Cyrus walked through the door of his house, turned around and shut the door. He sighed as he put his coat on the hanger, brushed himself off, and looked to the mirror above the coat rack. He waited, staring at himself.

'What's he got planned?'

Cyrus shook his head and turned away from the mirror, walking through the house. He went to the window overlooking the back yard in the kitchen. He pulled the curtains aside, looking back at the hedges he spoke to Goeren about. He shook his head again.

'He's right... it's only an admiration.'

Cyrus walked away from the window, into the dinning room, and sat down.

'Why would I have this big of a house for just me? A four bedroom house with only one occupant? Seems a little strange to me.'

Cyrus looked around the room, up in the ceiling.

'Funny... I don't see any other signs of mice...'

Cyrus had been catching things... little things, here and there, but strange all the same. His memory, destroyed from the epileptic seizures (that he had absolutely no recollection of), was leaving him. Parts of his past seemed to be slipping away, he couldn't even remember how long he held the DIWF Intercontinental Championship, his pride and joy.

'Dr. Nguyen... didn't I throw him out the window before my match with Kenji...?'

Cyrus shook his head, not wanting to think about the situation further. He looked around the dinning room, and then to the camera.

"So, Thomas Manchester Black seems to be a little bit angry that I have other shit on my table, than JUST concentrating on him. Well, Tommy, excuse the fuck out of me if the big boys in OPW have a full slate, a business side to this fun exciting game we call a job. You see, I'm not here like you, Tommy, I'm not here to wrestle and be happy wrestling, and I'm not doing this because I want to. I'm doing it because I'm contractually obligated to. Because I made a deal with the devil incarnate and I'm manning up and taking care of my shit."

Cyrus shook his head.

"But somehow I disrespected you, right? Somehow I made you feel like I was treading on your couch with muddy boots, screaming that your wife is a whore and your daughter played with my balls. Somehow I made you feel like I don't respect you enough to consider this a match that I'll put up a fight in. Yeah, you want to be disrespected? You want me to disrespect you? What shit have you done here, Black? What've you done that would make not me, but even HYDRO quiver in his wrestling boots? Not shit. Because you haven't done shit here. Your style of wrestling keeps you here, it keeps you in matches with the big names, I'll give you that. But who have you beaten? Who are you to tell me that I haven't done anything in OPW?"

Cyrus looked deep into the camera.

"You know who you remind me of? You know why I want to bash my head in with a hammer right now? Because you and one 'XTC' sound completely the same, redundant as fuck and making false statements about shit you don't even know about. Telling me I haven't done shit here?"

Cyrus chuckled to himself.

"I never beat the number one contender, and I never took 8-Ball to the brink of a loss..."

Cyrus took a deep breath...

'Fuckin' Goeren. Ahh!'

Cyrus shook his head after mouthing the last statement.

"But, I'll go with you, I haven't done shit. That's fine, because I don't have to prove shit to anyone. Everyone knows who I am and what I do. They understand that I have already established myself in wrestling, and that one Cyrus O'Haire is an OPW legend after only wrestling in two matches. That's what they know. What do they know about you? That you're some punk trying to make your way through the Outlaw Open, trying to make a name for yourself, trying to kick down the door. RAAWWRRRR! That's what they know about you. Hell, half of your popularity comes from people who still think you're TDR and not TMB, doesn't it?"

Cyrus sighs, looking at the table, then back to the camera.

"And all of this talk about drinking, and buying me beers and shit? Cut it. Buy someone who actually drinks alcohol a beer, save me the pleasure of throwing it in your face, Tommy. You want to study my weaknesses? Drinking, smoking, and doing drugs...aren't in that list. I've had a broken shin, a ruptured spleen and kidney, and I've been struck by lightning defending a title that I coveted. Oh, I've got a shit ton of neck and head injuries, plus right about now my elbow's feeling kinda tight. Anything else you want to know? I tweaked my ankle last week, and my face still feels like shit from eating the concrete. Anything else? I've give you a scouting report on myself better than Jesus himself could give, if you want it. I don't care if you point out my weaknesses...

My strengths kick the shit out of yours."

Cyrus laughs, grinning from ear to ear.

"You want disrespect? You want me to make you feel like you have a reason to be mad at me? You can't wrestle. You've been given bullshit matches because Carson and Azrael like to watch you jerk off other men. That's just what 'gets their jollies' off. I, on the other hand, have been dealing with Kenji Yamada, the same bastard that hung Victoria DeMitri, and 8-Ball, who could be considered one of the most violent men in OPW. Congrats on your matches, though. I know you've had one or two barn burners.

"But you haven't stepped into the ring with this dying star, this worn out talent, this 'old dog'. You haven't stepped into the ring with me."

Cyrus leaned forward, looking at the camera.

"And you know not to judge a book by its cover, Tommy boy. So until you beat me, until you pull back the curtains on this schpeel you think I'm playing, don't talk shit, and don't act like you're so much better than me. Because I know...

The fans know...

our co-workers know...

and even YOU know...

That once it spreads...

There is no cure for this Vyrus."