003. "Traps"

To Crystal Hilton,

This is a professional courtesy, but I’m struggling to pen this letter. I don’t know you personally. I only know you from jokes and bad stories. I recognized you only through the horrid reputation you’ve garnered. To me, you’re a blight on our sport and the communities you poison with your presence. Nevertheless, I’m going to do my part in cleansing our world of your influence. It may not be powerful, but it’s deeply engrained. It’s like a bloodstain on a purely white sheet.

To explain to your simple, little mind, I’m facing Ashley Whitmore, your protégé. “Facing” being a strange word to use here.

Better yet, I’m going to be mutilating Ashley.

I’m going to send her back to you broken up, both physically and mentally. Her emotion state?

That’s a surprise for you to unveil. More than likely, she’ll be hurt, feeling the immense gap between actual talent and whatever she was masquerading as. Or she could be angry with you. You pushed her into Pro Wrestling Excellence. You fed her lies about how good she was. You didn’t prepare her for this horrible fate she’s going to live through.

And all the blood she shed will be on your hands.

But knowing how much of a feeble, little cyst you are on our sport, you might not care.

If she is not some sort of concubine for you, then you won't even remember her name.

So feel free to disregard this and keep up with your stupidity.

Damian Ayla

---

“I am Ashley Whitmore. I’m the protégé of Crystal Hilton.”

The excerpt came from Ashley Whitmore’s introductory video, skinned of its inane supplements. Ashley’s voice stretched among Damian’s wine cellar. The Godslaying Beast traversed, looking for the perfect compliment to a future meal. There were countless bottles collected over the stretch of a few decades; labels etched on the wooden cabinets indicated as so. It was a project that he adopted. As he sorted through the red wine bottles, he allowed more of Ashley’s words to speak over the footage.

“But hey, maybe, we should give Lachlan a hand of applause because he might just become famous.”

Damian Ayla wasn’t a man who laughed much. There were certainly times when he would chuckle. However, more often than not, they’re latent with a derisive cadence. His laugh here was no different, but it was one that made him have to stop. It didn’t take long for Violence’s Archetype to retain his composure.

“These were the words that summed everything that I needed to know about you, Whitmore.”

“You may see this as a golden opportunity. You win here, and you have earned yourself a championship match. Perhaps you may have added yourself into the main event of Annihilation. After all, you’d be the first to defeat Damian Ayla. That’s worth something, right? You can take home that victory to your teacher and proclaim about how good you are. It’s validation you’re seeking in this match.”

“Of course, you don’t see the real purpose of this match, do you?”

The rumble of thunder brought the offset to Damian’s laughter. The stoic visage he was known for returned. “It’s to feed you to me. Your ignorance and your stupidity have done you the service of making you the perfect candidate for such a task. As you know, or perhaps you don’t, Nathaniel Cartwright’s going to be my first challenger. He’s a wild boy, isn’t he?”

Damian continued to let small smiles cross his face. The reflection of which laid on the wine bottle’s glass exterior.

“He has been given another trial in Holly Rhodes, as if he still needs to prove himself to the company and myself. Whereas I stand here, unopposed, with you being shoved in front of me just to keep me on the show. No one thinks you’re going to win but your devoted idiots. Let me humor the thought for a moment.”

“Vicki, your mother. Nicole, your sister. Misty, your other sister. Crystal. They will come, hoping to see you win. Some people from WWA may come to see you continue to fail. Regardless, they’ll see you come at me, with every hope in your mind that you can stop me. However, what do you think they will do when they see me drive my fist into your face? What will they do when they see me bend each and every one of your limbs? What will they do when I decide to end the charade and permanently break you?”

The clear hostility in his voice coupled with a detachment, completely disregarding the importance of his future opponent. He didn’t look at the camera, keeping his focus on his original task. He wandered away from the camera.

“Do you think that they will save you?”

As he came back, he shook his head.

“I implore your entire clan of fools to try me," Damian said. "The more that comes to stop me, the more victims will be left laid out. And what is so funny is that it won't even be because of my disdain for your ilk."

"It is because it sends more of a message."

Damian settled on a vintage bottle from the 60s. He seemed pleased with himself and sat on a nearby table. Tara would be pleased with the selection, her palate evolving through their time spent together.

"I have a hunter, thinking that he will be the one to stop me. So what better way to show that I am something beyond his forest?" Damian checked over some remaining choices. A meat dish like the one he was planning required something robust. "If there are bodies left in pieces across my den, then the hunter will know to tread carefully."

With another passing gaze to the camera, Damian retrieved his contents and carried on out.

"You're just a pound of meat, so you shouldn't feel too bad."