A belt is leather and metal until We touch it. Lucy Theriot and Pro-Wrestling Collective treat it like second place. We wear it and it’s apocalypse couture. Global? No, darlings. Universal. Omniversal. The only title that matters is Ours. Because We laugh... and the world obeys.

What are you going to do? Pin your outrage to your 'terests? Clip coupons to the fire sale? Write a strongly worded letter to the editor? Everything interesting about you was already dead. And now it's gone. All that's left is a sad woman who missed all the PTA meetings.

exists ≠ lives

Too late, mum.

Listen, Mommie Dearest, Lucy is old business. We took what We wanted. Other concerns now require attention. But as she has pointed out, she still carries two other titles. Should We want those, too? We had other plans but... plans can change.

Sami and Ramona have my blessing, Joan Crawford. I have a nice little deal with them and I always keep my pinky promises.

To be talking to you 𝓑𝓮𝓵𝓵𝓪𝓭𝓸𝓷𝓷𝓪. Should’ve taken a break, not an Oxford comma. Take what I want when I wanna, and baby, I want 𝐘𝐨𝐮. 💋 The Black Rose of the Black Rainbow

Oh please. Those girls were corrupt long before we made our arrangement.

This displeases me. Greatly.

Well, well, well—look who’s bleeding glamour all over the poster. PWC knows what sells tickets. PWC knows what makes wallets squeal. It’s Me, sugar bones. It’s Kathryn. It’s Selene, Angel, Mari, Tamara, B— Hush now, I almost said a name that you don't need to know yet. Teehee!

I declare—under authority bestowed upon me by Us—that the Pro-Wrestling Collective Global Championship is no “global” trinket, no “world” bauble. No. It’s Omniversal. Because wrapped around my waist, it skips the map, snaps the globe, and laughs its way through every reality—same as Me.

I heard a hymn behind the door, A haunted song, a bleeding score, It carved your name in silence as it slew ya. It rose in black, it fell in red, It crowned the living kissed the dead, The shattered choir screaming hallelujah.

Sweet dreams are made of this Who am I to disagree? I walk the world and its waking seas, Everybody’s hungering for something. Some of them beg to be chosen, Some of them ache to be broken, Some of them beg to be stolen, Some of them dream of being woken.

Behind the curtain, Pro-Wrestling Collective—hush, hush, the Dream is speaking. Maraeth here. Your top crown, your number one delirium, the rattle in your teeth. This Sunday on Adrenaline, We demand a celebration in honor of Yours Truly. And We'll have a surprise in store for everyone! ✨

Oh, no! I forgot to shower the internet with 280 characters of praise of you. I'm terrible. Awful. Shameless. Of course it was because I was distracted putting the final touches on our new home I've been building in secret. And the girls? They were helping me decorate.

She'll draw you in slow, wind you around her finger until you’re humming her tune, and then breaks you with a laugh that could melt glass. And that’s why I’m hopeless for her. Velvet-clad hunger to drink down every last drop of surrender the world has to give. 𝕂𝕒𝕥𝕙𝕣𝕪𝕟 𝔹𝕝𝕒𝕔𝕜𝕨𝕠𝕠𝕕