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Samael Dyson · **12-21-2025, 05:15 AM**

Oh Jenny, my Jenny!

A consultant you say? A "consultant" who persues the X-treme championship but won't face little ol' Sammy?

....something smells off about this.

Nevertheless Jenny, I DO know you. And I believe you knew my mother, Madison!

Yessss.....know you indeed. In fact, you were a very formative part of my development into a man growing up. Heh heh hehhhhhh....

...about all you're good for really.

Oh, but that's not an insult!

Being nothing but an object of lust is, in my humble opinion, peak womanhood!

Oh Jenny, we could do so much together! We could crush feminism once and for all! Distill down to who and WHAT you are at the most basic level, and in so doing unlock your true purestrain beauty.

So whaddya say, maybe think it over? Give it some reconsideration?

....for me, Jenny-wenny?

Pwease...?

YourHighnessofViolence · (12-21-2025)

"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.

[Image: alexa-bliss-alexa-bliss-wwe-(1).gif]

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. 💋

[Image: wwe-blissfit.gif]

Samael Dyson · **12-21-2025, 01:02 PM**

Samael watches Jenny through bleary half lidded eyes.

I wonder what he's thinking?

Maybe he's wondering why Jenny, despite claiming that Samael means nothing and is nothing compared to her, just cut a WHOLE ASS PROMO ON HIM?

Maybe's he's wondering why aforementioned promo spent half its run time tearing down the mother that Samael HATES, as if that would cause him some kind of injury?

Or maybe he's wondering why Jenny would spend so much time claiming Sam's mother's words were never anything but meaningless bloviation while vividly reciting an insult she levied at Jenny FUCKING YEARS AGO?

Or perhaps he's wondering why Jenny would claim that Sam doesn't know her right after he just got done saying he watched her promos for YEARS? Promos in which she regularly bemoaned being treated as a sex object, or being mistreated by men, all the while proferring up her sexuality as one of her biggest assets and coming out to theme music literally called SEX METAL BARBIE.

Or could he be wondering why it's so easy to punch holes in everything Jenny says in a fraction of the time it takes HER to speak?

Or maybe...just maybe....he's wondering....

....why is this sex meat talking in the first place?

*belch*

Clutch · **12-21-2025, 03:01 PM**

Clutch Cassidy suddenly enters the room, if there is a room? Is there a scene setting here? If not, then Jenny and Sam need to up their game, yeah?

Whatever. There's now a scene setting here, because I am third-party POV'ing this. It is a nice room. Maybe a hotel suite? Whose room? Where? Nobody knows. Just imagine it, though, yeah?

Clutch is carrying a big sack of take-out food. She's happy. So very happy. Even sporting her half of the Anarchy tag straps around her waist on off-hours from the ring.

In a sing-song type rap voice, with some poorly done be-bopping, she 'sings'... "Sammy, Sammy, Sambo, I got us some yummy, yummy egg rolls.....and other shit too mmmmmmhmmmm yummy yummy in my tummy!"

She sets the sack down on the table and only now realizes there is another woman in the room.

Not just any woman, either.

One of the GOATS!

Clutch rips off her sunshades. Yes, she wears sunshades indoors, at night. Because only the coolest of the cool do that shit, and she's soooo fuckin cool. She smiles.

"Jenny dag-gum Myst? Holy shit!"

Clutch's jovial demeanor is short-lived, however. She notices the way Sam is looking at Jenny, or rather, UNDRESSING Jenny with his eyes.

"Hey, man! Dafuq?" She snaps her fingers in Sam's face. Although Sam's been lusting after Clutch since becoming her strictly platonic tag partner, a lust she has respectfully rejected, Clutch knows his lustful looks at Jenny might be a problem. "Don't get sidetracked with Jenny. We got a tag defense coming up on the first Anarchy of 2026. You need to lock the fuck in, man."

And what's this? Uh oh, is there a small, almost unnoticeable flash of jealousy swimming across Clutch's features as she tosses a once-over look at Jenny and notices how obviously hotter she is than her?

YourHighnessofViolence · **12-21-2025, 04:30 PM**

Ummm?

Who are you?

Samael Dyson · (12-22-2025)

(12-21-2025, 04:30 PM)YourHighnessofViolence Said: Ummm?

Who are you?

Ah yes, that classic Jenny Myst rhetorical trinket, pretending not to know who someone is so as to seem so cool and above it all. When in reality it just makes you look like an ignorant cooze who couldn't be arsed to learn who the champions were before returning to the XWF. Maybe now that Jenny Myst has been completely told and folded like a particle board table she should continue shutting the fuck up before she continues to confirm she hasn't improved a shred in intellect or wisdom in over 7 years.

Or so Samael thinks.

Anyhoo!

Sam perks up as Clutch snaps her fingers in his face. He smiles when he sees Clutch, completely forgetting about Jenny.

Babe! Don't worry about this other bitch! She was just leaving!

Egg rolls? Fuck yeah....

YourHighnessofViolence · **12-22-2025, 10:01 PM**

(12-22-2025, 03:52 AM)Samael Dyson Said:
(12-21-2025, 04:30 PM)YourHighnessofViolence Said: Ummm?

Who are you?

Ah yes, that classic Jenny Myst rhetorical trinket, pretending not to know who someone is so as to seem so cool and above it all. When in reality it just makes you look like an ignorant cooze who couldn't be arsed to learn who the champions were before returning to the XWF. Maybe now that Jenny Myst has been completely told and folded like a particle board table she should continue shutting the fuck up before she continues to confirm she hasn't improved a shred in intellect or wisdom in over 7 years.

Or so Samael thinks.

Anyhoo!

Sam perks up as Clutch snaps her fingers in his face. He smiles when he sees Clutch, completely forgetting about Jenny.

Babe! Don't worry about this other bitch! She was just leaving!

Egg rolls? Fuck yeah....

"…oh my god, thank you for that.

I was starting to worry you might actually be capable of finishing a thought without tripping over your own insecurity, but nope—there it is. Same rhythm. Same tantrum cadence. Same frantic need to sound smarter than you are by stapling words together and hoping confidence does the rest.
You call it a “rhetorical trinket.”

I call it muscle memory.

Because here’s the thing, Samuel—I don’t pretend not to know people to look cool. I forget people who never mattered long enough to leave an impression. Champions leave scars. Rivals leave chapters. Background noise leaves… nothing.

And you?

You’re background noise arguing with itself.

The funniest part is you think you “told and folded” me. Like this was some kind of intellectual shootout and you didn’t just unload a manifesto written by a man who Googles himself after promos to see if anyone noticed. Seven years, you say? Seven years and I still don’t need to raise my voice to make you unravel......just like your mommy dearest.

I see this place is still the Florida of feds. Fantastic.

But please—let’s talk about intellect and wisdom.

Because while I was gone, I evolved. I learned when to walk away, when to level up, when to stop explaining myself to men who confuse verbosity with value. I built something bigger than this room.

You stayed.

Same tone.

Same edge-for-the-sake-of-edge routine.

Same obsession with women who outgrew you and your inbred family.

Same need to narrate victories no one else saw.

And then—my favorite part—you drop everything the second Clutch snaps her fingers.

Gone.

Focus shattered.

Jenny Myst evaporates from your mind like she always does once a real woman enters your orbit.

“Babe! Don’t worry about this other bitch! She was just leaving!”

Exactly.

Because men like you only find courage when you’re performing for someone else—and even then, it’s borrowed.

So yes. I am leaving.

Not because you won.

Not because you shut me up.

But because I don’t need to compete with a man who loses interest mid-rant the second egg rolls get mentioned.

Enjoy the meal.

Enjoy the echo chamber.

Enjoy the comfort of never having to become more than you already are.

I’ll be remembered either way.

Okay bye bye. 💋

Samael Dyson · **12-23-2025, 04:09 AM**

Samael is too busy enjoying his food to even ponder what a glorified sex doll like Jenny Myst has to say about him.

But if he were wasting precious food time ruminating on what this living breathing canker sore has to say about him, it'd probably go something like this.

So let me get this straight Jen Jen. You have now claimed TWICE that I'm is nothing but background noise that is beneath your attention. But TWICE you have responded to me with whole ass promos mewling about how you're not an illogical idiot and in fact better than everyone else.

This is just Jenny Myst, the same purestrain moron she's always been for 7+ years, telling on herself again. Because for as voraciously as Jenny claims I'm insecure, she's the one allowing me to press the button on Sex Metal Barbie over and over again, making her sing and dance. She's the one who feels the need to defend herself repeatedly against a man who will never EVER see her as more than a set of fuckable orifices all the while claiming she stopped needing to "explain herself to men who confuse verbosity with value".

She's the one refusing to put up her dukes and fight for her honor under the guise of "consulting" all the while pursuing the Xtreme championship. A hollow lie for a hollow, indefensibly stupid woman.

Jenny Myst, same as she ever was.

But at least this time it came with a modicum of insight.

"Jenny Myst evaporates from your mind like she always does once a real woman enters your orbit."

Yes, Jenny, once a REAL WOMAN enters my orbit. A REAL WOMAN, and not just the prattling miasma of insececurity and PTSD best known for getting slapped around by Chris Chaos.

At least that's what Sam would be thinking if he hadn't found something far more interesting to focus on than some overly verbose moron who doesn't know when she's showed her whole ass.

Nevertheless, something in his sex charged animal brain "clicks" right before Jenny leaves the room. With a piece of greasy egg roll half hanging out of his mouth, he opens his mouth to sputter at Jenny,

TITS OR GET THE FUCK OUT!

Sam sprays Jenny's pants with bits of salivated on egg roll as he shouts at her. But naturally, having been thoroughly cowed, she still leaves.

(Gravy_Xtreme_5000) · (12-23-2025)

"Jenny's back? New tone———————weird vibes–———————still AMAZING—LY SHIT!"

Pukes blood.

YourHighnessofViolence · **12-23-2025, 08:43 PM**

I am back as a consultant role only. Sorry to burst your bubble gravy train.

(Gravy_Xtreme_5000) · **12-24-2025, 03:02 AM**

(12-23-2025, 08:43 PM)YourHighnessofViolence Said: I am back as a consultant role only. Sorry to burst your bubble gravy train.

”I didn’t ask. Welcome… home, I guess…”

Clutch · **12-24-2025, 01:50 PM**

While Sam and Jenny bicker like kids on a school playground arguing over who gets to climb the monkey bars next, Clutch busies herself by opening up the plates of food she'd gotten for her and her tag team partner.

It's not just egg rolls. Other goodies come with it: chow mein, crab rangoon, mozzarella sticks, and she even pulls out two thick boxes of delicious tiramisu dessert. It's an Italian dessert. How Clutch got it at a Chinese restaurant is for a different discussion. Maybe she is like a female Chuck Norris? Chuck can order a Big Mac at Burger King and still get it.

Becoming fed up (pun intended) with Sam and Jenny squabbling, Clutch suddenly spins and shoves an egg roll into Sam's mouth mid trash-talk. To her annoyance, it does little to cease his mouthing, but he does seem to be enjoying the egg roll enough to spit portions out and onto Jenny's attire as she leaves.

"Finally.... jeez" Clutch's eyes roll so deep her eyeballs nearly get stuck in her skull. She tugs Sam toward the table so that he won't get the wild hair up his ass to chase after Jenny.

And that's when Clutch jumps in her skin, startled. "Dafuq, dude?" She points at the masked man still standing in the room. She reacts quickly, pulling the man's mask away from his face a good 10-12 inches before just as quickly releasing it. *SMACK* The collision of mask to face sounds off.

"Either eat or get the fuck out, fella."

She tosses an egg roll at the masked Graves.

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