A second late, a buck short, I just couldn't get it done. Hats off to Scourge for getting the better of me. My first singles match...I wish I could say that it was a successful first time out to the ring, but sometimes it's in your failures that you learn the most.
All the thrill, all the adrenaline, stepping into that ring felt incredible. To be able to put all the past in the past and just square up with my opponent, that is something I have been seeking for far, far too long.
The fact remains, however...I lost. The fact remains that I sit at 0 points in this Paramount Grand Prix and I am a shadow of an afterthought in the grand scheme of the roster. My star has yet to truly shine here in the CWF.
As I sit here in the locker room unstrapping my boots, silence and solitude sets in.
I could mope around all day feeling sorry for myself, lamenting missed opportunities.
I could cut my losses and say this business truly isn't for me, and no one would fault me for that. I would be another faceless name that came and went in the history of CWF. Out of sight is out of mind, right, Big Q could just become Big Quitter all over again and let history repeat itself like it has time and time again in the past.
As I salt my wounds and wipe the sweat from my brow, I say fuck that.
Today is a new day. Today never happened before. Today, the American Thoroughbred gets back up and rides again. Week one of Paramount Grand Prix was a bust. Like Bob Ross would say, it was just a happy little accident.
I should have reached for the ropes a second sooner, chalk it up to nerves or call it a rookie mistake or whatever ya gotta do. Variance can be a bitch, but listen to me now.
Don't you fucking dare count Quentin Scarboro out of this thing. For each week is a new week, each day a new day. With the new day comes a new opponent.
My next opponent is the steamin' Ryan Dream, the hottest thing since a sausage sammich. You could say I got complacent going into the match against Scourge, you could say I truly underestimated his dedication, power and tenacity.
I hate to break it to ya, kid, but tenacity doesn't come from a pretty boy in a man bun. All the money in the world couldn't buy Ryan an ounce of charm or charisma. The biggest stack of dimes you can find won't save this guy when I turn him into a stack of flapjacks right there in the middle of the ring.
I get it. I see the looks I get in the back, I hear the snide comments from the likes of Tara Robinson and Mikey Rolash. They discredit me. They think I am in over my head, that I am out of element and I just don't belong around these parts.
It's my job to show them that there is a new sheriff in town. I refuse to be just another face in the crowd. It's high time for me to make my mark and cause an impact. Maybe it's time I unleash the untamed animal. Maybe it's time Quentin Scarboro gets just a little pissed off and shows he is willing to venture out of his comfort zone.
My break out moment is coming, as I start breaking a few necks. As I pack my bags and prepare to go home for the week, I must admit, Australia has been good to me. It's been a fun ride out here, and the next time I step in front of that rowdy Aussie crowd, I'm walking out the winner.
Ryan Dream will be lucky to walk out at all. They call me just another face in the crowd? This guy says he likes money and he likes women...just like every single warm blooded male I've ever known in my life. God's gift to women, though? Please don't flatter yourself, Ryan. Don't pull a muscle trying to suck yourself off, and make sure you wash your fingers after giving yourself a reach around.
God's gift to wrestling even? Come on man, step in to that ring and show me something then. Show me what you have been training your whole life for, show me what I have been missing. Teach me your ways, grand master, and bestow me your "gifts".
In this Grand Prix, the only thing you will be gifting is two points. My first two points admittedly, but they won't be my last two. I may be behind in this thing, and Scourge has already proven in a short time to be the kind of stallion that can runaway with the whole deal...but I am the Cardiac Colt.
When it's all on the line, you can bet on Quentin Scarboro to place it all on the line. Losing is no longer an option or a luxury I can afford. From here on out, I'm looking to go 1-0 each week until I'm finally holding that gold.
I've been biding my time in the shadows waiting for the opportunity to call myself a champion. I am a champion of many people, maybe, a role model to be proud of...but my accomplishments seem awfully hollow without that piece of jewelry to call my own.
Sure, it's a bit tacky for me to say that holding a CWF championship has been a lifelong dream of mine. Professional wrestling has not always been my alley, but I have been in many situations that make that squared circle look like a kindergarten playground in comparison.
Now it's time to introduce Mister Dream to the neighborhood bully. It's time the dreamboat meets the nightmare from Northern Pennsylvania. The thunder will roll, the lightning will strike, and Ryan Dream is gonna have a fucked up, smashed in face.
Simple as that. Everyone wants to say they have that mean streak, that heartless will to win at all cost. Sometimes life forces you to prove it, and I am ready and waiting for that opportunity.
Talk it. Walk it. Live it.
Maybe I'm just a blip on the CWF radar as of now, maybe they don't know me yet. Maybe they just don't recognize the Category 9 hellstorm that is approaching on the horizon.
At least they can't say they haven't been warned.
Come Sunday night, I'm gonna make a happy little accident out of Ryan Dream.
Last week was my moment of disappointment. Never again.
I'll be damned if I'm gonna let some pretentious punk ass princess from Phoenix Arizona knock me out of this thing.