"Perfect night for a funeral." I thought aloud.

The ground was damp from the rain, my shoes no longer the store bought white, as they continued to be caked with the mud squishing beneath, with each step taken. My coat and pants drenched, sticking to my body, and feeling as if they weighed fifty pounds more. If it weren’t such an important funeral, I would've never been out in this weather. I'd be lucky if hypothermia hadn't already started to settle in.

As I continued down the mud-covered path, I could begin to make out the rows and rows of white chairs lined up on the wet grass. The seats soaked, and covered with mud, as if they hadn’t been used at all. In fact, as I continued to get closer, I could make out that in fact, they hadn't been touched.

Poor bastard. I thought. He wasn't even getting the proper burial he deserved.

As I continued my way to the chairs, lightning cracked in the sky, giving a millisecond of light for which I could see the emptiness before me. I could make out some of the words streaking down them, written on white sheets of paper with a black marker.

Ethan Andrews... Alex Taylor... Phil Castle... Derrick Lambert.

All empty, never been sat on, and sitting uselessly before the casket at the head of the chairs. I walked through the middle of the thirty rows of chairs, taking a look at each name smeared on the back of the seat.

Frank Merritt... Bucky Skylar... Gothic Angel... Dominic Pericolo.

Every seat empty, and casting a lonely presence among the funeral. I then took a pack of cigarettes from my inner jacket pocket, and tried lighting one up. An awful habit, I know. Finally, on the fourth match, I managed to get one lit, and took a long, relaxing drag, exhaling slowly.

As I finally made my way to the lonely podium, near the casket, I rummaged throughout my inner coat pockets yet again, looking for the folded notepad paper I had place din their earlier. Finally finding it, I pulled it out, and tried to mask it from the rain with the hood of my coat. Stepping up to the podium, I looked at the empty chairs and smiled. I then began my eulogy for whomever was listening.

"Rick Majors. Gone too soon, yet not soon enough. An underachiever, yet arrogant enough to think he had some sort of special talent. Simply a fool whom masked himself with false aspirations and promises. He was the type of man to say one thing, and do another. Give his word, and break it within the same sentence. He consistently represented every scumbag walking the streets today. He wasn't the greatest, merely a spot holder for a dying coorporation. He should've strongly considered his retirement."

I took another drag as the sky cracked, once again illuminating the cemetery, still showing the emptiness before me. I'm sure had someone come out and seen me, they'd thought I was nuts. If they only knew. Exhaling, I continued.

"Fuck you. Au Revoir." I finished as I folded the paper back up, and tossed it carelessly on the grass.

Almost done. I thought.

Bending over to pick up the shovel laying beside the casket, I spit on to the chest of the man laying within the wooden box, still smiling given the conditions of this shitty night.

"Now he had the proper burial." I said, as I kicked out the pulleys holding the casket above the earth. With an echoing crack, the coffin tumbled to its side, dumping the face of the man that once was. His face smashed into the cement floor, as it stuck to the surface, his skull breaking into numerous pieces. Then grabbing the shovel, I began covering the casket, water dripping from my hair, allowing me to taste the salty sweat dripping from my head.

Fuck him. Bury him.

So this is the grand finale, eh? The rubber match that is going to decide who is better than the other; I'm looking forward to it Rick, I can't remember the last time I came hard at an opponent. I can't remember the last time I gave a fuck. But watching you win again and again has made me sick to my stomach. When Rick Majors is walking out with the World title, you know something isn't right.

But you can all relax; I think I've got it figured out. I can see where you got this tremendous push from. You made that HUGE comeback, losing like usual, then you hit your stride. Starting taking ideas from the mainstreamers, started to turn yourself in to a carbon copy of Sean Galen. You'd take my style and run with it, butchering it, yet catching the eye of some half-wit in the top office.

It's straight, you're just suffering from a man crush.

But what I haven't figured out, is what ever made you think you were so fucking good? You've never established yourself with the big players. You've been robbing people of wins, and its been tough to figure out how.

You're still bush league faggot.

You want edgy? You should check out the bullshit you toss out week in and week out. Basically thirty minutes of the same idea refurbished with different words. You're not saying anything new, Dick. You've just managed to turn a sentence in to a drawn out, choppy piece of shit. But apparently that's what they look for.

No talent necessary.

Sean Galen never fell off.

He just stopped giving a fuck.