XIV

THE PROPOSAL

“No one knows what it’s like
To be hated, to be fated
To telling only lies“
— Native American Proverb

LONG IS THE WAY, AND HARD, whispers in my head as I deliver the presentation to the esteemed Osaka Business Development Agency. The topic? A proposed expansion of VilaroFit into the international market, but not simply a fitness complex. No, this will be so much more. An all inclusive luxury hotel, gym, and spa. A destination for a better life. A better you.

And they hate it.

I can see it on their stupid, glib faces. Most of them are actively scowling as I walk them through a 3D virtual tour on the LCD wall display. VilaroLUX, the ultimate wellness experience. Personalized Expansive suites. One-on-one fitness instruction for platinum tier guests. Dietitians. Nutritionists. Lavish designer shops. A five star restaurant with a menu created by famed Iron Chef Masaharu Morimoto. It will have it all, and every percentage of profit will be the wind beneath Marisol Vilaro’s wings.

Then, when the power point nears the end, I smile at them. Not my kind of smile. A fake-fake-fake smile. The same lying simper people wear every day of their meaningless lives in the name of etiquette.

At the grocery store when the clerk asks if you found everything okay.

At Starbucks when you pick up your cappa-fuck-you-chino with the little heart in the foam.

At work when the coworker with body odor passes you in the hallway.

You don’t know these people. You don’t like them. All you want is to get from Point A to Point B as quickly as possible without being inconvenienced. The police officer writes a ticket instead of a warning? Smile. Your boss denies your request to take off for your birthday? Smile.

These sick little games are what it’s like to be normal and I hate it. What I wouldn’t give for a little bit of the old violence of our forebears. Imagine the heads of these men who feel so powerful displayed on pikes with their eyes peeled open and jaws hanging slack.

The long table is flanked by six board members, all of them with gray hair and wrinkled faces. At the head sits Tateno Junzo, President of the OBDA. From behind a pair of thick black glasses he stares at me without the faintest attempt at hiding his dissatisfaction at my presence.

He says loudly, “Why are you here? We were under the impression we would be meeting with Nishimura-san.”

Satoshi Nishimura is a corporate lawyer in Osaka. I retained his services to aid in the process of securing the financing and permits for VilaroLUX.

I bow my head and reply in Japanese, “Nishimura-san was instrumental in developing the proposal for VilaroLUX. However, I wanted to personally share with you the vision Marisol Vilaro has for Osaka.”

Chuckles bounce around the table.

Tateno says, “You think because you learn our language that you are welcome to come in here and tell us what you envision for Osaka?” He laughs louder. The remainder of the board echoes his mockery.

“You speak Japanese like a dog who thinks it can talk but all I hear is bark-bark-bark. It offends me every time you open your mouth.” More laughter. He then switches to English, “Thankfully I speak dog. Tell us, gaijin, what were you hoping to achieve by coming here today and insulting this board?”

I raise my head and say flatly, “I expected you to listen to my proposal and judge it based on its merits.”

“The merits?” He scoffs. “There are no merits. Osaka already has hotels and gyms. We do not need more, especially from you or anyone you’re associated with.”

My words seethe through my teeth. “Why did you accept this meeting and let me go through the whole presentation if you never had any intent of accepting our proposal?”

He adjusts his glasses and says, “Etiquette dictates that all projects of such scale receive the opportunity to present their plans to the members of the board, even when we find the person reprehensible.”

I am unbridled rage.

He leans forward with his forearms on the table and his hands clasped together with intertwined fingers. “We know who you are, Yelena Gorgo. We have seen you on television. We have read your social media posts. You are a crazy woman who talks about herself as we and us. This is not someone we wish to be in business with.”

I cover my mouth to muffle a giggle. Their faces twist in shock at the disrespect. I bend forward and bow my head. “Forgive me. I only laugh because this is a misunderstanding. What you are referring to is a character I play on television. That is not who I really am.”

LIAR LIAR PANTS ON FIRE.

This is me playing a character. Prada. Chanel. Versace. Makeup. Hair. Perfume. This is my design. This is the costume I wear when I want to be seens as a rich socialite. A CEO. A philanthropist.

“Nor does my wrestling career have anything to do with the business of my firm or VilaroFIT. These two things are totally separate from one another.”

“Even so,” he says while hunching forward, “we cannot overlook your words and actions against Japan, its people, and its national heroes. Your repeated disrespect for Olympic hero Hamada Shori is particularly reprehensible.”

“Oh, that bitch,” I blurt out. Or was it The Other Me momentarily taking control? No, that one was all me.

Gasps suck the air out of the room. Tateno rises out of his chair on weak legs supported with metal braces. His weight leans on the table with his hands and he yells at me in Japanese. “I want you to leave now and never return. So long as there is breath in my lungs you will never build this monstrosity in Osaka.”

“He has a point.”

The Other Me is at the window with her back to me. Her face, faintly reflected in the glass, is looking at me with eyes surrounded by dark circles like she hasn’t slept in weeks. Her blood red lips are stretched around a strained, stiff grin.

“We should kill him. Kill them all while we’re at it. Brace the door and let me out. We’ll do it together.”

I say to her and her only, “Do you want to rot in a Japanese prison?”

“Depends,” she cracks. “Do they have HBO? We still need to finish Sex and the City.”

“Are you kidding me? Most people in this country live in one room, sleep on floors, and don’t have central air. At best the prison might have Tubi.”

She makes a sour face.

I’m pulled back to the meeting when one of the suits shouts in Japanese, “What is she doing? Why is she not talking?”

“Crazy gaijin,” another says.

“Go back to America, crazy woman. We don’t want you here!”

My fist slams on the table, immediately silencing the room. They’re staring at me in disbelief. These men think they have so much power, but they do not know what real power is.

The fire and brimstone that destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah resonates within me as I speak in their language.

“First of all, I’m not American.” My eyes are sharp as knives and my voice gowling. “I’m from Moldova and my father, who was a great man, was Danish. So if you’re going to insult me and my heritage, then at least get it right.”

I’m walking down the length of the table. The first board member rises out of his chair to confront me, but my hand grabs his shoulder and shoves him back into his seat.

I look down and say with a sneer, “For example, if I wanted to insult your heritage, I would mention how you’re nothing but a bunch of subservient, weak-willed cucks who haven’t had a back bone since the bombs dropped. You used to be an empire. Now look at you. Millions of men suffering from low self-esteem and erectile dysfunction, so you take it out on others, especially women like me and Marisol. Strong women with more money and power than you’ll ever have.”

I continue down the table, letting my hand brush across the shoulders of the next five men. All of them recoil from my touch but no one else dares to challenge me. At the head of the table, Tateno is still on his feet with his rickety polio legs locked straight in his braces. He points a finger up at my face. I grab it and with a slight amount of pressure, bend it backward until the pain drives him down into his chair.

I don’t let go.

“Now you listen to me,” I say as he quivers. “One way or another, I’m getting the permits. The only question is how much money am I willing to spend to ruin your lives. The answer is a lot.”

I allow him his finger back. He holds it with his other hand but doesn’t look up at me. None of them speak as I walk away. I retrieve my thumb drive from the display and grab my satchel off the table. I don’t hear a peep from them until the door closes behind me, and then it’s nothing but garbled shouting bleeding through the wall. Clerks, startled by the raised voices, rise from their cubicles and stare as I stroll through the office.

I don’t look at them or say anything, not until I’m in the elevator and the door slides shut. Then I scream. I scream so loud my voice feels like it’s being ripped apart like tattered fabric.

The doors open with a subtle chime. After pushing a few strands of loose hair behind my ear, I raise my chin and step off the elevator. There are two security guards waiting to escort me out the building.

Before I’m through the revolving door, a cigarette is already between my lips and a lighter in my hand. I stop on the busy sidewalk, forcing the current of pedestrians to cut around me while I strike a flame but before I can light up one of the security guards yells from the door.

“No smoking on street, gaijin!”

I tell him to eat shit but a passing police cruiser forces me to shove the cigarette and lighter in the pocket of my satchel. I start walking south in the direction of the metro station.

“Think, Yelena,” I say to myself sharply while rubbing my forehead. If I can’t close this deal, Marisol will need another investor. Someone who might try to steal her away from me. It’s bad enough I have to share her with her boyfriend, Gabe. And then there’s Nessa Wall. The mentor. Thinking about her fat ass makes me hot in all the right places but if she gets between me and Mari I’ll throw her into an industrial shredder.

I dig my phone out of my bag and text the chauffeur to bring the car around. I’m waiting impatiently and scrolling social media when a call comes through. The number’s blocked. I almost hang up but something makes my thumb swipe up. Maybe it was intuition. Maybe it was the Other Me giving me a nudge when I needed it the most.

“Hello,” I say after bringing the phone to my ear.

“Gorgo-san,” a man replies through the speaker.

I immediately recognize the voice. It’s Kaito, Shōgun Fukuyama’s translator and emissary. Isn’t this convenient? Five minutes after being ridiculed and denied by the Osaka industrial bureau, the yakuza comes calling.

I look up the street and back down at all the cars or anyone standing out from the flow of pedestrians, expecting to see him or Fukuyama’s pet assassin Yaponchik watching me from afar.

“Hello, Kaito,” I say with a sharp tone. “What a coincidence to get a call from you after the meeting I just had with the OBDA. What does his holiness want?”

There’s a long pause, likely him weighing how to respond to my blatant suggestion that his master was behind the sacking of my proposal.

“The Shōgun is sad to hear of your current predicament and would like to offer his assistance. He invites you to join him for afternoon tea at Maikoya. See you soon.”

Click. The line goes dead. “This mother fucker,” I mutter as the black Mercedes pulls to the curb and stops. The chauffeur climbs out of the front seat and leads me around the rear of the car. He opens the back door and I slip into the back of the sedan. The leather contours around me.

After the door shuts, the Other Me is now sitting behind the driver’s seat. Her head is tilted away, staring out at cars passing by the window. Her faint reflection greets me with a smile.

“What do you think,” I ask her.

“What do I think?” A hoarse chuckle ratchets out of her throat. “It’s all going according to plan. Just like I said it would.”

“Of course you want to take all the credit, you bitch.”

We knew it was only a matter of time before Fukuyama would attempt to lure us into his debt, but he waited months to make his move. I have to admit, he has impeccable timing. I had almost given up hope, but my twin never doubted for a moment the yakuza would try to bend me to their will.

“He thinks we’re weak,” my twin says to me after the chauffeur gets behind the wheel and the car starts moving.

“He thinks we’re a piggy bank,” I correct her before raising my voice for the driver to hear. “Maikoya Tea House.”

The chauffeur nods silently.

“A piggy bank,” the Other Me scoffs.

I look over at her, then forward. “More like a bear trap.”

MY BARE KNEES PRESS INTO the tatami with the Italian leather of my skirt stretched around my thighs and I bend forward until my forehead nearly touches the straw mat. Almost immediately my shins and ankles begin to ache from the position. I’ll try not to moan.

“Welcome, Gorgo-san,” Shōgun Fukuyama says, followed quickly by his servant, Kaito, translating to English.

Slowly my head lifts and my back straightens. My host is seated on a short platform, making his head ever so slightly higher than mine. As in our first meeting, the top half of his face is hidden under a takuhatsugasa, so it isn’t just a fashion statement. His knees are resting on a zabuton and I’m slightly annoyed because no one offered me a fucking cushion. Sitting two inches higher and not having numb legs is the passive aggressive Japanese way of informing me that he is the big boss.

Behind him, past a line of open shoji doors is a gorgeous Japanese garden, with multicolored trees and blooming spring flowers. Kaito and Yaponchik are to his right and left, and both are kneeling. All three are wearing elaborate kimonos as if at any moment the scene might turn into a kabuki play.

A geisha is preparing the tea behind a small divider. Never once do her eyes raise or does she give the slightest hint that her ears are listening to our conversation.

“You honor me, Shōgun,” I say in Japanese.

He suddenly gives a big belly laugh before turning to his left. “It appears I do not need your services today, Kaito.” He bellows again then says to me, “I was told you were learning our language but most gaijin struggle with the sentence structure. How long have you been taking lessons?”

“Since October. I began shortly after our first meeting.”

“Even more impressive. Are you able to write as well?”

I wave my hand so-so. “That’s coming a little slower, but I’m getting there.”

He says briskly, “Still, it is quite an accomplishment to speak as well as you do after only five months. I assume this means you expect to be in Japan long term.”

“Yes,” I say as my hands fold together on top of my thighs. “Now that UPRISING is closed, I can be here long term. This will make it easier to train and compete in Miracle Galaxy Pro.”

“And to oversee your business interests,” he says coyly.

“It’s funny you should mention that,” I start to say, only to be cut off when he raises his hand to silence me. The geisha, having completed the preparation of the tea, was waiting patiently with a long tray with four decorative bowls spaced across. Her kimono barely moves around her as she gracefully crosses the room to kneel before Fukuyama. She respectfully bows her head while transferring the first bowl to the floor in front of him.

As the guest of honor, I am next, followed by Kaito and then lastly Yaponchik. The geisha bows once more to the host before returning to her place where she gently sits on her knees and lowers her head for the remainder of the meeting.

Fukuyama deliberately tugs the sleeves of his kimono up before bending forward to cup his hands around the bowl. After sitting back, he turns the bowl three times until the printed side faces me. I follow his direction, minus the sleeves, followed by Kaito and Yaponchik performing the same ritual.

Each of us drinks together. The matcha is bitter at first, but only for a moment, then the flavor softens and finishes with an unexpected sweetness.

“What do you think,” Fukuyama asks.

“Delicious,” I say with a smile before taking another drink. That isn’t a lie. The tea is quite good, but I have better things to do than this pomp and circumstance. My patience was running thin before I even walked into this room. He is already marked for death on my father’s kill list. If he also is fucking the VilaroLUX deal, I’ll hang him by his entrails.

He takes another sip, then after swallowing, says, “I am glad to hear it. Now we can discuss business.”

I lower my tea and stare at his stupid straw hat and through the fibers, at the slivers of glimpses of his veiled eyes. “Did you kill my deal with the OBDA?”

Yaponchick, for the first time, reacts to me. Her eyes narrow and her brow tenses over them, but she doesn’t dare speak. Kaito, on the other hand, opens his mouth to possibly play referee, but he is cut off by the Shōgun.

“Your forwardness would not typically be tolerated, but in this situation, I understand your distrustfulness. I am a man of my word. You completed our contract in San Francisco and, per the terms, I have not sought to help or hinder your career in Japan, nor was I involved in the OBDA ruling against your proposal.”

“I don’t believe in coincidence, Shōgun. Is it not strangely convenient that Kaito-san called me a minute after I was ejected from the building by security?”

He smiles below the brim of his takuhatsugasa. “I didn’t say I wasn’t aware of your meeting, or its logical outcome.”

“Logical outcome…Is that your way of saying that I’m damaged goods?” I mean, I am, but no one wants to hear that. I’m a sensitive soul.

“I would never state it in such an…impolite way, but you do have a reputation that many traditionalists in Japan find unappetizing, especially when it comes to awarding large development contracts.”

“Money talks,” I say simply. “Whose palm do I have to grease to get the project approved?”

“I’m afraid it isn’t that simple.”

“It’s always that simple when it comes to money.”

He sighs before placing his bowl on the mat. Kaito and Yaponchik mime his movement. He says, “Nothing is so simple in Japan. Not when the person offering the money is someone they personally find unappealing as a partner in business, and there is always someone else with similarly deep pockets in Osaka.”

My patience is a thread at its breaking point. How can he sit there, so smugly lording his influence over me like I’m one of his pawns? It’s because he has never been challenged by someone unrestrained by a code of honor. He has never faced a hyena who wants nothing more than to chew his face off, or a viper that will slither into his room in the dead of the night while he sleeps.

I purposefully drop my tea on the mat causing some of the remaining green liquid to splash out of the bowl and land on the straw floor. The geisha gasps but doesn’t say anything. Yaponchik, however, makes a move to stand, unable to ignore the utter disrespect I’m showing her master.

She shouts at me, breaking the serenity of the tea house, “Kono marui me no meinu! Dōshite Shōgun o keishi suru koto ga dekimasu ka?”

You round-eyed bitch! How dare you disrespect the Shōgun?

“Sit down and be silent,” Fukuyama commands her. The words drive her back to her knees and immediately her back arches forward as she bows to him.

“Forgive me, Oyabun.”

It takes everything in me to not laugh at the surreal absurdity of what’s happening right now. I address Yaponchik first. “I came here to find out why your master scuttled my deal for VilaroLUX. Where I come from, we don’t spend an hour waiting for tea and dancing around the obvious.”

My eyes move back to Fukuyama and I say, “If you didn’t kill my proposal to the Osaka board, then you certainly were hoping for that outcome because you want something. Tell me what it is and I’ll give you my answer. Otherwise I have other matters which require my attention.”

Several seconds pass without a response from the Shōgun. He is staring at me, but his body language is well-guarded. Is he deciding whether my intention was to insult him, and if so what should the consequences be for my insolence?”

“I will forgive your tone,” he says.

Oh, thank you, my master. Vomit.

He continues, “Your dedication to learning Japanese and calling this your home, if only temporarily, can lead one to forget that you are ignorant to our customs. I forgive you, Gorgo-san, and out of respect for what I believe will be a mutually beneficial relationship, I offer this: You will receive your approval to begin building this BirāroLUX.”

My teeth clenched as my head bends ever so slightly forward. “I thank you for your generous offer but I must ask, what do you require in return?”

“Standard practice would dictate that my organization receive a small stake in the company in thanks for our small, but necessary contribution to its creation…”

My heart beat pounds in my hands as they tighten into white-knuckled fists. I am wrath. Somewhere, in the deep dark, the Other Me giggles in delight because she knows my ability to maintain balances on the edge of a knife.

“However,” he says, drawing my gaze from the floor, “though this arrangement would be fair compensation for our assistance, I understand you would never allow yourself to accept such an arrangement. You would rather abandon the idea of Osaka altogether than to consider me a partner. Perhaps you would try your luck in Tokyo, but you know the result would be no different. The location may change, but you cannot be someone else.”

A sly half-grin pulls at the left corner of his mouth. “There may be another way you could repay my organization this favor, being a woman of skill and a flexible sense of morality.”

I imagine my fists beating his face, first with boney knuckles that split open from the repeated impacts, then with the sides of my clenched hands that slam into his head like hammers on an anvil. See his jagged teeth protruding through his lips. See his cheeks caved in. See his eyes disappear beneath blood-filled sacs of swollen flesh. Hear the ragged wheeze as his throat closes.

“My enemies,” he continues, “are protected and I cannot be seen as the source of any aggression. You are a gaijin, unaffiliated with any clan. You will be the left hand of my hidden arm. My secret weapon and my greatest strength.”

I can’t help but notice the disappointment on Yaponchik’s face. Once again Fukuyama is entrusting me and not her to carry out his nefarious schemes and spill blood on his behalf. She’s probably used to being the favorite. Now she’s suffering from middle child syndrome.

My hands cup the bowl and bring it to my lips. Before taking a sip, I ask softly, “If I agree to your terms, how long will our arrangement last?”

His shoulders roll slightly as he drinks from his own bowl, then after swallowing, his words pass through the steam rising from the hot tea. “One year from today.”

The length of time is meaningless. The Shōgun won’t live that long, but I cannot agree without negotiation or threaten to expose my ill intentions.

“Six months.”

“Nine,” he counters.

“Seven.”

He gives a grunting hrmph, then says, “Eight. Final offer.”

“And you will make sure the Osaka board approves all our permits and stays out of my way.”

He lowers his head with a short but direct nod. “Hai.”

“Then I accept, so long as it doesn’t interfere with my in-ring career. Don’t ask me to miss matches I’ve been booked for.”

“Doing so would only heighten suspicion,” he tells me. “But you will need to live here in Japan full time to ensure you are available when called upon. Your duties may be time sensitive and unable to wait for you to return from America.”

“With UPRISING closing, I currently have no wrestling commitments outside of Japan, and my corporate responsibilities by and large can be handled remotely. There may be events I must attend elsewhere, but I can make sure you know ahead of time to make sure there are no scheduling conflicts.”

“Then it appears we have a deal,” he says with a wolfish smile pulling at his lips.

I place my bowl down, gently this time, then push myself to my feet and stand. My head lowers and eyes cast downward as I say, “When can I expect my first assignment?”

“In time. For now, enjoy Osaka. You will receive a call from President Junzo by the end of business apologizing for the disrespect he and the board treated you, and to inform you that your permits have been approved. Oh, and good luck in your fight against Datura. I’ll be watching with great interest.”

I bow again. “Thank you, Shōgun.”

I want to cover you in gasoline and light you on fire. I want to slice off your balls with a cheese grater. I want to shove needles into the tips of your fingers. I want to throw you into a vat of acid. I want to slowly drive over you with a road roller while singing the lyrics to Fell In Love With A Girl.

He dismisses me with a wave of his hand. Kaito and Yaponchik bow their heads and I respond in kind.

I am the warm hand around your neck. The cold steel of the knife in your back. The soft whisper telling you goodnight before you drift into nothing, and then less than nothing, until all that remains are your decaying molecules.

EXT. A CEMETERY.

A grave is covered in a mound of rounded fresh dirt. Behind it, a narrow tombstone rises out of the earth against the black milieu of a starless sky. Etched into the granite marker are the words:

HERE LIES
UPRISING
NOVEMBER 21 2020 – MARCH 2 2024

Leaning back against the tombstone is the UPRISING WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP. It’s covered in grime and crusty red gunk—blood from the Terrordome match it was last defended in. The silver face plate glimmers in the ambien moonlight.

Someone walks into frame.

FOCUS ON — A PAIR OF MOTO BOOTS.

Black and covered in dried mud and scuffs. They take two steps and stop. After a beat, a shovel thrusts down and sinks half of its blade into the loose soil.

A woman’s voice starts sing-songing an old Platters’ hit, but the voice is a jagged buzzsaw of dissonant harmonies.

SINGER

♫ Only you…can make this world seem right ♫

The CAMERA BOOMS UP the length of the calf-high boots, over worn leather and dull metal buckles and zippers. Black denim takes over at the knee and continues skin-tight around muscular thighs and a stitched crotch. Above it, a loose silver belt buckle embossed with Old Norse runes is slack around the hip.

SINGER

♫ Only you…can make the darkness bright ♫

Tucked loosely in the waist is a dirty white t-shirt and over it she wears a double-rider leather jacket—open. There are two buttons pinned to the lapels. One reads WE HATE EVERYONE BUT US inside a pink heart. The other button shows the face of David Berkowitz encircled by the words YOU’RE NEVER ALONE IF YOU HEAR VOICES.

SINGER

♫ Only you…and you alone…
Can thrill me like you do… ♫

The shirt stretches over two perfect breasts, no bra, with hard nipples pushing against the thin material. Cleavage peeks out of low scoop neck and around the her neck is a black collar with ママさん stamped on the metal front buckle.

SINGER

♫ And fill my heart with love…
For only you… ♫

Dimpled chin. Defined jawline. Full lips, smeared with glossy crimson lipstick, are pulled apart and up in a grotesque, toothy grin.

Of course it’s Yelena Gorgo.

GORGO

We’re supposed to apologize for all the tricks we’ve committed and the fires we’ve started, but that would be a lie.

Dirt, or oil, or some other grime is smeared over the top half of her face and around her eyes. Her blonde hair is braided back into tight rows and down to her neck.

GORGO

The funny thing is, UPRISING was warned. Nightmare Galaxy Pro was warned. There are petitions demanding our firing going back to our debut. Journalists tippy-typy their rants after every show calling our actions atrocities. Boo fucking hoo. And don’t get us started about the other wrestlers in the industry. Always bitching and moaning behind the scenes. Always condemning us on social media.

All that attention makes us weak in the knees.

Her tongue runs achingly slow over her top lip before the bottom is bit between her teeth.

GORGO

WE killed UPRISING.
Just like we said we would.

And Jackson? Mari’s papa? The CEO of UPRISING should have known better than to let us into his company, because we’re the wolf in the stories your parents warned you about.

Tatsumaki Aoi and Satoshi Kato get a pass.

They didn’t know us. Not really. They didn’t know our family history.

Then again, ignorance isn’t an excuse and it’s only bliss if you never find out otherwise. Are they even paying attention to us yet?

There’s so much going on in NGP, so much drama, so maybe we’ve slipped through the cracks.

Her head swivels backward, then jerks abruptly to the right.

GORGO

Before we get to Datura, we want to send a heartwarming get well soon to Jack Sullivan. We miss you, baby. We didn’t mean to get so mad. You just drive us crazy. But if we’re being Miss Honest, we should be saying You’re Welcome.

Baby, you could be so much more than what you are now. Imagine you and us together, the world’s greatest power couple. Or maybe we’d be a threesome. I’m not sure on the mathematics, but you understand, dontcha, honey bunny?

Everyone who chooses our side, the funside, wins. Look at our BFF Marisol Vilaro. She has taken the world by storm. VilaroFit is the fastest growing fitness company in America and soon to be the world.

Jack, take our hand. Leave the Black Dahlia’s behind. You + Us is Helter Skelter, baby. We can be molten hot like lava. No one in this sport could stop us.

Oh how we ache for you. Normally we like our boys and girls funsize, but you got us hankering for the XL. When your arm heals, we know you’re going to come for us. We can’t wait. But don’t let a little thing like physical violence ruin our love story. No one can make you shiver like us.

No one.

Her eyes roll up, over, and then down. Her head drops and briefly she disappears out of frame before rising back up.

GORGO

Then again, as the saying goes, there are always more fish in the sea. Now, for our Japanese viewers, allow us to translate this idiom into terms you will understand. Ahem. Yari de tosatsu dekiru iruka wa tsuneni takusan imasu.

ENGLISH SUBTITLES

THERE ARE ALWAYS PLENTY OF DOLPHINS TO SLAUGHTER WITH THE SPEAR.

GORGO

Case in point: Datura. Lizzie is the longest reigning CU:LT Classic Champion. She defeated eight challengers before finally losing to Tony. It’s an impressive record, and if we hadn’t already known that little factoid, we certainly would now, because it’s practically written or spoken on every piece of NGP advertisement. Don’t get us wrong, Liz. You earned it.

If we can’t get no Jackifaction, we can’t think of a better dance partner than you. It’s a match made in heaven. Datura, owner of the most impressive championship reign in the modern era, who waltzed into Nightmare Galaxy Pro and won the ENDVR title in her first match, versus…

Us.

The Last UPRISING Champion. The Fed Killer. The Woman Who Laughs. Public enemy number one. Persona non-grata. The antithesis of everything you represent, Liz. You fight your demons. We embrace ours.

The camera slowly MOVES BACK as she raises the UPRISING World Championship belt and throws it over her shoulder.

GORGO

We may have killed the company, but not before taking this belt as tribute. But as much as we do love our little trinket, we admit that our other shoulder is feeling mighty lonely, and the purple and yellow of yours will go perfect with black and red of mine.

Fret not. When we take the ENDVR championship we’ll give it a nice home. We’ll make sure it gets polished daily and any time it asks what happened to its other mama, we’ll tell them about a gal named Liz who thought she could perform a better Dragon Sleeper than us.

We’ll tell it how we only punched you that many times in the face because we wanted to lick the blood from your lips, because that’s how much we love you. We love you so much that the only rational thing to do is destroy you.

The funny thing is, this could have all been avoided if you joined the Gaijin Assault Army. We could have been best friends for real. Then again, no one knows what the future may bring. Maybe we’ll give you a reason to switch teams. There’s nothing wrong with going both ways.

See you soon, love.

FADE TO BLACK.