Slowly walking down a hall, in what we can only presume is one of the Langly households our brave cameraman walks. We know it's a Riona house because there's a few discarded videotape shells on the floor. I mean, the pictures of a teenage Riona in volleyball tournaments, the random paintings of the Langly family, and a newly taken picture of Riona and Adam Kelser in front of the Rock n' Roller Coaster in Disney MGM are nice and all, but the tape shells with the PHW logo clearly marked on them are all a person really needs to see to know that Riona Langly presides here. Well, anyone that knows her would know that anyway...

Away from the rambling commentary, the camera stops at a halfway closed door. There's the sounds of soothing music coming from inside... If one were to call NiN gentle. But, regardless of the music choice of the woman, she's in there with Nine Inch Nails blaring out "The Perfect Drug." Of course, we haven't seen her yet thanks to the contents of the note on the door, of which we're now being shown.

If you get here and the music is still flooding my soul and the yards of the neighbors with the power of mental relaxation, just chill, I'll be out pretty soon. Just some light meditation, that's all.
With My Deepest Disregard,
Riona

With a visible, thanks to modern times and their rejection of the steadycam, sigh, the camera moves over to a chair laid out just for such an occasion. After a few moments of the audience being tortured with Spike, Riona's personal cameraman, whistling Dixie for about 3 minutes, the music from inside finally stops. The view suddenly jerks up, as it seems Riona is waiting for Spike to enter.

Spike, you can come on in now...

The camera moves towards the door and an African-American hand pushes the door open to reveal a simple room. It's obviously not Riona's bedroom, as that particular room is covered in trophies, merchandise, old tapes, gear... and I guess she has a bed in it, but she really doesn't sleep in it very often. No, this room looks as through it's a small workout room. There's a TV in the middle of it, but it's not on and definately not showing any wrestling tapes at this very moment, and the room otherwise is very spartan.

And in the middle of the room, sitting cross-legged on the floor, is Riona Langly. Her hair, usually wild and loose, is tied back very sharply into a ponytail. Her clothes are just like the room, very plain, simply preferring a white t-shirt and a pair of comfy looking black pants today over her usual jeans and jersey combo. Her marketing deal with Reebok must be in jeporady because she, unlike every other time we see the girl, is not wearing her usual shoes. Either that, or the plush carpeting was so nice she decided just not to wear shoes at all. Either way works in this case. To her right, obviously the source of the NiN, is a little boombox which is currently, and thankfully for those in the neighborhood who now want to sleep, off.

Listen Spike, I know this is a pain in the ass, but I'm gonna need a mirror for demonstration purposes. I should have one in the hall bathroom. Could you grab it for me?

The camera shakes a bit, as Spike seems to be nodding. We start to move out of the room, but...

Spike, please leave the camera here, I'll start while you're gone.

The camera is placed on the floor, facing Riona, and we hear Spike's heavy footsteps leave the room.

Sorry about that guys, it just sorta happens like that sometimes. Anyway, I'm coming to you live tonight from my quaint little meditation room. I'm here doing some last minute mental warm-ups before my red-eye leaves for Charlotte tonight. I figure this is about the only time I'm gonna have to mentally get ready before Saturday night afterall. It's not fun at all facing deja vu after all.

With her grin, Riona stretches her right arm.

Before we talk about my opponent for this week, I wanna talk a bit about my outburst after my match with Nymph. It all stems from this eternal truth about me, and that is that I crave competition. I'm not an easily placated wrestler, content to just keep destroying people every week all in the pursuit of fun and exercise. No, Riona Langly is a wrestler who is defined by the competition she is carrying. If I lose an awesome, eye-opening match to someone, then my work has been accomplished. 3 months ago, I wrestled Austin Azure in the South Pacific for 75 minutes straight in one of the greatest matches I've ever been in. I lost the 3rd fall of the match, but at the end, nobody gave 2 shit over who was the winner and who was the loser. Well, except maybe that pompous windbag Azure, but other than him, the audience was sucked into this epic little match. Is it nice being able to make a reputation on being this cold, heartless, psycho bitch who kills opponents in less than a minute? Sure, it's alot of fun, like my Champion Crasher World Tour last summer, where I defeated 5 ex-World Champions in 3 months, but it means nothing in the long run. Beating inferior opponents in 35.6 seconds does nothing but make them look weak. Nymph, Jerry, Curse? All three of them were perennial losers who had no real respect from the fanbase. Destroying somebody in 35.6 seconds only means something if the opponent is any good.

Riona smiles to something off camera as she's handed a mirror by Spike.

Thanks. Oh, and if you don't mind, I think I kinda like the camera this way. It allows my audience to cut through the BS of camera tricks to see to the heart of my words and all... And the fact is, you need a break anyway. Go make a sandwich or call for pizza. I know you know where to find it.

Spike walks across the camera, even through you can only see his boots you know he's a big guy, and Riona waits a few seconds before restarting her little speech.

Anyway, I suppose now that that I've got my mirror, I should talk about you Fujiko Mine, because your whole career; your existence, even; has revolved around standing in front of one of these, just as I'm about to do, and saying...

Riona holds the mirror in front of her face and puts on a pretentious looking face, as if she's incredibly rich and unable to even think of the common person

"Mirror Mirror on the wall... Who's the fairest of them all?"

Riona's face returns to it's usual grin.

What is life like for you Fujiko?  I mean, the air you breath must be thin as anything to be as high as you think you are over people.  You stand there and always tell your opponents that you look better than them, or that you're the most beautiful woman alive.  What the fuck does that even matter?  I mean, what does it matter in the ring how good you look?  By the end of a good match, nobody looks like a supermodel or a Greek goddess, they look like everyone else that's ever gone through a hellacious workout.  Sweat beads on their forehead, hair is frazzled and flat, clothes are worn looking or even possibly torn.  Nobody except rockers think that looks good.  So, once again Fujiko, I wonder what looks have to do with anything in this business, unless trying to make yourself look like a sexpot is your way of getting attention.

Riona grins, as the audience may remember that she gave a speech that talked about attention to one of her squash victories a few weeks ago.

Attention, that altogether silly little concept where to get anywhere in this business, you need to have some sort of hook to draw the viewer's eyes.  In my case, it's my technical focus and no-nonsense attitude towards this business.  People focus on me, if they give me a second thought, because I'm not like every other girl that has ever stepped foot in that ring.  I don't primp in front of mirrors, nor do I flash my chest and ass for their enjoyment.  I go out there and give them all my talent and all my heart.  It's unique, and what makes people see me.  So, why do you think that being a Barbie doll for them is gonna get you any attention?  You're not as good looking as you may think you are, and honestly, you wrestle the exact same style as 99% of all females in wrestling do.  You don't worry about bringing someone down to the mat or working a particular body part in a grand strategy to bring the person down.  No, you only worry about, as Lis said once, about kicks and jumping off of high stuff.  It's so utterly, completely boring.  I've faced over 20 different women that profess to wrestling the same style as you, and every time I do, it's the same thing.  They try to beat me in the air, and all that accomplishes is for me to snap off a bunch of moves to keep them on God's white mat.  Fujiko, what makes you even minutely different than them?

Shaking her head ever so slightly, Riona's grin returns from an absence during the little rant.

Honestly Fujiko, you can't beat me on Saturday.  You can't differentiate the distinct gap between being a model and being a wrestler.  Now, if I know you, you're not going to hear this before you try and speak your words to me.  You're going to make some comments about being better than me that are supposed to intimidate me or make me feel hollow inside because I'm supposedly not as bombshell gorgeous than you.  Frankly, say what you want to me, I don't give two shits.  Adam's flattery aside, I know I'm not as beautiful as you, and frankly, I just don't care.  When I look at myself in this mirror, I don't see this beautiful woman who men fall over themselves to try and fuck.  No, I see myself as a wrestler, then as a woman.  You can't hurt my pride by telling me I'm ugly, and you can't possibly beat me in the ring.  This week, it's gonna be fun.  It's gonna be fun for me to bring your pride down a few notches, to show you that looks mean nothing in this business, and that talent means everything.

Fujiko, you've found yourself on the wrong path for a dainty little girl like yourself.  See, you should have stayed away, but now, you're just gonna get run over on my path of greatness, and in the shining blue eyes of this beholder, I'd suggest you fucking...

Riona stands up and moves out of the frame.  However, after a few seconds of nothingness, the camera is suddenly jerked upwards and we see Riona's face once more...

MOVE.

Riona fiddles with the camera for a bit...

Damnit, where the fuck is the off butt... oh, there it is...

Black.