{__let�s.go.away.for.a.while.you.and.i__}

�You know, this kind of worries me. How can you plan a vacation without even knowing where you�re going yet? Isn�t this the kind of thing people usually plan?�

As she stuffed a perfume bottle into the side panel of her hot pink suitcase, Morgana cast her husband an unimpressed glare. He sat beside it on the bed � which was currently noticeably indented from the weight of the suitcase�s contents � and stared back at her, obviously not intimidated by her scowl.

�I tried to plan it earlier and you told me not to, remember?� she replied in her own defense, reaching out to playfully slap him as she did so. He cracked a grin; she was right, but that didn�t mean he couldn�t tease her about it.

�Yeah, yeah. You win again,� he sighed, taking a moment to sprawl out on the bed. The overhead ceiling light shone directly into his eyes as he did so, and he covered his face with his hands, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. �For real, though; there has to be a plan. It�s not like you to have one.�

�Here�s the plan,� Morgy offered, struggling to zip up her overstuffed suitcase as she did so. �I�ve always had this fantasy of packing my bags, going to an airport and deciding where I�m going when I get there. It�s the ultimate freedom, you know? Something you have to have free time and money to do, and at the moment I�ve definitely got both. So the plan really is to go to the airport, pick a place that sounds nice and jet there for a few days.�

�This definitely doesn�t sound like a good idea,� Timothy groaned. �Do you realize how dangerous this is? If no one knows where you are, how would anyone know if something happened to you? You�ve thrown yourself into a lot of half-baked schemes that somehow ended up being successful, but I can�t really see this being one of them.�

�God, you�re paranoid,� Morgy muttered, grabbing at the handles of her suitcase and hoisting it toward the ground. It landed upon the carpeted surface with a dull thud, and it clearly took more effort to lift than she�d be willing to admit. �This kind of thing is what cell phones are for. I�ll call you when we get there and every couple of hours after that. You�re not going to be totally in the dark.�

�Fine,� Timothy sighed, reluctantly sliding off the bed and joining her at its foot, where she struggled to raise her suitcase again. He grasped it easily in one hand and lifted it, raising an eyebrow expectantly as he did so. �We�ll see how well this turns out when you call me crying from the airport because you can�t figure out where you want to go.�

�Way to downplay my decision making abilities,� she scolded him, furrowing her brow in mock anger as she did so. �You�re just bitter because you�re going to miss me and don�t want to admit it. You may also be a little bit hurt that I�m going with Adora and not you.�

�Well, there�s that,� he replied contemplatively, leaning to offer her a quick kiss on the lips.

�I knew it!� she cried playfully, and before Timothy could reply she�d dashed toward the door, poking her head out into the hallway. �Adora! Are you ready? I�m tired of waiting, woman; I�ll be damned if I end up on a red eye to some shit hole country because of you!�

�I�m coming, I�m coming!� Adora wailed from inside her bedroom, the door of which was ajar and spilling with light. Morgy grinned and turned back toward Tim, who stood behind her expectantly, suitcase in hand.

�I think we�re ready,� she squealed, clapping her hands together with excitement. �By this time tomorrow, I�ll be on a gorgeous beach somewhere.�

�Or dead,� Timothy offered flatly, shifting his weight uncomfortably as he did so.

�Dead on a gorgeous beach,� Morgy corrected, and without waiting for Timothy�s reply she bounded toward the door, the soles of her shoes clacking loudly against the hallway�s hardwood floor.

{__a.strange.and.distant.land__}

"This is the shit," Adora grinned, a colourful straw protruding from one corner of her mouth and connecting it to a brilliant blue drink. "And this is delicious." An endless, sandy beach stretched out behind them as they sat on the stools of their resort's hut-like beach bar.

"Woman, stop boozing!" Morgana commanded, and even with her oversized pink glasses on, Adora could make out her eyes squinting under the strength of the Dominican sun.

"Look, we're on vacation, and I have to smoke out Baby Reed before Dead End Road, so you might as well join me before I get too drunk. It sucks being the only sober one."

"True... I guess." Morgy looked apprehensively at the rapidly decreasing drink in front of Adora.

"Jesus, you'd think that you were the crazy, vitamin-taking, supplement-drinking, whole-wheat-organic only, no MSG or aspartame, dirty vegetarian hippie, the way you look at alcohol. Just relax! It's good for your blood pressure in moderation. Maybe not in this violently and unnaturally coloured, sugar-filled form, but whatever. It's not all bad."

"Says the pregnant girl," Morgy rolled her eyes, her fine eyelashes fluttering disapprovingly at Adora, who simply shot an umimpressed glare back while gesturing for the bartender's attention.

"Can I get another, please?" she trailed off to gaze at Morgy thoughtfully. "And a Mojito for my friend here. You need a jolt of the stuff to inspire you, and this'll do it." Morgy shot her friend a scolding glare, and just as her lips parted to vocalize her disdain, her phone rang; a muffled sound from within her enormous beach bag.

"Hold on," Morgy absently said, thrusting an arm deep into the bag, her fingers so deftly searching for the sensation of vibration that it wasn't long before she produced the small, pink phone.

"Hello?" she asked breathlessly, not bothering to check the call display for fear of missing the call itself.

"Baby," the voice on the other end breathed a sigh of relief. "Where are you? I'm shitting myself over here."

"Tim!" she breathed heavily, as if surprised that he sought her out so frantically; after all, she was a grown woman, perfectly capable of dealing with shady situations.

"Where did you two end up?" he asked, quite obviously feigning -- despite his best efforts -- an engaged curiosity, rather than a wary one.

"We're in Punta-something, in the Dominican Republic," she replied with a mindlessness that could only be acquired in the tropics; had she been in any North American city, precise location would have been an undoubted must in her mind.

"Punta what?" Tim demanded, his worry rising in the form of a chunk in his throat.

"What does it matter?" Morgy waved the question away absently with a hand. "How many 'puntas' can there be around these parts?"

"Lots," Adora interjected. "For every 'Cocksucker's Point' there is in the mother country, there's a 'punta de chupapollas' around here."

"Does that mean 'Cocksucker's Point'?" Morgy asked curiously, covering the mouthpiece of her phone with one hand.

"Oh, fuck if I know; I'm just talking out of my ass," Adora said as she sucked the drink from her glass out of the corner of her mouth. "But yeah, 'punta' is pretty damn common."

"Okay, so we're lounging in paradise in Punta-something-or-other, and I'll call you tomorrow afternoon to affirm that I haven't died from the raging awesomeness of this place. Cool?" The voice on the other end of the line heaved out a reluctant sigh of agreement.

"Just swear to me I'll hear your voice by noon tomorrow," he urged.

"When have I let you down?" she asked coyly instead of answering, but he knew he had her word regardless.

"Never," he said, smiling on the other end of the line as an elaborate, albeit clear looking drink was placed in front of his wife.

Four mojitos later and Morgana was decidedly sloshed; in fact, she and Adora both were, and the promise of a later phone call had not yet left one's mouth to drift into the other's ears. The ease with which one could forget themselves, their limitations and their shame in the wake of a tropical day was almost dangerous. The sun continued to beat down on them until well into the evening, and any lingering worries that plagued either were washed further away with each dip into the crystalline waters of the ocean that peppered their fuzzier-by-the-minute day.

It was perhaps with that blissful haze obscuring their better judgement that they indulged the advances of two tall, dark strangers, with handsome South American features that neither encountered too often in their travels of North America. What would normally have been discouraging words and warning glances were clumsy and divided by sugary giggles, and instead of putting their pursuers off course, they unknowingly invited the two men to take advantage of the vulnerability they had made so abundantly obvious.

Sometimes, on the beach, you don't think there's any path that could lead you to danger -- after all, how could something so beautiful possibly be bad for you? -- and under the soft glow of the setting sun, your hair still damp and salty from the water, you don't particularly care that misfortune is possibly lurking beyond the next palm.

If you're going to die somehwere, wouldn't you rather do it somewhere exquisite?

{__holiday.far.away__}

Finally regaining consciousness after a period of time she could not confirm the length of, Adora felt her eyes dart wildly from side to side beneath closed lids. She struggled to open them but could not, as they were crusted shut from the oceans of tears she'd shed hours earlier. She deepened her short, ragged breaths, hoping to settle the anxiety that rose from within her like bile, but the nausea only became more difficult to suppress. Instead, she tried to swallow it back, only to find her mouth so dry that her soft palate clung to the roof of her throat with the effort.

"Gina?" she called, the word cracked in half by a tickle in her windpipe that threatened a coughing fit or the urge to vomit if further disturbed. The air that surrounded her was thick and damp, and her skin was unpleasantly slick when pressed against her and confines.

Her confines she realized, as if waking up bound and immobile wasn't out of the ordinary enough to cause alarm.

"Gina!" she cried again, though it only came out as a croak, and she knew she was in trouble solely from the desperate manner in which she wailed her best friend's name. Her wrists were tied above her head to something that had once been cool, before being warmed by her fear-induced sweat. Her ankles, she found after gently moving them, were in the same predicament. "Gina, where are you?" she cried again, her voice breaking into a sob. She thrashed madly against what she gathered to be a hard mattress with no bounce, and her eyelids suddenly split open from the force.

"Ella no est� aqu�," murmured a low voice filled with rancor that Adora could not recognize. She could make out very little, other than four gleaming, brass bedposts to which she was bound, and a ceiling that spun both away from, and far too close to her. She squeezed her eyes closed again, wishing she had never opened them; almost any reality she could have conjured herself was better than this one.

"Forgive me if I'm slightly too indisposed to reply in like form," Adora said, letting out a low, derisive laugh that quivered with the threat of more tears. The metallic taste of blood seeped onto her tongue from her lip after the carefully enunciated sentence, and she realized she had split apart a wound that had been in the delicate stages of scabbing.

"I'm sure you understand me," the voice retorted. "After all, you were quite an eloquent speaker of the language on the beach."

"Where am I?" Adora implored, rather than acknowlege a pseudo-compliment delivered in a tone dripping with hatred. Obviously, she would not have said a word to this man in her own language, had she foreseen her current situation, let alone in his. A warm image of her and Morgy coated in idyllic sunlight passed through her mind, and had her arms been free, she would have raised a hand to her forehead, as if to check if she had a fever that would justify her -- both of their na�vet�, in trusting random strangers who had little to do other than patrol tourist beaches for easy prey.

"What does it matter?" demanded the heavily accented voice, and with a swish of the air, Adora felt, rather than heard him rise quickly. "You won't be alive to complain of your surroundings." Whatever delusions of bravery and strength she had within her dissipated quickly. This wasn't like her job at all, where there was a threshold for cruelty, and far more than a tangible title was at stake.

"Look," Adora said after struggling to form the words in her mouth, "if I said something to offend you, I apologize." The words were calm, calculated and far more concise than she could manage in her daily life, and she astounded herself with her presence of mind.

"I believe that I am far past the point at which apologies count for anything," the man replied in slow, clear English that could have been almost scholarly, had the circumstances been different. He was no so close to her head the each 'b' and 'p' he uttered landed on her cheek in harsh puffs of air.

"Please..." Adora began, her face crumpling as she realized how in over her head she was. "Please don't hurt me or my baby," she finished, surprising herself with both the revelation of impending motherhood to this sadistic stranger, and with the self-admittance of this fact, as well as the apparent embracement of it, too.

"Baby?" he asked, his voice almost light for a moment. "Then where is your husband?" he asked, sinisterness returning so quickly that Adora wondered if she had imagined the speckle of -- what was it? Humanity?

"I don't have one," Adora said with a firmness that suggested she felt denoted bravery.

"You're a whore, then," the man whose face she could scarcely remember seemed to confirm to himself. She swore she could feel his body close to hers now, but he did not touch her.

"So I'm told." She laughed the same nervous laughter, before silently begging herself to cease her fearful banter. Why did she insist on curing uncomfortable situations with attempted humour?

But this was a little more than an uncomfortable situation, she had to remind herself.

A blow came to her midsection so suddenly that she registered the familiar swish of air preceding it much more vividly than the crack against her torso.

"A baby needs a father," he stated coldy as Adora felt the force of his punch blend seamlessly into pain that originated only from within her.

"I didn't say he didn't have one," Adora retorted haltingly, thoroughly unaware as to why she continued to antagonize a man with brute force far beyond anything she had encounterend in her job. His fist once again hooked into her solar plexus with a force devoid of clemency or hesitation.

"And I did not say I cared either way," the man confirmed, as if this fact had ever been in question, before a third strike was delivered, and she was sure something had ruptured.

"Why --" she sputtered weakly, the rest of her words coming out gurgled and inaudible.

"Because I can," he replied nonchalantly, as if the answer were impossibly simple. "You turistas; you never learn."

{__in.a.heartbeat__}

Where am I?

Morgy�s vision was oddly cloudy, as if an opaque film had settled over her eyes. The air around her was cold and stale and smelled like a combination of crushed cigarette butts and dried blood. She shook her head slowly; it felt weighted, as if her brain had attempted to swell beyond the confines of her skull, and when she attempted to stretch her limbs she found that she couldn�t.

She�d been tied to a chair.

�What the hell?� Morgy muttered, attempting to move her arms and legs again; and each time she did so she found herself firmly rooted in place, ankles bound to the wooden legs of a rickety chair and wrists tethered behind her back. She shook her head again, harder this time, in order to prompt her vision into coming into focus; and when it did she gazed down at herself, panic beginning to gnaw at her brain as she did so.

Not only had she been tied to a chair, she was completely nude. The miniscule bikini she�d worn only � hours? days? � before had been discarded in one of the room�s dark, empty corners, and in its wake was pale flesh spotted with deep blue bruises, breasts that heaved with hyperventilating breaths, wrists that ached and adhered to their bonds with dried blood.

�What the fuck?� she cried, and although her eyes were no longer blinded by a sinister haze they had yet to fully adjust to the darkness of the room. All she could make out was her own battered body and the outline of a closed � and presumably locked � door. �Hello? Where the fuck am I?�

Silence, save her own laborious breathing. Panicking further, Morgy wrenched against the rope that tethered her to the chair, succeeding only in breaking the skin of her wrists and ankles; she could feel rivulets of blood snaking over her hands and feet. She cried softly in the dark, unable to comprehend the situation she was in; all she could remember was being on the beach, basking in the glow of a hotly burning sun�

Accepting a drink from two strangers. Blacking out and waking up in a dark room, naked, tied to a chair and littered with bruises. Morgy�s abrupt realization caused her to groan loudly, and she dropped her head in defeat, allowing her hair to sway before her eyes. The door crept open unexpectedly, flooding the room momentarily with a thin slot of light before closing again.

�Have some pride, you bitch,� spat a low, heavily accented male voice, and when Morgy wearily lifted her head she was greeted with a blow to the face that would have sent her reeling, had she been on her feet. Her head jerked harshly to the side, splaying her hair across her face, but it was better than looking at the man who had hit her. He was tall and muscular and dark skinned; one of the men from the beach, whose name she had never even thought to ask.

�Who are you?� Morgy whimpered, raising her head to look at him as she did so. She felt understandably exposed in his presence but could do little to change it. �Why am I here? Where�s Adora?�

�Your blonde friend,� he grinned morbidly, revealing rows of gleaming white teeth as he did so, �is having some fun on her own.�

�She�s what?� Morgy shrieked, attempting again to break free of her bonds. �Adora! Can you hear me?�

�No, she can�t,� the man responded in Adora�s absence, and he struck Morgy in the face again, his knuckles smashing against her lips. They cracked and seeped beneath the force of his blow, and electrifying tingles of pain shot from her mouth to her temples. �I wouldn�t waste your time screaming if I were you. It�ll take away from all of the fun we�re going to have.�

�Please,� Morgy begged, attempting to ease away from the man, who stood much too close for comfort. �This isn�t right. I�m here on vacation. I didn�t do anything.�

�Sometimes,� the man whispered, leaning close to her face to do so, �it really doesn�t matter what you think you�re owed and what you�re not. You�re here because I want you to be � and when I�m tired of you, you�ll get to leave.� His breath was as stale as the room was, and up close his pores were distractingly large.

�Listen,� Morgy stated, struggling to keep her voice firm, �I have a lot of money. Do you want money? I can give you whatever you want. Anything. Just please don�t hurt me or my friend.�

�If I didn�t want to hurt you,� the man replied, chuckling at her expense, �why would you be here?�

�Okay, enough of this joke now; very funny, guys,� Morgy tittered nervously. �Where�s the camera? Any minute Ashton Kutcher is going to jump out and tell me I got Punk�d, right? Isn�t that how these things work?�

�Bitch, does it look like I�m kidding?� the man demanded, and before Morgy could comprehend what was going on he was brandishing a knife, waving it menacingly in the air. He pressed it to the corner of her mouth and her stomach lurched violently; this was just like her dream, just like her dream, only she was awake and real and scared. �I want to cut your face and piss in your mouth. That�s what I do to whores like you.�

�Do it, then,� Morgy whispered. �Fucking do it if it means you�ll let us go.�

�Let you go?� the man laughed, lightly dragging the tip of his knife against Morgy�s lips; not hard enough to puncture the skin, but hard enough to make her blood and heart race. �I said you could leave, but I never said you�d be alive when you did it.�

He pressed his knife against Morgy�s mouth, and a pin prick of blood trickled down her chin. She braced herself for the inevitable incision; she knew what came next because she�d seen it before in a dream. She sobbed quietly, quivering in her chair, and the man �

�Freeze! Police!�

Before Morgy could react the door seemingly imploded, and harsh light exploded into the room, stinging her eyes. The man, obviously as shocked as Morgy was, dropped the knife harmlessly into her lap; and before he could even attempt to run away he�d been tackled to the ground by a police officer.

And not knowing quite else what to do as an officer hurriedly struggled with her bonds, Morgy burst into tears of gratitude.

{__on.this.road.we�ll.never.die__}

�I still can�t believe what just happened. Is this real? Were we actually kidnapped and assaulted?�

�We were, wifey. We really, really were,� Morgy sighed, and she slumped exhaustedly against Adora, who did the same. They were back in the confines of their hotel room; they�d endured lengthy police interrogations and medical examinations and seeing their attackers forced into the back of a police car. Exhaustion, at this point, was completely understandable.

�Did they ever explain to you how they found us?� Adora asked tiredly, stifling a yawn as she did so. Much like Morgy she was covered in bruises, and her platinum hair hung in her face in dirty tendrils. She struggled with futility to avert her gaze from the now browning red that sprayed her thighs; after all, she had only recently ceased the convulsions of terror in the wake of her abduction, and the vibrant colour that besieged her lower half reminded her of only one thing: a baby she had never wanted. Now, she secretly wept for two children lost to her in abhorrent situations.

�Yeah,� Morgy replied, stifling her own yawn in the process. �When I didn�t call Tim again he got worried; called the hotel to find out where we were. When no one could find us, they filed us as missing persons, and some people came forward to say that they�d seen us on the beach with a couple of guys.�

�I guess they weren�t exactly stealthy about their plan of attack,� Adora stated, wrinkling her nose in disgust. �I mean, carrying two roofied up chicks across the beach? Not very hard to miss.�

�Evidently it was easy enough to miss that no one called the cops in the first place,� Morgy responded dryly.

�So true,� Adora sighed. �And if nothing else, this experience has managed to make Dead End Road seem boring by comparison.�

�I think,� Morgy replied sourly, �I�m going to need a better positive spin on this than that.�

{__dead.end.road.part.three__}

Wow, Shane; it�s becoming increasingly difficult for you to convince anyone that you actually watch any of the promos your opponents take such time and care to prepare for you every week. I�m sorry that we aren�t quite as exciting as whatever it is you�ve been occupying your time with lately, but for real � start paying attention. You�ve only succeeded in making yourself look like a jackass.

First of all, your attempt at humour is absolutely atrocious. If you never tried to crack a joke ever again I could probably die happy. Couldn�t you think of anything more valid to say to Adora than trying to provoke her ire with Bambi? Ohh, cutting. That�s the kind of thing that makes her cry at night.

Seriously, though, what�s with the air quotes? Was it �necessary� to �state� that Adora has a �win� over you �this� way? It�s not like her wins against you were ill-gotten; she legitimately and truly owned you, and you can try to spin it all you want � hee hee, oh Adora, does your neck hurt? Because THAT�S what people remember from that match! � but it doesn�t cover up the fact that �you� �lost.�

There�s a reason you don�t know what to say to me. Are you ready? Because I�m about to lay it all out. Brace yourself.

YOU DON�T WATCH ANY PROMOS.

You know, I�ve been called all kinds of names and accused of all kinds of things, including being repetitive. Has anyone ever wondered why? I mean, has no one ever REALLY stopped to think that part of my repetition could be due to the fact that I�m responding to the same thing from everyone I face every week? Come on, Shane. Step the fuck up. This is a World Title match, and the consensus seems to be that no one looks out of place in this scene but you.

First of all, I haven�t �hidden� behind anyone. You know what would have been a good step toward you earning a World Title shot sooner? WINNING THE TV TITLE. Which, if I recall correctly, you failed to do. Why would I devote time, attention and energy to a man who had every opportunity to win a title and severely blew his chances? I�m not about to say �I like your moxy, kid! Here�s a shot at the big time!� after watching how badly you�ve managed to fuck up recently. If being lazy and entitled is what has earned you a right at my title, then you�re incomparable.

Yeah, we all know I haven�t defended the title. Refer to one of the many promos in which I address why. I can break it down for you again, though; it�ll be fun!

1) There is a man who runs this federation. Some of you may know him as Corey Page. That delightful man does something I�d like to call �putting together the card.� In no way am I involved in this process. Thus, I never have and never will create, or have say in the creation, of my own matches.

2) There is this thing going on right now called a World Title tournament. You may not be familiar with it because you were excluded from it; whoops! This tournament is being used to determine the number one contender to the World Title. As there is no winner yet, and thus no number one contender, there is no one currently in line to face me.

3) People usually like to do something I call �earning� title shots. As someone who is as privileged as you seem to think I am, you should be aware how this process can be bypassed. It seems like all you have to do to get a shot these days is barge back in after a stint in prison, fail miserably in all of your ensuing endeavors and then blow up a boat.

Because you�re obviously very dense, let me clarify: YOU�RE THE PRIVILEGED ONE. My God, man; can�t you see it? You�ve done nothing � NOTHING � to deserve the World Title, and yet here it is, right in front of you. Doesn�t that sound familiar? Because I do believe you just told me that my SW experience has been much the same way. Only not; since I�ve, you know, beaten everyone in my tenure here, won a battle royal to EARN my World Title contendership and then beat TWO people, including your beloved Nikita, to win it. I don�t know, I think that�s a whole lot more impressive than your incessant whining, moaning and making of demands, but evidently I�m wrong. Without question. JUST because you said so.

Furthermore, if your idea of proving I�m the best would require me to face Destiny, Casanova or yourself to do so, I really don�t see what you�re getting at here. Again, I don�t make the matches; if you�re faulting me for not demanding to fight you after you lost about five weeks in a row, then your delusions of grandeur are even worse than I thought. See, here�s the thing: I don�t come to you. That�s not how this works. You have to prove that you deserve to face me, not the other way around, and if you�d done that I�m sure we would have met one-on-one weeks ago.

Nobody does my dirty work but me, thanks; evidently you don�t watch my matches, either, which is typical. I beat people legitimately, whereas you accost people with chairs and dynamite. I do this thing called �wrestling� for a �pay cheque� � I thought I�d indulge your apparent love for air quotes � whereas you show up whenever you feel like it, sink a boat that was worth far more than you are and manage to LOSE in the process. You really fail at psychological games if you can�t even manage to throw me off like that.

Legacy? You honestly want to talk to me about legacies? You don�t HAVE a legacy. You�re �that guy� who shows up every once in a while, makes his friends look bad and says �my bad, brah� when it�s all over. I know it must eat you up inside to know that I�ve accomplished more in a few months than you have in your years here, but please, try to contain your jealousy; it�s making you even more nonsensical than usual.

A Charlotte West comparison? Was that the last time you actually watched someone�s promos, and thus you feel it�s an adequate comparison? This is getting lame. If no one has managed to draw your ire like we have, then clearly your past opponents have monumentally failed at their jobs.

I am an honest to God celebrity, like you seem to think you�re some sort of hitman. I don�t expect you to kiss my ass for it, though; if anything, I�d prefer if you stayed the hell away from me until you jumped through the appropriate hoops and earned yourself a shot at my title. Good grief, responding to this is so inane; it still boggles my mind as to how little you know about me yet try to act like you do. We have this thing on the Sin Wrestling website called an �archive,� in which you can peruse videos of past SW events. If you can find me evidence of anyone handing anything to me that wasn�t earned expressly by me first, then you, sir, have finally managed to one up me.

�Only not, because you won�t find it. I�m not sure what it is you think we represent, but I�m pretty sure you�re horribly mistaken in whatever it is you�ve concocted in that brain of yours. If you�ve busted your ass recently to be in the position you�re in right now I�ve yet to see it. Past achievements � and you seem to have very few of those � mean literally nothing if you can�t follow them up with success in the present.

You aren�t better than me. If you were, you�d be where I am, rather than sobbing quietly in the dark at night about all that I�ve �stolen� from you. I�d like to know what sort of cake walk I took here, considering that nearly the entire roster competed in the battle royal I won. You want to be taken seriously and given shots at the World Champion? Try showing someone that you give this place more than a passing glance, first.

If acknowledging your existence makes us stuck up and pretentious then I guess we are � but at the rate you�re going, you�re lucky anyone even knows or cares who you are anymore. Face it, Shane: we�re keeping your career alive. Someone has to, I guess � and evidently, it�s not going to be you.