There’s only so many times you can attribute something to user error before its screaming becomes hard to ignore.
It’s like pretending that the Earth revolves around the Sun despite all the evidence pointing that way. Once we see, we can’t unsee, you see? Despite everybody else saying that the Sun revolves around the Earth, the sirens blare out in your head. At first, you can ignore them. “Nah,” you say, “that ain’t possible. Everybody else says Earth’s the center of everything, so it must be true.” You say that, go on with your life, and if you’re a lucky one, you’ll forget all about it and never give it a second thought. That’s what most people do. That’s what humans are built for, better or worse. It keeps them sane in an insane world, one equal parts of their own creation and fated to them.
But what about those that can’t ignore that nudge in their brain? Well, then they have to dig deeper. That’s what we did. The thing the roster doesn’t quite get is that what we’re saying isn’t something we’re saying on a whim. We’re not slinging this willy nilly into the void. It isn’t because we’re angry over a win-loss record, although we would be lying if we said it didn’t start that way.
(because yes, we do have an ego and yes, we are pretty damn good at what we do)
The point is we didn’t want to be right. We wanted so badly for them to be right. It’s why we kept waffling the entire bloody time. We wanted to believe that it truly was user error. That it was our failure and if we just kept thinking, kept tweaking, kept trying, kept training, kept…kept…kept…that maybe finally we’ll find the secret handshake and wankshuffle to move forward instead of back. We would get these rare little blips of progress and think fucking finally. And we would believe for that rare moment that maybe hard work and all of this bullshit does matter and we would seize it. We would cling on to this tiny morsel of hope and use it to propel ourself into the next fight, guns blazing and ready to roll…
Only to end up hitting the brick wall of nothing matters all over again.
We would drag ourself back to the drawing board, back to square one, and throw ourself into the process of analysis. Were we too eager? Too aggressive? Too passive? We would tweak it every match, every card, trying to find the thing. WHERE THE FUCK WAS THE THING?!?! We have the bones and we have the talent and godsdamnit, we’re fucking awesome! So what the hell is going on?! This wasn’t a Principal Skinner ponder-then-immediantly-say-the-kids-are-wrong stupidity. We suffered for our art every damned arc and
All anybody cared about was a witty line or our dog or the promotion of our wears. Beyond that, somehow, we were nothing. We were treated like garbage. Thus we became garbage. We didn’t grow complacent, just discouraged. All this time, we hoped and prayed and wished for it to be user error. To be something that we can fix if only we had the right code even as the ringing got louder and louder and louder.
It got to a point where we couldn’t dissect any more even if we wanted to. We were already on a razor’s edge every single time we came to this ‘verse, biting back the rage–not anger, not upset, pure rage–that laid just underneath because we knew that unleashing that would cause more issues than anybody would want. Even we don’t want to be a giant cunt. So we finally had to ask the question.
Does it matter?
We had a glimpse of the answer during the aftermath of the battle against our now Universal Champion (we hope you are well). We lost on our first defense to a neck collecting lizard. He collected both our neck and his second belt. Did that matter? Did anyone care? The answer was…not really. The main thing that took the world by storm in that instance was FLAMBO’s car and its impromptu sinking. Looking back…that’s amazing, ain’t it? That that would be the big focus?
And so we dug deeper. Several matches have been forgotten in the PRIMEverse’s collective goldfish consciousness because moments of madness tower over them. A good chunk of them having to do with near-death in brutal and often times insane ways. Sykes getting chocoboarded. Rhine being permacrippled by Ray. Ivan nearly getting shish-kabobbed via forklift. Those are just the ones that come floating up to the surface of the mind right now!
We dig chaos in our wrestling as much as the next person. If there wasn’t any in this profession, it would be incredibly dull. However, for it to work well, a balance must be made. PRIME had it. Then lost it. Then jumped the shark completely. The matches are meaningless. Wins and losses are meaningless. Everybody with half a brain knows this.
Except for Brandon Youngblood. And the entire roster apparently.
Lindsay Troy knows it. Otherwise, she would have a tighter grip on the proceedings. The ACE Network knows it. Otherwise, they would’ve stepped in. We finally get it, say it out loud…and get told we’re wrong. If faux-doctor Phillip McGraw were here, this would be the point where he’d ask us “do you want to be right or do you want to be happy?” And this would be the point where we would punch him in the nose. Because in this particular case, “happy” means settling. It means ignorance. It means being okay with being seen as “mediocre” and “falling off”. Do you know what happens when people do that?
They become forgotten.
We know that wrestling immortality is a myth. That one day, the people who knew you and watched you will die. The recordings, if any survive, will be a fun little relic. A hee hee, haw haw for future generations to mock and occasionally even like. And we don’t want to be just another name. When they dust off the hard drives or whatever they store the ACE Network nonsense in, we don’t want to be a member of a Hall of Fame nobody cares about. We want to be the hidden gem. The inspiration.
We want to be the Muse.
And since the match results are made up and the star ratings don’t matter around here, why not inspire in the way it counts?