Is it just me, or is it getting warm in here? It's definitely getting warm in here. Did he turn up the heat somehow? I didn't see him touch anything...

I settle back into my seat, Doc eyeing me with his smile wide and seemingly genuine. A dryness sweeps from my lips, to my mouth, to my throat. I swallow several times, trying to produce some saliva, but it's a fight. I feel a bead of sweat forming under my hairline, and lift my hand to wipe it away quickly.

Never let 'em see you sweat.

RAVEN: So, where do we start?

DOC: One might believe the beginning is a fair place.

I roll my eyes. He notices.

RAVEN: Yeah, but what exactly is "the beginning"? Do we talk about our interactions while I was still masked? You and the Kings getting involved when I fought Gilmour? High Stakes? Help me out here.

He moves for the first time since I've been in his office, standing from his chair and crossing to a small bar kart. His fingertips brush across a fine whisky, and expensive looking bottles of vodka and gin, before coming to rest on a small glass pitcher of ice water. I can feel my eyes nearly bug out of my skull. I'd do distasteful things for a drink right now. He lifts one glass from the kart, and slowly makes his way back to his seat.

He looks at me, only for a moment. I feel a shudder run the length of my spine.

He refocuses, carefully filling the glass from his pitcher and setting both on coasters atop his side table before settling back into his seat. Silence.

RAVEN: Any feedback coming my way? Anything at all?

DOC: James, you felt the need to come and speak to me. It wasn't the other way around. Only you know what's relevant to your interests; it's not on me to choose the appropriate starting point.

I roll my eyes again as he takes a sip of water, and his own eyes snap up suddenly and sternly to meet mine. I shrug defensively.

RAVEN: What?! You won't let me swear in here, I get it, but you have to give me something!

His harsh gaze lingers for a moment before softening. He nods in accommodation and returns to his water. I stare longingly. The dryness in my throat begins to create a dull ache, the bead of sweat on my brow now joined by several others. He sips deeply from his glass. I can almost see his color change as he refreshes himself. He's trying to be a dick here, right? I'm not imagining things? Does he want me to beg him for water or something? I'm not fucking doing that.

Jesus Christ, it's fucking hot.

DOC: As much as I'm enjoying our little chat, James; I don't have all day. Pick an event, and get moving.

RAVEN: Right. OK. Well, forget the 'Nathan Lucas' stuff, and forget the Peter Gilmour match. I think at this point we can write those off as small potatoes, and jump right to High Stakes; me vs. your boys.

DOC: If you wish.

He says nothing else. He simply stares straight ahead with a gaze more frigid than the ice water in his pitcher. I hang my head slightly, trying again to moisten my mouth. I can't focus, I can't get him to open him up, and I can't fucking breathe!

RAVEN: Can we open a window or something?

DOC: Unfortunately, no.

RAVEN: Why? Is there construction outside? Are they barred shut?

DOC: No.

What a dick. I unbutton the collar of my shirt and roll the sleeves up to my elbows. I feel like I have enormous pit stains right now, but I have to much dignity to check in front of D'Ville. Does he have a remote for the thermostat in his pocket? This is insanity. He continues to smile, unfazed by the blaze, and pours himself another tall glass of water from his apparently personal pitcher.

I want that water.

Wait, what was I saying?

RAVEN: I want to make sure there are no hard feelings with Theo, or the Johns.

DOC: Why would there be hard feelings? They won.

RAVEN: Well, sort of. They-

DOC: No, in every conceivable way. They won. They took control of the XWF. They pinned Vincent Lane. They shut you up. Remind me; how do you feel you won?

I reach over and snatch a few Kleenex out of a nearby box and dab them furiously against my face. The fiber from the paper absorbs the sweat and sticks to my face. I grab a clean tissue and try to wipe the mess clear, but it only makes matters worse. I eventually give up and roll my sleeve back down, wipe my face, and roll it (soaked) back up to my elbow.

RAVEN: Fine, they won, but you seemed to come at me pretty aggressively in the build up to that. I wasn't sure if I had said something to piss you off personally, or-

DOC: You're aware how this business works, correct?

RAVEN: What?

DOC: The Kings are my stable, and you threatened them. As much as you'd like to hide behind "Vinny Lane made me do it" you were all in on an assault of my friends, and that in and of itself "pissed me off"... so to speak. You said you were better than The Kings. You said you would destroy The Kings. Whether intended or not, you called me out first. I said what I had to say. Did I hurt your feelings, James? Are you sure I'm the one you're thinking might have some residual issues?

RAVEN: OK! Just stop! Stop talking!

DOC: Why? Am I making too many logical points?

RAVEN: ARE YOU NOT FUCKING HOT?! I'm fucking dying here!

Shit. I fucking swore again.

D'Ville drops his glass forcefully to the coaster and rises from his chair. There is no friendly glint in his eyes, no shred of a smile, ironic or otherwise. He takes a step towards me.

DOC: We discussed the language, James. Don't insult me in my own office.

RAVEN: I know! I know! I'm sorry! I'm just- It's so hot, and I'm losing my focus, and I feel sick. I came here with good intentions, I swear, but you're really making this hard! That's what she said! I'm sorry! You're not supposed to say that to yourself, but we both know you weren't going to do it!

DOC: Calm down, James. Please. You're distressed. Would you like a drink?

It's like time freezes. Is he joking?

I turn to look at the pitcher of water, a bead of condensation running tantalizingly down its curves to the coaster. I lick my lips. I turn back to study Doc. It can't be this easy.

RAVEN: Yes, please.

DOC: What would you like my boy? Coffee? Tea? Something stronger to steel your nerves?

RAVEN: Are you kidding me? Just a water... it's so... hot...

D'Ville turns and makes his way to the side table, picking up the pitcher in one hand and his own glass in the other. I look over to the bar kart, there are clean glasses. I'll wash my own dish if that's what this is about you lazy fuck. He fills the water glass to the brim, emptying every drop from the pitcher before setting it down and turning to face me with the full glass.

My throat is in agony, the sight of the water promising relief and causing the bile to rise slowly from my stomach in anticipation.

He lifts the glass to his lips.

He takes a sip.

And another.

Another.

He drains the entire glass without ever taking his eyes off of me, the corner of his mouth already curling into that disgusting fucking smile. I almost punch him, I swear to God. I almost tear his head from his shoulders, and drink whatever's still trickling past his trachea.

DOC: I'm sorry my boy, I'm fresh out.

RAVEN: I tried Doc, I did. Do whatever you want Saturday night. I'm not putting myself through this any more. If you want to try and stab me in the back, fine, I'll take you out too. I'm not losing this week.

DOC: James, we already spoke about how the industry works, correct? That sounded a lot like a threat to me, and we both know how I might respond when I feel threatened.

RAVEN: It's not a threat, Doc. I'm just letting you know where we stand. I'm trying to move on and you're bound and determined to be my enemy. Fine. I'm not afraid of you. I've beaten you already, I can beat you again.

DOC: Maybe. Or maybe I wait for you to take that belt of Caedus, and take it right back from you. A broken clock is right twice a day, your win at High Stakes means nothing in the grand scheme of things.

RAVEN: I'm sure we'll find out either way.

DOC: I'm sure we will.

RAVEN: See you Saturday, Doc.

DOC: Indeed, my friend. Indeed.

I turn and head out of the office, furiously unbuttoning my shirt as I go. I open the door, but before I step through the threshold and out of the office I slip in the last word.

RAVEN: Nigger-Faggot-Pussy!

OK. Three words.

DOC: LANGUAGE!

I need some air.

FADE TO BLACK... FADE TO BLACK... FADE TO BLACK... FADE TO BLACK... FADE TO BLACK...

Am I a genius, or just a fortune teller?

We haven't even gotten to the ring yet, and already I feel like Jim Caedus has cost Chris Chaos this match. Granted I thought it would be the other way around, but still, I knew these two wouldn't be able to function as a team. We all saw AX3's most recent outings.

Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself, maybe they can still pull it together. I'm just saying that when I saw Jim Caedus' promo go up last night, there may as well have been glowing red letters on the screen that said "this shit ain't gonna count". It doesn't matter, it's not like that inbred hillbilly-willy ever says anything of value in his enormously long self-fellatio sessions. Overcompensating Jim? Haven't you ever heard that size doesn't matter?

Oh, and you Chris, you're just as bad. I honestly can't even sit through your bull shit from beginning to end and I'm being totally honest. You know those kids that get told they're smart, and then spend the next two years trying to sound clever around adults? You're like that but with gay tattoos and hair lice. I laid out exactly why you and Jim were no match for the Doc and I, and why you had serious concerns with your partner coming through for you.

You chose to pick out two or three throw away lines and nit pick semantics.

"Meehhhh, you didn't LITERALLY beat the ENTIRE roster yet."

Fine, you whiny bitch. I beat 25 of them at High Stakes, I haven't been pinned by anyone that's tried, and I preemptively wrote you off because... well... lets be honest.

"You politic, and do what the GM's ask you? I'm a bad boy rebel! Wahhhhh!"

EVERYONE politics at some point. If you tell me you haven't you're fucking lying, you sack of shit. So don't go around crying when it goes somebody elses way. Also, I'm not saying I'm the GM's bitch, I'm saying that I win whatever match they fucking book. THAT'S my job. THAT'S what I get paid to do.

You want to whine about how queer it is that people are getting title shots from battle royals, and money in the bank matches, and not from climbing the the ladder the old fashioned way. I'm telling you WIN A BATTLE ROYAL OR MONEY IN THE BANK! It's not that fucking complicated.

You're as bad as you say you are? Prove it.

Also, I stand by that other quote that you found so amusing. The only way you sniff a title shot right now is if I step aside and agree to cash in after King of the Ring. You know it, as much as you refuse to speak the words. Otherwise, you're just another mid-carder looking for a dance partner and screaming "woe is me!" at the monitors in the back when I pin your boy Jim, clean.

Quoth the Raven Nevermore? All you can do is quote me, cock knocker. It's the only way you can actually entice people to watch the aborted fetal juices you leaked out onto Youtube or Vimeo or Live Journal, whatever the fuck you used.

You know what's funny Chris? I came into this match wanting Caedus, eyeing Doc, and not knowing who the fuck you were. You've upped your stock. I'm coming for you. Not in the big picture mind you, because you have nothing of value for me to take... not Jims title, not Docs reputation.

But this week?

This match?

They can take a back seat, they'll have they're moment in the sun with me.

I'm coming for you.

Fear the Raven... Forevermore.