. My favourite hockey team is the Toronto Maple Leafs, but if Corey asks, it�s the Montreal Canadiens. I�ve fucked girls and guys alike, but I wouldn�t fuck you.

And all of this goes to show that no matter how well you think you know me � or pretend to, for the sake of propelling yourself to the top � it still won�t help you fucking win. Sorry, Stevie � pay your God damn dues on the lower card first before you even try to get my attention again. In other words, go to fuck. Thanks!

And, as always, it all comes back to your opponents making you laugh so hard you feel you might die.

For someone who likes to comment on how everything is just so pass�, Destiny Daniels makes some pretty out of touch pop culture references. Adora is the Nicole to my Paris? The Stedman to my Oprah? The next time you attempt to be scathing, why don�t you do a little something I like to call �catching up on current events�? Maybe if you�d done that, you�d have seen examples of Jay Holly�s work in some newspaper that circulates 25 copies weekly � that, my friend, is called �CP style� � and you would have decided against letting him write your article.

First of all, the Paris and Nicole reference would have been more effective in 2003, when they were at the pinnacle of their friendship. It�s been pretty downhill since 2005, though � you know, since they stopped being friends. But what do I know? After all, lame bffs are so 2006, right? Nevermind the fact that you seemed to pull that year from nowhere, considering the fact that we were semi-retired in 2006. First rule of investigative journalism: do your fucking research first.

Second: Stedman to my Oprah? Uh, what? Do you even know who Stedman is? How inaccurate. Oprah does have a best friend, you know; her name is Gayle King, and while she�s a successful woman in her own right, she isn�t anywhere near Oprah�s level of fame. Don�t you think that would have better illustrated the point you were trying to make? Oh, right, I forgot; there was no real point to that. You were just talking out of your ass in an attempt to appear witty. Good show!

Also, �notably-lacking Pussycat Dolls shitfest�? Did I just hear an offer to help fill the vacancies in our all-girl group? You can be the token ugly member, and if we happen to get bad reviews, you can always assassinate the unfortunate journalists who write them. I�m mostly just surprised that you referenced the Pussycat Dolls. Wouldn�t it have been more your style to call us the Spice Girls?

For someone who spent so much time mocking the fact that Adora is supposedly my sidekick, you did a pretty good job portraying your journalistic lap dog in the same light. Now that I�ve seen Jay Holly on TV � ah-hyuck, Whoregana and Abore-a, ah huh huh huh! � it doesn�t surprise me that he�s the same man who offered us gems like �self-solidity� and �Destiny Daniels isn�t dead!� Hey, Jay: I guess you never learned this because you got your journalistic training at DeVry, but you never, ever, EVER put an exclamation mark in an article. EVER. It�s like a comedian laughing at his own jokes. Just DON�T DO IT.

You also have this problem where you take things too literally, then run with them endlessly in an attempt to� well, I�m still not quite sure. You do realize that when I told people to spit shine our cunts, I meant that they should start offering us the praise we deserve, right? Oh, well, apparently not, because you went as far out of your way as possible to assure my �horny ass� that you weren�t going anywhere near my �battered pussy� � when really, I DIDN�T ASK YOU TO. Your level of comprehension just astounds me. And this is the same person who had the nerve to insult our intelligence? How laughable.

I can assure you that if you ever managed to fuck with my mind it would be a pretty impressive feat, especially since all you�ve thrown at me so far are unfounded Paris Hilton comparisons and grade school-level name calling. Oh, and we have a �keen sense for biographical invention�? Wow, tell that to the guy who wrote your official biography on sinwrestling.com -- I don�t think he�d be too pleased to hear you refute his hard work that way. Believe me, if I was still at a point in my life where I was writing term papers, I�d pick a far more interesting topic than your sad, neglected childhood and subsequent mercenary training. After all, as we�ve said before, almost every female wrestler in the history of ever lays claim to the same sort of upbringing � so I guess �Pink is the New Shit That Bitches Put in Their Hair to be Different-dot-com� is looking pretty good by comparison.

Also� what? Would you be happier if I was more like you? Okay; starting now, I�m going to be revoltingly arrogant, seem more like a man than a woman, and punctuate every other sentence with �motherfucker�, motherfucker. And if you have to spend so much time claiming how badly you�re going to beat us up, I really don�t think we have too much to worry about. Where�s the mystery? Where�s the intrigue? Wouldn�t you rather slam your condom-wrapped, steel-toed boot into my precious pussy and have it come as a total surprise? Also, which one is it: battered or precious? Oh, Destiny; you and your silly contradictions make me laugh. I guess this is why so much of your life occurs off camera � everything you have to say is so generic that eventually, viewers would start to tune out. You aren�t good for ratings, no matter how many men you�ve killed just to watch them die.

And you had the nerve to call my pink hair tacky while you wear leather and snake print � AT THE SAME TIME � as part of your ring attire? To quote Casanova: gag me! I know you really just say these things to fool people into thinking you actually are female, but please, just stop. You�re embarrassing us all.

For real, though; when I look at you, I just don�t see a woman. I have never, ever met a woman who speaks or acts the way you do, so in that sense, Adora was right: you really DO seem like the product of some teenaged boy�s imagination. But what does Adora know � she�s just the Tinkerbell to my Paris. Yet another pop culture reference that bares no relevance to either of us! How fun. You do realize that Tinkerbell hasn�t been seen with Paris in years, right? You�d probably be more accurate these days in calling her the cocaine to my Britney Spears, but, well� you didn�t. But then again, I guess you aren�t one for logic, huh? Hey, Jay, make yourself useful and pitch this headline to your editor: �Destiny Daniels ineffectively mocks rivals, embarrasses self.� Now that I would read.

Now that I think about it, you barely addressed anything we said in our promos � you clung to the cunt thing while virtually ignoring the rest. How typical. I guess it was easier to run one misconstrued statement into the ground, then add some filler about grenades, condoms and steel-toed boots, than to actually acknowledge that we severely owned you. I guess it�s easier to write Adora off than to concede that she�s far more intelligent than you are, but trust me � you really, really aren�t fooling anyone. As for you being more talented than we are � well, again, I'm going to direct you toward the Sin Wrestling website and encourage you yet again to do your research. I've done everything in this company that you have, just faster. Oops. As you can see, my distinct lack of talent has severely hindered my chances for success.

Oh, and Jay? Get back to me when you win a Pulitzer for that journalistic masterpiece you wrote on Destiny. Then, and only then, can you claim that anyone sucks. But I guess that won�t be happening any time soon, considering the fact that Jay�s body was found yesterday! I guess that�s what he gets for writing such a shitty article � Destiny was so thoroughly embarrassed by all of the faults in it that she probably killed him.

And my my, how defensive we are! Destiny was so quick to berate us for being �know-it-all cunts,� which I�m pretty sure she invited upon herself by trying to insult our intelligence. And More-gonorrhea? Well, at least that one�s new � not particularly cutting, just like the rest of that promo, but I�m sure you did your best, Dee-Dee. And did I ever say you wrote the piece of shit featured in Fanatic Magazine? I do recall directing my critique of it toward Jay Holly, not you. I guess you were so offended by what I had to say � you even called us pretentious and smart, by accident I�m sure, instead of brainless whores � that you got confused. This is great, though; I�ve finally figured out how to get under your skin! You can deny your unfortunate childhood all you want, but your own distinct lack of intelligence? Not so much.

I know what the problem really is though, Destiny. You see, the last time you were here, it was really only you and Nikita battling for the distinction of top female in the company. Now that Adora and I are here, however, your competition is a lot more formidable, and you can�t stand the fact that nobody gives a shit about you while we�re around. It�s okay, though � it�s something everyone has to come to terms with at one point or another. I�m sure that, with time, you�ll come around and stop being so obviously bitter in an attempt to one-up me.

Oh, and as for the article being incomplete? Uh, why was it published then, genius? It certainly doesn�t work as a standalone piece, and I definitely wouldn�t buy the next issue just to read the second part. I swear, you people get so flustered by everything we say that you just get dumber in your attempts to rebut it all. Ah well -- doesn�t change the fact that the �article� was a piece of shit. With Jay Holly dead, though, we luckily won�t be subjected to future installments. Thank fucking God for that.

Adora

Okay, so here we go again: another nobody trying to make a name for himself at a champion's expense. Well, Stevie Swing, it's going to take a lot more than completely missing the very basic point I was trying to make to get somewhere here at Sin Wrestling.

Apparently, during the creation of that little tantrum you threw, you neglected to figure out what the fuck you were talking about. At which point did you conclude that what I said had anything to do with encouraging the use of contractions? Are you really that fucking stupid? If you know how to use contractions correctly - which seemingly you do - go ahead, I could care less.

You appear to have another problem entirely: reading comprehension! So how about you go re-read what I said, as well as what it was in reference to, and then get back to me. I'll give you a clue: it had nothing to do with my wanting people to use more contractions. But congratulations, you've made a big, dancing fool of yourself!

Oh, and you do realize that Booger isn't real, right? That doesn't matter, though, I enjoy watching you try to trash him. It's like seeing someone pray to the tooth fairy for a new bike.

You've failed to make a single decent argument against me or Morgana - you tried real hard, I can tell, but you still fell really, really short. Just like everyone else in this fed! I guess that takes your awesome, kickass, tap-dancing uniqueness down a notch, because there's a quality (inability to insult Team Wifey properly, that is, in case your reading problems are acting up again) that is entirely run of the mill around here.

Here's another thing you have in common with the rest of these chumps: writing us off as nothing more than silly girls with nothing going for them. There's two notches off your unique-o-metre!

Oh, wait, you did give us credit for something: cool names. At least ours are our birth names (check our Wikis, if you must), whereas yours is most certainly not. You're not one to talk about names when you probably read the "S" section of the dictionary ten times over, trying to find a nice word to alliterate with Stevie. Hey, what do you know! There goes the third notch off your uniqueness metre. Sadly, Destiny Daniels beat you to to the wicked cool alliterated name.

Admitting to your overuse of ellipses doesn't make it okay, sonny boy. Do you realize you used more of those than even the trashiest, least talented novelists would dare to in one of their books? That's not okay, little friend. Let's have a summary of them:

.................................................................................................................................................
............

That's a lot of omitted speech. Which is probably a good thing, since everything you say it so mind-blowingly stupid and/or dull.

As for my cocksicle comment, that was made whilst totally oblivious to your existence; a state I choose to return to riiiight..................now!

How about that Casanova, though? Instead of saying anything relevant to refute what I said, he'll probably think of something really juvenile and dumb to get under my skin. Most likely as revenge for Team Wifey kicking his anemic ass - because he IS pretty bad at being a vampire - after our match. I'd wonder what it could be, but I've thought about all the possibilities and remain thoroughly un-shocked by all of them.

But in the meantime, you're the pot calling the kettle black, here. We're boring? Please, in the paragraphs it took you to make that astute observation, you managed to say nothing even remotely offensive, humorous or cutting. If we, in all our mortal glory, can take the time to film those promos, then you, being the undead, have plenty of time to review them thoroughly and come up with at least one mildly biting remark. How come you failed so miserably?

Speaking of which, according to Yahoo news, some retard just killed Gwen Stefani and called it symbolism! You're right, that's more amusing than anything I can come up with, no contest!

Figures, though, your way of getting back at me for what I said involves being an ignorant, violent moron and injuring innocent people. Best kind of person ever. I'm an inflated twit of a wrestler with no talent in the ring, huh? Why don't you try thinking of insults with some basis to them? At which point during all that winning I've been doing did my in-ring talent come into question? Oh yeah, right about the time you realized you had nothing remotely decent in the way of insults to say about me.

As for the grammar, all I was saying was that if people want to be big, scary adults, full of misogynistic crap they think is sassy, they can at least master the most basic linguistic skills there are. I think that's pretty fair!

And give this whole animals thing right the fuck up, chump. You think I'm pompous and arrogant? Why? Because I care about something tangible? Because I care about more than rubbing corn syrup-based theatre blood on the corners of my mouth and claiming that I've just "fed"? You're just like the fathead jock you had to deal with in your last promo: you feel needlessly entitled to everything and figure that REAL social issues are beyond you, because you're a big scary vampire.

So fucking what? Go ahead and suck my blood. Suck Morgana's too! Then we'll be vampires too, and we'll out-vampire you, just like we'll out-wrestle you. Regardless of who's undead and who's alive, you're still not going to beat us. Aside from the comedic value of it all, I don't care that you're a vampire.

Hey, you know who has a lot of blood and no real use for it? Seal hunters! Why don't you go out there and suck some seal hunter blood, satisfy your little blood fetish, and do us both a favour. Apparently there's no other work for those people, so you wouldn't be sacrificng much of a life anyway!

Bloated personal demeanour? I wish we were chatting on MSN right now, because that merits a big, giant lolf. If anyone's going to be bloated, it's you. You're dead, remember? Oh the hilarity!

Nearing the end of your promo, I can see that I was right! You don't have a single thing to say that puts me in my place, so you go groundlessly challenging my beliefs. Is there any point to that? If I was just a silly attention-whore, I would probably go your route and pretend I'm supernatural and have "superhuman strength" while nonchalantly lamenting that it's "not quite as amazing as it once was." That's definitely self-indulgently ridiculous enough to get me some press!

And as for the girl you killed in that display of douchebaggery: maybe you and Dee-Dee should both catch up on your pop culture, because if you watched any CSI at all, you'd know that post-mortem wounds can be differentiated from those that caused the death.

Cassie, you can call me talentless and pompous, you can call me boring, and you can call me every trite name you can think of, but that doesn't make you anything short of a joke in my eyes. I wish, for your sake, that you could care as strongly about something valid as you do about your moron self, but I guess that's not going to happen. Kill all the bunnies you want to even futher display your flat sense of symbolism on this Easter weekend, but I'm not going to give a flying fuck. I can actually tell the difference between fantasy and reality!

I barely even want to acknowledge you last and final (failing) attempt at being better than us - specifically me, you really hate me, huh? - because it's just a regurgitation of everything else you've said in the past couple of weeks, and I'm pretty sure we just finished telling you why it was all meaningless. The only difference is that all your comments are weaker this time around, which is really unfortunate, considering how ineffective they were to begin with. If you're out of stuff to say, how about bowing out gracefully instead of talking about our nails? What the hell do our nails have to do with anything? Come on, now.

Of course Morgy and I defend each other; why the fuck not? Hopefully you'd defend those close to you as well, if such people exist.

Blah, blah, blah, all that aside, here's why Team Wifey is better than Team Asspirate: You guys can't work as a cohesive team, due to your enormous individual egos. We can. You don't care about winning as a team; you care about making big, flashy comebacks at our expense. Yeah, that'll work out well in the ring! Each of you pushing the other out of the way, trying to get some camera time. I've never heard of being a solid team who cares about one another and having it be a BAD thing, so you're just talking straight out of your ass.

Bottom line is that we ARE a team, whereas your team is just two difficult, selfish people flung together and expected to make something great of it. Sorry, that's not how it works.

And one final thought for you, Cas: stop fucking talking about paper tigers, holy crap.

I've neglected to say too much about Miss Dee-Dee because Morgana was pretty thorough in pointing out all that was wrong, wrong, wrong with her "Destiny Show," but I do have a final thought for her as well: All three of us are women (though the jury's still out on you) in this business, and if Morgy and I have supposedly sucked dick to get to the top, what does that say about you?

Just a thought.