The Female of The Species

when the himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,

he shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.

but the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail.

for the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

when nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man,

he will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can.

but his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail.

for the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

when the early jesuit fathers preached to hurons and choctaws,

they prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws.

'twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale.

for the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

—

The modest sitting room was aglow with the flicker of a single candle, casting long shadows across the walls. From a small window draped in white lace, the sweet scent of gardenia filtered in, filling the air with an intoxicating perfume. The lush garden outside was shrouded in darkness, save for the occasional beam of moonlight that danced between the leaves.

The Protagonist and his wife, Demi, were nestled on a worn sofa, their bodies pressed together as they gazed at the dancing flame. The atmosphere in the room was heavy, yet ambiguous. The weight of emotion hung in the air, but its nature was elusive, perhaps even to those involved.

The Protagonist shifted his weight, drawing Demi closer to him. Her dark hair brushed his cheek, its fragrance mingling with that of the gardenia. The sofa creaked as they adjusted, and the candle's flame wavered, casting them in deep shadow.

The room was sparsely furnished, save for the sofa, an aging armchair, and a low table littered with chicken-scratched lined paper strewn in a disorderly manner. On the wall, a faded painting of a seascape hung askew, as if seeking escape from the room's heavy aura.

As they sat in silence, the candle burned low, casting an amber glow across the room. Its flame was but a breath away from extinguishment, a fragile reminder of the transience of all things. The moon had shifted in the sky, and the gardenia's scent had begun to wane, leaving a void where its sweetness had once been.

As The Protagonist sat there, he couldn’t help but think back to what life was like before he met Demi. He was a troubled soul, angry. Stifled, almost. A pressure cooker that could go at any moment.

There were many feelings that he had suppressed, tried to forget, and never dealt with. He wondered if it was the reason for his cold demeanour now, or whether it caused him to struggle so badly early in his career. Nowadays, when he looked in the mirror, he saw a faded version of the person he had hoped to become. He wore eye makeup and black nail polish, and there were creases and folds that betrayed a defeat to the victor of all men and women alike - father time.

When he was young, he saw himself differently from his peers. He liked being pretty, he liked makeup, he liked feminine clothes. This pushed him to a counter-culture where he found some level of acceptance, but it wasn’t quite right. He wasn’t short on attention and just crying out to be noticed, he just felt different to how he looked - inside and out.

Exploring this came with its own growing pains. Being a teenage boy who liked to wear dresses and paint his face had its challenges. He was often accused of being gay, or a ‘gender bender’, or worse, but he never denied any of it. He looked at himself with frustration because he didn’t understand. When he looked around him, he didn’t see anybody like him, he didn’t feel represented, he didn’t have a label that actually fit him. He existed in this vacuum of identity, where nothing was defined, nothing moved, nothing touched him or was touched.

Then he met Demi, and everything came alive. She understood him, she allowed him to breathe, she didn’t demand answers from him about things that he was still trying to figure out. They had a wonderful time travelling the world, but exploring themselves. Labels for what was really going on didn’t exist then, unlike today. A male embracing his feminine side, not chasing bravado and machismo, shunning typical masculine jock stereotypes was labelled a weirdo and not much else.

Until he met her, he felt like he didn’t belong, like an alien. He wasn’t a man, he wasn’t a woman. He was something in between, but none of that mattered with her because he was ethereal, otherworldly, alive. He reminisced about this time, grateful for Demi's acceptance and understanding. He wondered how she must have felt during that conversation, as a new love interest, listening to heavy topics about his gender identity. But she embraced him for who he was, unshackling him from trying to conceal his true self. She gave him the agency to be true to himself, and that changed everything for him.

" Demi, do you remember that conversation we had? " he asked, his voice low and contemplative.

She looked up from the book she was reading, her eyes filled with curiosity. " Which one, Darling? "

" Thee one.. About how I've always felt like I didn't fit in, like I was pretending to be someone I'm not. "

Demi's face softened with understanding. " Yes, of course, my love. "

For Demi, this was such a conflicted moment. On one hand, she had been overwhelmed with the gravity of trust and courage it would have taken The Protagonist to share this with her, and on the other, she was petrified that anything she may have said to comfort him could have been wrong. She had her own crosses to bear in this regard, she wasn’t an expert, or a counsellor, and in this moment she barely knew him.

The Protagonist took a deep breath, the memory still fresh in his mind. " That conversation changed everything for me. It was like a weight had been lifted, like I was finally free to be myself without fear of judgement or ridicule. "

Demi's hand brushed his cheek, her touch reassuring. " It’s absurd that you needed to be told, if I’m honest. What did you expect me to say? "

The Protagonist felt a sense of peace wash over him, the memory a balm to his soul. He had spent so many years hurting, cursing that he wasn’t the same as everybody else.

The room was silent once more, and the candle burned lower still. The moon had shifted further in the sky, and the Gardenia's scent was all but gone, leaving only the faintest trace behind. The room was a testament to the fleeting nature of all things, and yet, their love persisted.

As the candle finally sputtered and died, the room was plunged into darkness. But the protagonist knew that even in the depths of night, Demi's love would light his way. The room may have been modest, its furnishings sparse, but their love was its most valuable possession. And for that, he was grateful.

—

man's timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say,

for the woman that god gave him isn't his to give away;

but when hunter meets with husbands, each confirms the other's tale—

the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

man, a bear in most relations—worm and savage otherwise,—

man propounds negotiations, man accepts the compromise.

very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact

to its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.

fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low,

to concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe.

mirth obscene diverts his anger—doubt and pity oft perplex

him in dealing with an issue—to the scandal of the sex!

but the woman that god gave him, every fibre of her frame

proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same;

and to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail,

the female of the species must be deadlier than the male.

—

Power.

That’s a word we use a lot in places like this, isn’t it?

Well, let’s talk about it.

Specifically, how one acquires it, how one wields it, and how one keeps it.

For those of you who don't know me, I am a man who has spent his entire life fighting tooth and nail for every bit of power and privilege that he has. And let me tell you, it has not been an easy road. But I have persevered, and I have triumphed, because I understand the value of power.

It’s a real tear-jerker, I know. Poor me, sitting here with an opportunity for the Excellence Championship signed and announced before debuting.

Don’t think I didn’t see the comments, just because you subtweeted them. Yes, Damian and Tara, I’m talking about you.

Funny, isn’t it? When it isn’t them pulling the strings, they’re always so quick to judge and label others with their own limited perceptions.

It is true, some may feel that I have stolen or come by my opportunity through unscrupulous means.

But let me ask you a question.

Do you really think it's that simple? That every move I make is based solely on brute force and manipulation? If so, you underestimate the complexity of the game, my friends.

Every calculation that goes into a game of Gin is not necessarily visible or understood by every person sitting around the table with a hand of cards. It takes a certain level of skill, strategy, and foresight to navigate the twists and turns of the game. And the same can be said for the game of pro wrestling.

Yes, there may have been times when I had to make difficult choices or take actions that others may not have agreed with.

Joe might forgive me, one day.

But those were the moves that allowed me to rise to where I am, to enable me to rise to where I stand. And let me tell you, staying there requires even more cunning and foresight.

So, to those who question my methods, I say only that you lack the vision to see the bigger picture. You are too focused on the immediate outcome and fail to understand the long-term strategy at play. You may see me as a thief or a cheat, but in reality, I am simply playing the game differently.

In the end, the results speak for themselves. At ANNIHILATION II, it won’t be anybody else standing opposite the champion but me. It is a testament to my abilities and my willingness to do whatever it takes to come out on top. And if that means ruffling a few feathers or making a few enemies along the way, so be it. I am not here to make friends or win popularity contests. I am here to win, and I am here to re-define what Excellence means.

I know that there are those who would seek to take what I have earned.

First it was Chelsea Skye, who was afforded another opportunity to make a fool of herself.

Next, it’s Alexander Hate and Blaze Darling. Who – much like the aforementioned Aylas – are hungry for prestige and recognition, are blinded by the allure of power and influence, just like so many before them.

They think they have what it takes to rise to the top, to be what myself and my wife have always been, but they are merely grasping. They are naive and foolish, unaware of the cost of success and the sacrifices that must be made to maintain it.

They would seek to chip away at everything that I have built, simply because they are envious of my success, or want a sliver to taste for themselves. Jealous that they couldn’t pull it off for themselves. Righteous they may claim to be, they’d do the same if they could.

I must say, I find their ambition amusing. It takes a certain kind of hubris to believe that one can stand against me and my wife and come out victorious.

Alexander Hate is the textbook case of someone who has been hurt in the past and hasn't dealt with those feelings. He uses hate as a defence mechanism, lashing out at anyone who dares to cross him. So, so cliché. And boring.

But what else can we expect from someone who is so broken?

I must admit, there is something fascinating about watching him, though.

His anger, his vitriol, it's all so primal.

But it's also so predictable.

He thinks that his rage makes him powerful, but in reality, it only serves to make him weak. He is a one-trick pony, and I have seen his kind before. He is little more than a nuisance, a fire that burns hot and fast.

And then there is Blaze Darling. Oh, sweet, naive Blaze Darling.

The soft underbelly.

She is young, and naive. She is easily swayed, easily manipulated, and easily defeated.

You see people like her all the time, the stupid girl with the overly-aggressive guy. She’s insecure.

She’s only with him because a group of flat-earthers didn’t find her first and set her to work with a telescope and a torch.

I have no doubt that my wife will make quick and decisive work of her.

But let me be clear: I am not threatened by either of them. They are mere distractions, obstacles. Ambitious disciples that one day hope to live up to power and influence of a couple like The Aylas.

Whilst the Aylas look at us, and think the same thing.

—

she who faces death by torture for each life beneath her breast

may not deal in doubt or pity, must not swerve for fact or jest.

these be purely male diversions, not in these her honour dwells

she the other law we live by, is that law and nothing else.

she can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great

as the mother of the infant and the mistress of the mate.

and when babe and man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim

her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.

she is wedded to convictions—in default of grosser ties;

her contentions are her children, heaven help him who denies!—

he will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild,

wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.

unprovoked and awful charges—even so the she-bear fights,

speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons—even so the cobra bites,

scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw

and the victim writhes in anguish—like the jesuit with the squaw!

so it comes that man, the coward, when he gathers to confer

with his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her

where, at war with life and conscience, he uplifts his erring hands

to some god of abstract justice—which no woman understands.

—

The worn wooden floor creaks under their weight as Demi and The Protagonist sit cross-legged, each with a glass of Hennessy placed beside them, playing a game of Gin with a tattered deck of playing cards. The flicker of candlelight casts shadows across the room, and memories of their daughter flood their minds.

They reminisce about the days when the room was filled with the sound of her laughter and the clatter of toys. The Protagonist recalls a particular moment when their daughter, affectionately known as Blueberry Girl appeared to be in need of the bathroom, but stubbornly refused to go.

" And then five minutes later, ” he pauses with a smirk and takes a sip of his drink, " she looks up from her Lego and says? ”

Demi grins in response, knowing exactly where the story is headed. " Dad, I did a poo! " she yelps, completing the anecdote whilst failing to contain herself.

The memory brings a wave of nostalgia and laughter between the two. As they continue to play their game, their movements seem effortless and relaxed, but there is a quiet competitiveness in their actions as each tries to outsmart the other.

The Protagonist takes a moment to appreciate Demi's presence, admiring her strength and willfulness as a woman. He marvels at the way she balances their life together, making everything seem effortless, even when it is not.

The game continued, with both players making strategic moves and taking sips of their drinks in between turns. The Protagonist was confident that he was going to win this round.

He was so sure of himself that he played his final card and said, " Gin. ” throwing his hands up in victory.

But Demi simply looked at his cards and then back at her own. With a sly smile, she placed down her final card and said, " Nope. Gin! "

The Protagonist nods in defeat, impressed by her strategy, and still somewhat in disbelief.

Demi shrugged nonchalantly and took a sip of her Hennessy. " Never underestimate the power of a woman. "

The Protagonist would know. He’s lived in a house full of women for much longer than he’d care to remember, and they always had a way to massage any narrative into the outcome they wanted, and they took no prisoners.

—

and man knows it! knows, moreover, that the woman that god gave him

must command but may not govern—shall enthral but not enslave him.

and she knows, because she warns him, and her instincts never fail,

that the female of her species is more deadly than the male.