I usually love press conferences.

They're all but designed to stroke my ego, and inflate my sense of self worth in a room full of doting strangers. I love standing behind the podium in a perfectly tailored suit, picked specifically to pop against whatever backdrop I approved to be hung behind me. I love the ripples of laughter as I sling charm and wit around the press corps like it's cocaine at a John Madison party. I really, truly love those sort of press conferences.

This one is going to be the other kind.

This is going to be the kind where I'm forced to dodge, duck, dip, dive and doge insults and accusations like they're flying wrenches. I can already feel the simmering tension from the reporters as they load their questions and check their crosshairs, waiting for me to take the stage. They want to crucify me.

RAVEN: Do I really have to do this?

My agent, Jeremy Silver, stands to my left. He's dressed in a suit that nearly rivals mine, nearly. He sighs and rubs his eyes with his index finger and thumb, sighing deeply and nodding his head.

SILVER: Unfortunately, yes. That room is full, James. Turning them all away because you got cold feet will do too much damage to your image. It's not something you want to deal with.

RAVEN: How in the hell is the room full? The XWF never draws enough reporters to pack it out for a random, middle of the day, middle of the week, bull shit conference like this. There's not even real news! It's just rehashing drama from last week!

SILVER: It's real news now, James. You made the Baumer Report on Twitter last night. Congratulations.

I stare at him in disbelief and after a moment he shrugs defiantly and fishes in his pocket for his cell phone, pulling it out and sliding through his Twitter app before handing it over to me. I stare down at the screen.

RAVEN: What a joke; I come back after five years, nothing. I win High Stakes, nothing. I've won three titles since coming back two months ago, nothing. Make a 40 year old man cry, though? Cass Baumer will make sure everyone knows about that, and comes to throw stones at you publicly.

SILVER: No use crying over spilled milk, kid. You're the one that wanted to jump on social media and make sure more people heard about you. Congratulations, more people are hearing about you.

I throw my hands in the air, exasperated.

RAVEN: For the wrong reasons! This is the wrong sort of attention, Jeremy!

SILVER: There's no such thing as the wrong sort of attention. Ratings are ratings, now get out there and capitalize. The XWF has made it pretty clear that they need you to do this, and there'll be penalties if you don't. They already booked you against one of your allies this week, don't make them stiffen the punishments.

As if on cue, one half of the XWF ownership structure storms up to us and grins. "Loverboy" Vinnie Lane. He's dressed in a suit as well, but it's wrinkled and smells heavily of bourbon and cigarette smoke. His skinny tie is loose around his neck, and his feathered hair disheveled to the point that I wonder if Roxy Cotton hasn't JUST finished wailing into his rectum with her strap on.

LOVERBOY: What's the hold up here, Raven? We're scheduled to have started already. The media is getting restless, and you wouldn't want them slanting their coverage because you made them wait.

RAVEN: Fuck you, this whole thing is ridiculous and you know it.

SILVER: Easy, James. He's still your boss.

RAVEN: Barely. What's he going to do? I'm his biggest star, he can't fire me. I'm better than him, he can't fight me. Fuck you, Vinnie. You can't embarrass me like this.

Vinnie's smile softens a bit, but he keeps it up for show. He takes a step towards me and Jeremy tries to slip in between us, but I push him out of the way. If Lane wants to go right here, right now... we can. At least it'll get me out of this stupid conference.

LOVERBOY: You bullied one old guy to tears this week, Raven. I'm not planning on letting you make that two. Get your ass out to that podium, smile, and answer their fucking questions. You have no idea the kind of shit I had to eat to keep Gilmour on the roster after your little stunt, now it's your turn.

I don't say anything. Jeremy puts his hand on my shoulder and gently steers me towards the stage.

SILVER: Come on, we've stalled as long as we can. We need to get started. We'll be back here if they play hardball and you need help.

RAVEN: Well consider me rea-fucking-ssured.

With extreme trepidation, I give up arguing and step through the curtain and onto the stage. I suck wind through my teeth to brace myself for the onslaught, and I can't even make it to the podium before the barrage of questions begins.

"James, reports are that you went to extreme lengths to scheme your way into the match with Peter Gilmour last week!"

"Why not sign up for the tag tournament if all you were going to do was sneak in before the finals? Were you afraid to do the heavy lifting?"

"Mr. Raven, what could Peter have possibly done to make you hold a grudge this long? Why are you bullying an overweight, past his prime, thin skinned, transitional champion after a half decade in retirement?"

The questions hit me like a boxing combination from my sparring partners. I feel a tightness in my gut, and gasp for air as I look offstage to Vinnie Lane and Jeremy Silver for support. Loverboy just flashes me a toothy grin and a double thumbs up, while Jeremy motions for me to speak. I try. I try to say anything. I can't.

"Some fans have started a petition; they want you to vacate your spot in the tournament to Peter, and my sources are telling me XWF management is strongly considering it. Your thoughts?"

"If Gilmour indeed retires, are you worried he might file a lawsuit against you? Wrestling promotions are taking a much sterner stance on bullying and hazing this year."

This is more than I expected, nobody prepared me for this sort of a witch hunt. I take a moment to compose myself and scan the press room. This isn't the sort of mob I'm used to dealing with. This isn't the stuffed shirts of the Toronto Star or the Associated Press. This is a room full of internet "insiders" and YouTube vloggers that think they have an easy target to make their villain when they spin this into some SJW click bait article.

RAVEN: I'm sorry, before we get into this... can I get a show of hands if you're a standard, year round, XWF-credentialed media member?

Three or four hands near the back of the room raise tentatively into the air. For fucks sake.

RAVEN: Right, and if you're a media independent that's here because you saw my name on the "#BaumerReport"?

A sea of millennials take a moment to stop filming me on their iPhones and raise their hands. I look over to Vinnie and Jeremy again, still watching from safety behind the curtain. Jeremy shrugs helplessly and Vinnie holds his sides with laughter.

RAVEN: God damn it, Cass... alright, fine. Let's do this. For starters I need to make it clear that there was NO scheme to screw over the Natural Born Killers. I have no axe to grind with Peter, and I had no plans to try and make him quit.

"What about to cry? Did you have plans to try and make him cry? 'Cause he did that too."

RAVEN: You've got me there, I always want to make him cry. The point is that all this animosity is misplaced. Bearded War Pig signed up for the tournament, but wasn't able to fulfill the obligations. Robbie Bourbon came up with the plan to sub me in. Jack Cain dragged me out of a hospital and to the show. XWF management cleared the substitution and didn't notify our opponents. I just accepted a booking and came to work!

"So what you're saying is that you're willing to pass the buck to anybody that'll take it, and accept no responsibility for your actions?"

RAVEN: What?! No!! Well, maybe kinda. What I'm saying is that there have been plenty of times that a tag match has a late substitution or a mystery partner. This could have been handled smoother, sure, but do any of you think if Peter had more of a heads up that it was me the match would have gone any differently? I mean, Jesus! The guys 0-7 against me, what's the big deal?

"Do you really not understand the big deal?"

RAVEN: No, enlighten me.

"You made a grown man cry, a 40 year old man, a staple of the XWF, a former Universal Champion... you made him cry, and retire."

RAVEN: Lighten up! He retired for, like, a day. He's already back and planning on drinking the blood of referees or some nonsense. It's nothing he hasn't done a hundred times before when he loses. Can we move on, please? I'm sorry he took it so personally, really, but it was just business. Does anyone have any questions about the future?

There's silence in the room. That's what I expected. Every "reporter" here wanted to be a part of a lynch mob, there's nothing for them to ask if I take Peter off the tab-

"I've been told that the XWF is looking to remove you from the tag-team tournament and put Gilmour into your spot as reparation. Can you comment?"

Fuck. These. People. Despite my best efforts, they still find a way to tie things into that dumb fuck.

RAVEN: If that's what the XWF wants to do, fine. I'll survive being yanked from the next round. I didn't want to participate in the tag team tournament to begin with!

"Then why did you?"

RAVEN: Excuse me?

"Well, it's one thing to imply that the substitution wasn't your idea, but it's another to imply that you were forced to do it against your will. Couldn't you have just put your foot down, and told the Mother Fuckers that they were on their own?"

RAVEN: Hold on, you're twisting things! Nobody forced me, but they didn't make it easy to decline either. I didn't want to be in the tournament, but it was important to me to help my allies, and-

"So you want to help your allies, but you're fine sending them up the creek if you get replaced as a punishment next round?"

RAVEN: THAT'S NOT WHAT I SAID! Damn it, this is infuriating! Are we done here yet?!

I look backstage to Vinnie and Jeremy. Vinnie is practically on the floor, laughing at my misery. His face is red and dripping in sweat, his eyes bulging more than the vein that's throbbing on his temple. I'm glad he's enjoying this. Jeremy isn't even paying attention. He's too busy sipping coffee with some co-ed in the shadows. Get your dick wet, Jeremy. I'll just be up here, eating dry bricks of shit.

RAVEN: Executive decision, I'm not talking about the Gilmour incident anymore. It's unfortunate, but it is what it is and we'll see what happens next week m'kay. Does anybody have any other relevant questions? Be forewarned... if you mention HIS name, I'll kick your teeth in... and go.

I look out across the sea of twitter journalists, and see one lone hand in the back from the dedicated XWF press corps.

"Can you give us your thoughts on facing Jack Cain this week?"

Finally, something worth while.

RAVEN: Jack Cain, right, I guess we should talk about that. It's pathetic, honestly. It couldn't be clearer that the XWF management isn't happy with me after the public relations stress they went through last week, and it couldn't be clearer that they're trying to punish me. Here's the thing though, they're really only punishing Jack Cain. I'm not telling you anything that you don't already know, he's a tough son of a bitch and it takes everything but a tank to keep him down. He doesn't quit. He doesn't "live to fight another day". He goes all out, balls to the walls, and if you kill him in there so be it... I'm going to put that man through hell on Saturday. I don't want to do it, but neither of our egos will let us back down to the other. I'm going to hit him, and when he keeps coming I'm going to hit him again. When his teeth are chipped and his face is a blood stained mask, I'll hit him again, and when he laughs at me I'll hit him even harder. You get the point. Eventually he'll stop smiling, and that step forwards will be a little hesitant... and then I'll know I have him. I will literally have to shut that man off, but I'm more than capable. I don't want you to get the wrong idea, Jack and I have spoken about this. He's not expecting any mercy. He told everyone he wanted to reel in the big fish, but that mother fucker will need a bigger boat my friends... I'm not the TV Champion, I'm the Peoples GOAT. I'm the original Mother Fucker. I'm the uncrowned Universal Champion... and he's fucked. Fear the Raven, Forevermore.

I pick the microphone up from the stand just so that I can drop it on the podium.

"Do you think-"

RAVEN: Mic drop means it's over, bitch. Besides, I'm almost at 2500 words.

They don't know what the fuck I'm talking about. Fuck 'em. I'm done with this shit.