"Ohhh—that Madison Dyson.
Right.
Madison Dyson.
As in your Madison Dyson.
Congratulations, Samuel. That explains… so much.
I knew that woman was old. No wonder she smelled like mothballs soaked in cheap hairspray and regret—the kind of scent that lingers in a locker room long after the talent’s moved on and the excuses are still warming up.
Let me make sure I’ve got this straight. You’re Madison Dyson’s son.
That Madison Dyson.
The one who walked someone to the ring on a leash while peddling shock-value garbage she thought passed for ideology. The one who used Nazi propaganda as an entire click-bait personality?
The one who mistook provocation for substance and volume for relevance.
The one whose entire career was built on being loud enough that people mistook her for important.
The same Madison Dyson whose ass I kicked to win my first major title here.
The same one who spent the rest of her career trying—desperately—to chop me down every chance she got because she knew, deep down, she was never going to be anything more than a cautionary tale with entrance music.
That Madison Dyson?
Now I understand why you’re so obsessed with reducing women to “objects.” It’s inheritance. It’s easier to shrink the world than to admit your mother stood toe-to-toe with me and came up painfully short. Over. And over. And over again.
You talk about “formative development” like it’s some dark little confession. Trust me—if I shaped anything in your life, it was by example. By showing exactly what happens when someone swings big, talks loud, and still can’t clear the bar.
You didn’t grow up haunted by me.
You grew up measuring yourself against me.
SO......
Samuel… thank you. Truly. It’s not every day a man speed-runs his way from “try-hard edgelord” to “walking HR violation” in under thirty seconds, but you managed it with real hustle. Clocked it. Appreciated it.
Didn’t respect it.
Let’s clear something up before you get any more creative with your keyboard:
You don’t know me.
You don’t understand me.
And you definitely don’t get to narrate me.
You keep saying my name like it’s a spell, like if you say it soft enough or weird enough I’ll suddenly forget who I am and become whatever limp little ideology project you’re trying to duct-tape together this week. That might work on Amber Mansley. It doesn’t work on me.
You want to talk about “consultants” chasing titles? Cute angle. Real Wikipedia-depth analysis there. The difference is: when I move, I move up. When you move, it’s just noise and saliva.
And the whole “object of lust / peak womanhood” speech?
Samuel… sweetheart… that’s not provocative. That’s dated. That’s the kind of thing men say right before everyone stops listening and starts checking their phones. You’re not dangerous. You’re not subversive. You’re a rerun. You're your mother all over again.
Probably explains the Kurt Cobain haircut.
Anyways.....
Wrestle whatever “scrub” you get handed. Cut your little speeches. Shadowbox the idea of me if that helps you sleep. Men like you always need an imaginary woman to fight because the real ones keep declining the invitation.
Here’s the part you’re really gonna hate:
......I’m not reconsidering.
Not for you.
Not ever.
Madison once said I had… what was it?
Oh yeah. “X-Pac heat.”
Go-away heat.
Unwanted.
Unwatchable.
A liability.
And then I left.
I took my “go-away heat,” walked out of this burning trash heap, and turned it into leverage. Into main events. Into legacy. Into becoming one of the biggest names this company’s ever produced. I didn’t disappear—I outgrew the room.
Meanwhile… look at you.
Still here.
Still snarling.
Still trying to shock people into caring.
Still living in the shadow of a woman who couldn’t beat me consistently, couldn’t bury me, and couldn’t stop watching as I became everything she never was.
You didn’t inherit a throne, Samuel.
You inherited a script.
And you’re reciting it word for word—same edge, same bitterness, same irrelevance.
The difference?
I heard “X-Pac heat” and proved them wrong.
You’re hearing silence…
and mistaking it for menace.
That’s not destiny.
That’s stagnation.
Enjoy the shadow.
But hey—if you really want my attention?
Win something that matters.
Survive long enough to be relevant.
Become a problem instead of a punchline.
Until then?
Ciao. 💋
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