time: thursday early morning

day: april seventeenth

place: bailey's bay, bermuda; engel residence.

(The sun is coming up in Bermuda, and it's beautiful. It's almost like a painting, or a background in a fairytale. But you catch a glimpse of my eyes, and you get the feeling it's not a fairytale. Maybe it's a nightmare, maybe it's a horror story. Maybe it's a vendetta. I'm trying to rest comfortably on my couch in the living room. I've got the video camera in front of me, along with a bottled water. No beer, I've got an hour run ahead of me. But there's something building inside of me, it's a newfound hate. It's not just for a particular group, but for a particular someone. They crossed the line... and I intend to make them pay.)

(I lean forward and I hit record on the video camera. I take a swig from the water, and set it down on the table. I stare into the camera with cold, hateful eyes. I haven't been myself in months... why even bother to change when it's so easy to embrace what I've become?)

VIRUS: Wait, what and... how? Trevor, you've got it all wrong, which seems to be your motif lately. I never claimed myself as a saint, fighting some noble and worthy cause. What do you take me for, a crusader? I never claimed that. How fucking terrific it must be to be a manipulative fuckhead like you are.

You really have no idea, do you?

I'll play the tapes. I'll revisit every second of what you and your group did to me that night. How dare you act non-chalant about what you did to me that night, you piece of shit. You pretend to have kidnapped my wife, you draw me into a trap that leads to a hospital trip for me, and you purposefully end Jamie Flynn's career. Oh, wait -- WAIT. Stop the fucking press.

You didn't do that, did you? No you don't feel any fucking sense of responsibility because you're nothing but a tool. You're a fucking hand-puppet, and I want you to reach deep down and tell me how that feels because I don't know. I don't answer to anybody, Trevor. That's your job.

Look at you. You have no sense of responsibility, so you don't feel guilty or feel sinful about what your group did. You represent a group that has done nothing but plague people's careers... and for what cause? For what reason? To make a point... to talk about the future. That's all you ever fucking do, is talk. What actions have displayed that have been anything but bullshit, Trevor?

Your group ganged up on me. Eight on one. That sounds like the old MoA to me... the old MoA that could never get the job done with one or two people, so you gangbang whoever the hell you want. Sending a message.. get the fuck outta here. You're pathetic.

You got a fluke of a win over me and Warren, which I happily returned last week. Trevor, you have been trying to lecture me for far too long now, talking to me about the future and how you're the elite. Give me a fucking break.

It's gone far enough. Since you've got here, you've amounted to nothing but a cheap win over Phoenix and a seven day title reign. Do you get that? No, you certainly don't, because hey... you were the last LWF World Champion.

Good. For. You.

The LWF sucked. So do you.

(I lean back and let that soak in. I take another drink from my water.)

VIRUS: I'm sick and tired of hearing about how great you think you are and how you're going to bring in a new current. It's really, really pathetic. I've seen nothing out of you, out of Duff, out of anybody that bears those three initials. NOTHING. You're all a bunch of fluke lackeys and if I was Darren Ridel I'd get rid of all you motherfuckers and put some actual talent in my crowd.

But Ridel.. he's not smart. He sees something in you and in Duff. All I can see is impotence. Fucking impotence. You won't last against me this Sunday, and my brother is going to destroy Duff this Friday. Good fucking riddance.

(I wipe my hands, displaying an act of relief.)

VIRUS: You wanna talk history? Huh, motherfucker? You don't know ANYTHING about what happened with me and McCade. You don't know a damn thing. Maybe Ridel will sit you down with a lap story one day and fill you in... but just in case he doesn't, here's the scoop. Are you ready? Here's where you buy a clue, bitch.

There were multiple, multiple times where McCade and I were scheduled to defend the UHWA Tag Titles, but he either didn't show up, showed up drugged out, or did next to nothing to help retain our titles.

McCade and I won seven consecutive tag matches when we were teamed together, and if you think for one second that it was because McCade decided to grace us with his presence and actually show up to wrestle, you're wrong. Dead fucking wrong. That motherfucker got jealous because I was hanging out with Psychoduck and The Eternally Damned at the time, actual fucking talent that would've helped me in a split second if I needed it. McCade was a deadbeat, Trevor. A true deadbeat. I would hope someone with your intellect would realize that because... guess what?

Who still holds the AOWF Tag Team Titles? Oh, that's right, me.

Who doesn't anymore? Oh that's right... McCade.

Where the fuck is McCade right now? Oh, that's right, you don't know. No one does.

So fuck you. And fuck you.

(I turn my eyes from the camera, gallons and gallons being filled with hatred and angst. I just can't help myself.)

VIRUS: Yeah... he certainly left to be with people he thought were better and cared for him, but he's no where now. I will never align myself with an organization that not only destroys careers outside of the group, but also inside. God... just imagine what some of those people could've been if they hadn't aligned with a shit organization like the MoA.

Maybe McCade would still be around, somewhat wrestling, and wasting other people's time still. Yeah, it sounds horrible, but at least he'd be a name somewhere, and not a guy you only bring up to prove how pathetic he was and how much you had to carry him.

Maybe, just maybe, Tommy Riley would've been more than just Tommy Riley, and more than the AOWF T-fucking-V champion.

Maybe Thunderwolf wouldn't have become a drunk dumb motherfucker who doesn't even show up to his own retirement match and incidentally costs himself stepping into a ring again. This is a guy that chooses to follow an old crippled man around instead of being with a woman that truly loves him and would do anything for him. What a fuck-up.

Bravo, Masters. Bravo. And what has the young star of a newborn Masters of Armageddon done lately?

You lost to Riona Langly -- twice.

Congratulations.

One person said that wrestling ruins lives. No... the Masters of Armageddon ruins lives.

The sooner you realize that, Trevor, the better off you'll be.

But on a different tangent, it's really not worth talking to you about what happened with my wife and the MoA. That was Ridel's doing. Get him in front of the camera, and then we'll talk. As for you, you don't know shit. You will never know. And your assumption of Ridel actually having mercy on someone, when you know damn well he's not that type of guy, clearly proves the fact that you don't know shit.

(With my eyes returned to the camera, I stare it down. I stare you down.)

VIRUS: Yes, I do declare war on your group. I declare war on those three initials, and the men and women who represent them. I know I'm not the first "one man army" to step up in the MoA's way, and certainly not the first one in my family. But you said better men have tried and failed.

With what you and your group have exhibited so far, I don't need to be better. You're all so ridiculously terrible, that you let Chamelion boss you around and give you parameters. What better men need to try, Trevor?

Mark McNasty could declare war on you all and put you away. You're just unlucky that Ridel saw it fit to pick on poor old me, and now you're getting a war you can't even fucking comprehend.

A war that you can't stop.

Fuck this. I'm done with you, and I'm going to end you Sunday. You better make your last words meaningful, or I'm going to strangle you with them and make you beg for mercy.

I do not forgive.

I do not forget.

Liberate your mind.

(fade.)