Post by Amy Jo Smyth on Nov 18, 2017 23:41:35 GMT -5
I gotta get myself
Off the side of the road
I gotta get myself up off the side of the road
Things are lookin' clear as they've ever been
Don't know how it'll end but I know where to begin
___________________________
Life is full of people who think they can do better than you. Maybe not be better than you, but do better than you. They stand on the outside, running their mouths about shit they could never understand and will never be a part of. They love to talk about this and that but don't actually do anything or even try to put themselves in a situation that allows them to change things.
They also fail to realize how difficult it can be to be in a certain situations. But they wanna be where you are either way. They wanna hold that position. They want that title. They tend to either forget how much work goes into being champion or just don't realize that's it not as easy as some people make it look.
Sure, everyone wants to call themselves champion and have that glory and fame, but some, they don't want to put in the work or time, put in that little bit of extra effort that not only propels themselves to the top but the organization they represent, the record books, and the fans as well. The title doesn't make you relevant, no, you make yourself relevant, you make the title relevant by what you do with it. Plain and simple. You define the title, the title does not define you.
Sad to say, I've seen more than a few people turn into hollow shells when they've lost a title. I've seen women become completely irreverent the second they've lost their titles, either unwilling or unable to change and adapt. One of them is my friend and one of them is my opponent.
How much things change and somehow manage to stay the same.
Fact remains, there is a lot more that goes into being a champion than just wearing a belt around your waist, showing up when booked, and getting a cute logo next to your name. There is years of work involved, hours of training that go into it, traveling all over the world, giving up time with your family and friends, ruining your body, selling yourself to fans so they will give you that little extra boost when you need it and make sure that when you're no longer champion, people still remember you for what you've done, even if it's just being silly… Because let's not forget, people want to laugh just as much as they want to be thrilled with action. They want a human wearing the belt, not something made of stone.
It doesn't mean I take this sport any less serious or not realize the level of prowess and skill and responsibility that goes into this. It just means that I like to have fun while doing it and in the process, the fans have fun. That is the legacy I choose to leave behind because nobody likes a fuddy-duddy who's deadly serious all the time.
I mean, if you're not having fun, then well, shit, do you really wanna be here? What are you for, exactly?
Here's a newsflash for y'all, you can do both and still be an incredible champion. One that respects the title, has a wonderful reputation, and still holds the sport in the highest regard.
Now, there are people who do not respect the titles that they've been honored with. They think status quo is more than enough. If they do just enough to fulfill their contract, all is well. They believe it to be enough, they believe that it's enough to thrust them to the top, and believe, truly, that they can be a better champion and that people want them to be a champion. Worst of all, they think what they're doing is somehow profound and unforgettable but in reality, it's doesn't even register with anyone… When the title is overshadowed by a one-on-one match, when you think your mere presence is enough to make anyone care when, well, nope. To do that is a greater disrespect to the championship than donut eating or drone flying or protecting your friend or having a goddamn moral compass or getting involved in other things happening in your organization.
God forbid.
There are a few people who seem to believe that actually being involved in things is a crime, that having fun is wrong, that is by far one of the biggest hypocrites I've ever met, she thinks everyone but herself is arrogant but she's really arrogant, and, most important, has a huge stick up her ass about fucking everything.
You all know her, you all love her…
Er, scratch that.
___________________________
In the Continuing Adventures of Our Hero...
◀◀ Be Kind, Rewind
Birdie and I stare at each other as I try to figure out what he actually just said to me.
“Wait,” I say as I hold up my open hand to my handler.
“Congratulations,” he says gleefully, a fat, cheesy grin on his space. “You’ve been promoted.”
“I’m not sure if I’d consider this a promotion, Birdie,” I quickly retort.
He leans forward. “You’re an excellent agent, Smyth,” he says. “Everything you’ve done so far has been exceptional and exemplary. Please, top-notch agents with decades of field experience haven’t pulled off what you’ve managed to pull off. As a simple courier, no less. Everything, the good and the bad, has been done with toughness, honor, and loyalty. Tact, too. Even when things go downhill, you adapt. That’s what we need, that’s why you’re doing this. We cannot waste your skills on couriering, brush passes, and rookie ops.”
“This isn’t what I signed up for,” I protest. “I wasn’t taken on - sorry, I wasn't forcibly recruited into the agency to do such extreme undercover ops. Hell, I can’t even do undercover ops.”
He shakes his finger at me. “Ah, but see, you have and you can.”
“Did we forget that I’m sorta-kinda famous?” I answer, reminding him of this very important fact. “I can’t do undercover missions.”
Birdie leans back in his chair, his face turning smug. I know this posture, this face, the story that’s about to come my way. Probably most likely something from the Cold War Era, of the black and white era of cloak and dagger work done by trenchcoat, cigarette smoking, martini drinking fly by night agents leaning up against streetlamps, exchanging carefully encoded information on the back of postcards.
“Frank Sinatra got himself into the same predicament that you did. A little quid-pro-quo,” he starts. “We forget about his mob buddies and his own dealings with the mob, he does a little work for us. Just like you, he worked as a courier, moving documents and even people with his private plane. He was perfect for it. Had access to places that most other people couldn’t go, nobody would suspect him, and he was already moving all over the world for his music and acting.”
I stare at him.
“Sounds kinda like you, huh?” he asks, sounding more and more smug with each word. “Did you know that Josephine Baker was recruited by French Intelligence during World War II? Her fame was used to gather information from all kinds of high ranking people from the Axis. She even transferred secret documents and information over the borders on her sheet music.”
All I can do is nod.
“Gloria Steinem worked for the CIA, too, implanting left-leaning American sympathizers into debates during communist rallies in Europe, in an attempt to sway leanings there,” he adds for good measure.
“Was that meant to tug at my gay heartstrings?” I ask. “Or just try to sell me on the whole CIA governmental overthrow game?”
He shakes his head. “Fame can be a valuable resource to the spy game,” he says. “You knew that when you joined. That was part of the reason why we were so eager-beaver to hook you.”
I exhale heavily, annoyed at being forced to remember how I got myself in this shit in the first place. One wrong move, meeting the wrong person, doing something I should haven’t done, making one huge mistake, one that I can barely remember but know that I did. These people, those celebrities, they either volunteered for love of country or the money. Steinheim has made it damn clear that she did it for the money. Baker did it because she was fighting Nazis and who wouldn’t fight Nazis? Frankie, well, he wasn’t trying to lose out on his money flow thanks to the mafia. Also, nobody asked these people to go undercover, just move shit back and forth, gather information.
“You’re tried and trusted, Smyth,” he says. “Just follow protocol and use your head.”
“Protocol?” I ask, mocking ignorance. “Don’t think y’all trained me on that.”
“I see,” he says, smiling.
“Y’all didn’t train me on shit, actually,” I say, nodding.
He slides a folder across the desk, sending it straight for me. “We’ll work on that,” he says.
“Liar,” I say, snatching the folder.
↼ ⟡ ⇁
Monumento a la Independencia.
The Angel of Independence.
Mexico’s most famous monument, standing over three-hundred feet high in the heart of downtown Mexico, the grandest centerpiece in an already crowded promenade of monuments, statues, fountains, and some of Mexico's tallest buildings. Even amongst the rest, from Diana the Huntress’ fountain and Monumento a la Revolución, it is the most impressive and most popular.
It’s a grand, towering concrete column topped with a golden angel made of bronze and plated in actual 24K gold. Although called an angel, it’s really a sculpture of the Greek Goddess Nike. In one hand she holds a crown of laurel, symbolizing their victory, and in the other a broken chain to represent the country breaking free from Spain’s tyrannical rule. The statue itself weighs over seven tons and stands over twenty-two feet tall.
Or at least that’s what the travel guide says.
I’m standing at the base of this congested tourist trap because it’s well, a congested, overfilled tourist trap. Dozens of people mill around, native citizens and foreigners alike, either going to wherever they gotta go or gawking at the artwork and memorials and all that other shit. I’m not opposed to this kind of thing, to making the rounds to see the important landmarks, actual historical things, but I don’t need to take a thousand pictures and gawk at it for hours or make a day of moving from one to another to another. My wife loves that thing, claims it inspires her but I don’t - even if I do go with her willingly and keep my complaints to myself. Hey, the Aztec temples were cool so no complaints about that.
Right now I get to play the role of your standard, downhome American tourist, complete with a brand new, freshly purchased Fodor’s travel guide to Mexico City, messenger bag, and obnoxiously oversized camera that hangs around my neck - Fuck, I am just asking to be mugged right now. The camera and all the money in my pocket was gladly furnished to me by the CIA and the passport I have right now is well, fake. It’s me on the inside but it’s not. With one keystroke, the passport disappears from the computers and I’m to use the backup one kept in the hotel. In a matter of seconds I can become someone else entirely and nobody would be any the wiser.
“Do you like the statues?” a guff, dark-skinned Mexican man with an American accent asks. His brown eyes stare up at the angel, admiring it.
“They are very pretty,” I answer, looking him up and down. “But there are so many, I don’t know where to start.
In an instant, I’m able to absorb a great deal of information about this man, what I believe to be my contact. Messy brown hair. Dark-skinned. A head taller than me. Flat and wide nose. Thin lips that have sharp edges. Awkwardly large ears that stick out. The signature scruff of laziness. White button-up. Baggy blue jeans. Tan work boots. He doesn’t even know I’ve done this but I’m hoping he has done the same thing with me. It is vital that we know the physical details of each other.
“Have you seen the beautiful statues outside Museo del Caracol?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No, what are those? They aren’t in my book,” I say, flipping through my pages in a frantic manner. “I came here to see the art…”
“Do not worry,” he says, taking the guide from me. “I will write them all down for you.” He removes a pen from his pocket and writes not just a list of sculptures and statues, but a time next to one in the chapultepec castle gardens. It’s our designated meeting place at our designated time. The man is none other than Michael Pardo, an agent long stationed in Mexico City, an American citizen who has completely immersed himself in the homeland of his mother and both sets of grandparents.
“Thank you,” I say. “Gracias.”
“De nada,” he says with a gentle bowing of his head as he places the book back into my hands. “El buen viaje.” Pardo starts his slow but steady walk away from me.
“Cuídate,” I call out. He answers with a wave.
In about a half hour I will meet this man in front of a tall stone statue placed in the middle of the estately garden to an actual European castle in the middle of Mexico. The world is weird.
↼ ⟡ ⇁
Mexico City is a prime example of Europe’s conquest and conquer of foreign lands. The Spanish Conquistadors came roaring in, absolutely decimated the native populations - to the point of tearing down their temples brick by brick - and built their own churches, castles, and extravagant buildings right atop the former sites of Aztec temples and holy places, all while murdering and enslaving the peoples they found there. There are literal Aztec temple ruins mixed in with skyscrapers and catholic churches. Most interesting to me is the artwork that Mexican people created during their revolution and after.
They toppled the statues and epigraphs and effigies and sweeping buildings of the faraway monarchy in Spain and the ruling upper classes that had no problem showing off their wealth while the rest lived in absolute poverty. They have erected artwork honoring their indigenous peoples, the Aztec warriors that proudly defended their homeland and gave their lives against the Spaniards, and the heroes of the revolution.
I'm standing in front of one right now, staring at a monstrous sculpture on the property of a damn near mythical castle that once housed the Spanish ruler of what was once known as New Spain. Now it houses Mexico's natural history museum and a host of artwork dedicated to those that usurped the ruling class. I do not know the name of this particular statuette or monument, but it is impressive with its hooded warrior and falcon surrounded by plain warriors in simple loincloths and hoods. Each protective warrior wears a strange expression and posture, probably meant to represent some kind of emotion or moment in history, but I don't know what or why.
“Never let anyone tell you that Mexico lacks culture,” a familiar voice says. It's Michael Pardo, right on time.
“From what I've seen, y'all got more of it than America,” I say, turning to look at him.
Pardo nods, smiles. “Walk with me,” he says, moving forward.
I follow.
“You are very different than from what I imagined,” he says.
That's not a good way to start out this partnership. “What is that supposed to mean?” I ask, perturbed.
“Nothing,” he says, staring at the gardens ahead of us. “This is just a rough assignment and… Well, I expected a man or at least someone of Spanish descent with a lot more time on the clock.”
All I can manage is a powerful glare in his general direction.
He must pick up on my disgust. “I'm sure you're a very capable agent, Smyth,” he quickly adds. “They wouldn't have sent you if you were not.”
“Capable is not a strong enough term for what I am,Pardo,” I retort.
Pardo clears his throat. The tension and uneasiness is just wafting off of him.
“We can either work together or this can be a very uncomfortable ordeal for both of us,” I say.
“I see,” he says softly. We keep walking, silence and statues surrounding us. The museum is closed today but the grounds, which double as a public park, are open for walking and viewing. That doesn't mean people are doing that, though. The tourists have gone elsewhere and the locals are doing whatever locals do, having seen this park more times than they care to count, causing it to lose their appeal.
It certainly works to our advantage. We just look like two tourists or a tourist with a tour guide. Our rehashed and rehearsed backstory is that I'm an American on a tour of South American sculpture, starting with Mexico, and Pedro is my guide. If a person wants to know more or they know who I am, then, well, I'm an American getting a guided tour of Mexico’s art and culture.
“I think we should start with a little classic detective work,” he says.
“My favorite,” I answer. He leads the way.
↼ ⟡ ⇁
One of the first things you learn as a kid is not to get into cars with strangers, especially with men if you're a woman. Rules have no meaning here, though.
This work is so odd. I have to trust a man I just met, that I know almost nothing about, to keep me safe in a city I barely know, in dangerous circumstances. My employer trusted him so I guess I have to trust him. To a certain degree, anyway.
We've driven about thirty minutes but not very far to a small enclave on the outskirts of the city proper. My partner, cohort, assistant, my something for the duration of this little trip, parks the car.
“We're here,” he announces.
“Where is here?” I ask, looking at the perfectly square three story concrete building with chipping, faded sand colored paint.
He's already out of the car and has to lean back in to answer me. “Detective work,” he answers.
Well, fuck.
We quickly head inside. Something has set my instincts ablaze. Something doesn't feel right. I keep following though, entering into the ramshackle apartment building. From the outside, it doesn't look like it should have this many apartments, but it does, holding five in total. We want the top apartment, the last one, number five.
“He’s dead,” Padron says with certainty. “Don't worry.” He either picks up on how I feel or my face gives it away. After a quick look up and down the thin, darkened hallway, Pardo removes something from his pocket and starts fiddling with the lock on the door.
“Nobody taught me how to pick a lock at CIA boot camp,” I say in jest.
“I'll give you a crash course next time,” he says as the lock clicks, signaling entry. So we do just that, enter. The apartment is far more than I pictured it to be. As soon we enter we’re in a foyer and I can see why people always want the top apartment. A few more steps and I'm in the kitchen. A kitchen that is so clean it’s clear that it’s clearly not used. There aren’t even a collection of pots and pots, plates and dishes, cups and glasses; just a single tall glass, bowl, plate, spoon, and fork placed in a plastic dish drainer near the sink. The life of a bachelor. I know this back from my own days, living the single life, working more than any one normal person should and eating out for nearly every meal and the meats eaten at home were microwaved frozen dinners or grilled sandwiches. At least I had some pots and pans, gifted to me by my auntie when I moved into my first apartment.
This guy… Who is this guy?
“Who was he?” I ask, stepping into the living room or what can be considered a living room. It’s sparsely decorated, basic things like a sofa, armchairs, and a television make the room. The only real signs of life come from a colorful print of the Aztec two headed snake and an Aztec sunstone made of what might actually be stone sitting on an otherwise empty three panel shelving unit beneath the print.
“Xical,” Pardo says. “Alvin Xical.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, peering down the hallway. The name doesn’t ring any bells but it might be something that headquarters didn’t care about.
“Just a low-level street thug,” Pardo adds. “But he might have something that’ll help us.” Pardo heads down the hallway. “I’m going to check out the bedrooms.”
I nod and decide the living room is a good enough place to look for something. The goal here is to get to the head of the gang and chop it off. Anything that leads us there is good enough. They have some information on the head but very little. They also have almost no information beyond the usual stuff like lieutenants and drug trafficking and government corruption. The CIA knows nearly every single government official that is on the books with the gang and the gang members they pay their dues to, but not who these guys bring the money to. Too much information on one thing and not enough on the other.
From what I’ve been told, all I’m supposed to do is find out someone higher up in the gang that they can assign an undercover agent to and hopefully get this person on our side. It’s still information gathering but just deeper, more intense version with more street work. I don’t know why Pardo couldn’t do this on his own but what do I know? It’ll also be nice to get Mrs. Hernandez some sort of justice.
There is a handful of books on the coffee table. All three are on the history of Mexico and Aztec culture. The guy had an interest the history of his homeland, possibly even his heritage. His name does sound Azteca in origin but what the actual fuck do I know about Mexican history?
There’s a creaking sound behind me. A foot step. I flip around, ready to attack but remaining in control.
“It’s only me,” Pardo says.
I relax. Or so I thought I did. Pardo’s cellphone starts ringing and I jump.
Pardo laughs at me. He looks down at his phone. “I have to take this.”
With that, he exits the apartment and I'm left all by lonesome in this strange apartment that once belonged to a gang member. Oh, yeah, I feel super safe right now.
My investigation progresses slowly, finding nothing of interest in the living room so I move to the bedroom. What a sight to behold - there is nothing out of the ordinary. Messy, unmade bed, chest of drawers, messy closet, a bedside table with a lamp, more books on the Aztecs, more artwork from the indigenous cultures of Mexico… Part of me wants to believe that this guy had dreams of being a history scholar but couldn’t find the means so a life of crime was his only way to survive.
It’s never that simple, though.
Where does this man keep all his important documents? Does he even have important documents? Birth certificate? Social security card - do they have those here? Bank statements - I bet he doesn’t even have a bank account. Car title? Something!
Lord of clues, bless me!
I flip through the pages of one of the books. A little paper comes fluttering out, crashes to the floor. I pick it up, start reading. I can speak Spanish with the best of them but shit, reading it is a whole different ballgame. Especially with this guy’s awful handwriting. Good goddamn. It looks like a list of names, places, dates. On the back, more names. I quickly snap a picture of each side and send it off to Birdie to make something of. Those names could be important.
The floor creaks again, another foot step. “Hey, I found something,” I say, turning around.
It’s not Pardo.
Whoever it is has an entirely different idea than I do. He charges, grabs me by the shoulders, and pushes me onto the bed. His hands make their way to my neck, choking me. I’m able to wiggle my legs under him and kick him away. These legs are powerhouses. He falls back into the chest of drawers sending things crashing to the floor.
I’m able to get back to my feet and he’s on me in seconds flat. The struggle continues. He throws me up against the door and I tumble into the hallway. My assailant kicks me in the ribs and I roll. I’m thrown into the living room. He leans over me, tries to lift me but I’m able to bring him down to the floor with me. I’m up on my feet and try to kick him. He catches my foot and pulls it right out from under me causing me to crash into the coffee table. Thank Jesus it’s made of a cheap papery wood and offers no resistance, just makes a lot of sound. He’s able to roll over and jab something sharp into my bicep forcing me to let out a screech. I try to stop him from pushing it down even deeper but I’m just too slow.
I swing, connecting with a hard clubbing fist to the side of his head. He rolls off me, leaving the sharp stick in my arm, and groans. I’m able to get to my knees, rip out what looks like an arrow. He’s slowly getting up so I start to slowly get up, ready to keep fighting. As soon as I get to my feet, something entirely different has hit in full.
My body is unstable. I’m unsure on my feet. My vision goes double and I’m losing control over the rest of my body. I realize I’ve been poisoned. “What - what,” I shout. “What did you do to me?”
The man grins, proud of what he’s done.
“What did you do?” I scream again, my mouth going numb. I lunge forward, hoping I’m aiming for the right thing. My body doesn’t cooperate and I fall backwards, hitting the television, knocking it off the wall with a shattering crash.
It’s some kind of neuromuscular blocker, a muscle relaxant and not the good kind. It’s slowly taking effect. I try to scream more but I can’t move my mouth. That’s when I realize it is a paralytic drug. The man who assaulted me and poisoned me just walks out of the apartment as if nothing happened, going so far as to shut the door behind him. I continue to stumble around the apartment, knocking things over, crashing into things, slowly losing more and more control over my own body. It feels as if I can’t breathe but I know I’m breathing - I just need to keep breathing.
I go down hard and just lay on the floor, staring up at the ceiling.
Just keep breathing.
Pardo will come back and find me soon.
Just keep breathing.
...To Be Continued…
In case it isn't clear, there's no love loss between Gabby Camacho and me. We established this months ago, over 260 days ago to be exact. I took the title she thought I couldn't take, beat her when she claimed that I couldn't beat her. For her, it was a rough time. For me, it was the pinnacle of all the hard work, years, and yes, a culmination of and validation for the statements, both verbal and physical, that I made leading up to that point. I proved that I was a lot more than just all talk, even before the match. I didn't go into that match unprepared and I didn't come out of it unprepared.
I'm not going into this one unprepared, either.
Ms. Camacho didn't want to believe me then and she doesn't believe me now. Two successful consecutive title defenses and I'm still doing exactly what I said I'd be doing. Camacho may be intent on saying all kinds of things about my title reign, bashing it, insist that I'm not doing what I promised to do, but without actually calling her a liar, she's only telling you her side, her perception of things.
Her perception is incredibly skewed.
This is a woman who thinks and has said more than a few times in public that she thinks putting in just enough to fulfill her contract is more than enough. I don't want to bring old news, but if you keep maintaining the same behaviors, the headline is always going to be the same. You build a reputation by your deeds and if you don't do anything to change it, that is now your reputation. If you're okay with that, well, at the least you should own it. Camacho owns it and she owns it without shame.
I own who I am.
I also own the promises I've made.
When I took this title, I promised to be the best L.A.W. Champion I could be, that would be unforgettable, that I would represent L.A.W. all over the world, flying the banner proudly wherever I could, and I'd bring things home for all of us to celebrate. And yes, don't buy into the hype, L.A.W. is my home.
All of those things I've done. I'm the best champion I can be - this is of course relative but the fans have seen it and I trust them over and above everyone else. I am forever unforgettable thanks to my not just record breaking but record making reign - which I'm sure just rubs Gabby in all the wrong ways because had she defeated me, had she retained, she would have created the record. No such luck. I've done a lot more than just that to make myself unforgettable considering the unforgettable matches I've had. Hell, I leapt off a balcony onto Mackenzie Roberts and destroyed a huge slot machine.
Wait, wait… Hold on. I'm sure we're going to hear all about how Gabby Camacho, years ago, fought in a street fight. Aside from how she came back to win Queen of the Ring… I'll get there.
Back on track, I have done absolutely everything I've promised to do. I rose up and I continue to rise. No different from the last time we met, Ms. Camacho, I will rise up. I will rise up with fists and defeat you, keeping the championship firmly in my grasp. You see, Camacho, your time has come and gone. I'm still unforgettable and you're still as forgettable as you were as champion. You haven't changed, not even an ounce.
Yes, congratulations, you won Queen of the Ring and got yourself something you already had.
My goodness, what a plot twist.
Ladies and gents and all those in between, let me remind you that Gabby Camacho, as former champion, by the longstanding rules of the sport, had a guaranteed rematch for the title. You should know this as you were real quick to cash in on it when Kiera Fisher defeated you. In the case of me winning, you didn't enact your rematch clause but it remained firmly in place, banked and ready. You could have strange it on me any show you wanted but you didn't.
Why?
Was it because you weren't confident? Was it because you knew you couldn't take back the title? Was it because you were pretending to be nice and yield to other competitors? Ah ha. I've stumbled upon something, haven't I?
I'm a lot smarter than the blonde hair would suggest.
Don't you dare fucking stand there and say you're good for business or care about the other women on this roster when you fucking took away a beautiful moment, took away an opportunity that would have propelled any of those other women in Queen in the Ring to a top spot, to a moment that these women might not to any other way, that some of them deserve and fuck you, deserve more than you… How dare you! You took something you already had. Saying you're Queen of the Ring is one thing but the title shot is something else. Queen of the Ring is a chance for someone who hasn't had the chance or has gone unnoticed for years or are on the rise and just need that little bit of lift to get them there. It's meant to bring about new talent, young talent, to give someone else a shot.
You don't even know how badly I wanted to face someone new, to see a new face in the title picture. But nope, just your annoying face again and again and again, running with the same old lines, doing the same old shit, expecting to get by.
Fuck, I'm ain't even sorry for saying this, but that was a dick move. It was selfish, it was arrogant, and it was a cheap ploy to give you something to boost yourself up with because you have NOTHING ELSE. You now get to say that you had to go through all those other competitors to get back at the top. You sacrificed, gave up your shot to Ms. Roberts, and had to start with nothing, at the bottom.
O-M-G-Z!
Fuck off.
Don't call me fucking selfish when you're the most selfish of them all. Don't tell me I'm arrogant when you're the most arrogant of them all. You disrespected L.A.W. with your shit. You proved you were all of those things when you did what you did with Queen of the Ring. Sit down and shut the fuck up. Actually, let me rephrase, all you do is sit down and run your mouth. Keep it up, it'll get you nowhere with me and nowhere with the fans who pay your fucking salary and don't want your bullshit at the helm again.
Nobody wants your shit again. Nobody wants to hear it and now you're full of it. What a fucking sob story, what a way to say you deserve it, that people need to respect you and what you've done. What a way to say you've had to work harder than everyone. That's fucking rich. A rich damn joke. Sing that song, little bird. Let me drop a bomb on your fucking weak foundation. Just like last year's Queen of the Ring couldn't beat the champion, this year's isn't either.
Shit, I may not be the greatest champion in the history of the L.A.W. title, but I'm a fuck-ton better than you were and will ever be. At least people talk about the L.A.W. Champion now, they know who is, they know what L.A.W. is and what kind of talent we possess. Talent begets talent, it attracts it like magnetic field or some kind of gravitational pull. I ain't saying you aren't talented, Ms. Camacho, because you are - you're just not talented enough for this title because this title deserves more, it needs more than what you're capable of giving it. If you wanna talk about respect, then try giving a little to yourself then to your title.
The fans deserved something from better and they got it. L.A.W. deserved more and they got it. The women on the roster needed more, even if some of them do hate me - because you were so loved. I intend to make sure they keep getting a lot better. The era of Smyth is upon us and it will stretch into the New Year.
You can look into the future or you can keep fucking around in the past, die from a lack of adaptation and fizzle out. That's the only choice you get in this. You do not to go back to the top of the mountain. You may have felled all those women in Queen of the Ring, but I'm on guard here now and I'm not going anywhere.
Just try and move this mountain, Camacho.