[Jeff Andrews sighed.]

[He was seated, as it were, on his customary arm chair, but any sense of normality ended there.]

[Right now, he was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, head down, John Deere hat nowhere to be seen.]

[And he sighed again.]

Andrews:
Ever since the Ultratitle…

[He sighed again, and this time, it quivered, and his fingers shook.]

Andrews:
Ever since the Ultratitle was announced, and Eric Dane demanded a substantial Defiance presence in it… things.  have gone… to hell.

Dane pushes me to succeed.  Heritage League falls to shit.  I win my first two matches, and the guys that call the shots don’t give a shit, and put me up against a guy who already lost.

And then Dane decides he don’t care, and he fucks off to wherever Castor Strife lives to stalk a World Title shot out of him, and you can make a point about the Ultratitle bringing Defiance recognition, but nobody ‘round here besides Eric Dane gives a dead horse’s last shit about NFW.

[Andrews straightens up just a bit, and cracks his knuckles.]

Andrews:
He’s gone, and I have to listen to face painted faggots try to talk like they’re smarter than me, and I have to listen to bitchy little cunts say they won’t talk to me because I’m not the real boss, Dane’s not here and he gets butthurt when I try to do business, and it all started with the fucking Ultratitle, the Ultratitle you gave up on trying to win, Cancer Jiles, and…

[He twists his neck to the side, producing a sharp crack.]

Andrews:
Now I’ve just beaten a third opponent that I wasn’t supposed to beat, and my biggest problem with that match is that it took me 27 minutes to put Sean Stevens away, not 2.7 minutes, and I am absolutely sick to fucking death of anyone and anything that has ever self-described as any combination of the words ‘cocky’, ‘cerebral’, and ‘heel’.

I’m sick to death of long flowing blonde hair – on dudes, Heidi you’re still my girl – I’m sick to death of shit eating grins and braggarts and all that.

I’m sick of you, Cancer Jiles, sick of you, sick of three people that look like you, sick of random dudes you said ‘hi’ to once… So sick of you I don’t even have the heart to threaten you.

Because just threatening you is so unsatisfying, so inefficient, that it gnaws inside me.

[Gritting his teeth so hard they grind together, Andrews looks up, then back down.]

Andrews:
I’ve chased you all around arenas.  I’ve wrestled you in clean singles matches, clean tag matches, I’ve pinned you absolutely and completely cleanly, and no matter what I do and say, there’s people out there going to think of that battle royal as the defining moment of our… incident.

And then… then you want to go back over it all, and call it reminiscing, and pretend that on some level, there’s some sort of connection between us.  Like a yin-yang sort of thing.  As though it were somehow personal that I only tried to enforce the rules of Defiance on you

[He finally sits up, sliding his hands over his head, smoothing the hair he no longer actually has.]

Andrews:
I hate you, Cancer Jiles.

I hate you because you talk, I hate you because you wear sunglasses, I hate the sound of your wrestling boots on the canvass, and I hate how, after all this time, you try to play this match we’re about to have up as some sort of place to settle a score.

We don’t have a score to settle.

You don’t even have a real reason to hate me back.

You hate me in the way a kid hates his parents after they tell him to go to his room, nothing more.  You don’t even know what hate is… you don’t know anything about any of the things that you’re talking about.

And yet, you talk as though I were putting as much work as you are into not having to wrestle this match…

[Andrews blinks a few times, then clenches his jaw.]

Andrews:
I can’t even fucking talk about you anymore, Jiles… I can’t wait until HERI 07.

[End]

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