Lydia: You wanted to see me?

Slate: Indeed I did. Sit down. We need to talk.

Lydia: About what?

Slate: Well, it's like this. I hired you on as my personal assistant, manager, and lumberjack, and not necessarily in that order. So consider this a performance evaluation.

Lydia: Yeah, alright. I'm listening.

Slate: Now then. The reason I hired you on was because I respect you, Lydia. I respect your physical capability. I respect your mental capacity. And of course, I respect your drive and willingness to do what it takes to get the job done.

Lydia: You wouldn't have brought me in here if there wasn't a problem.

Slate: Quite right. You drive right to the point. See, when I talk about mental capacity, that's what I mean. You get things, Lydia.

Lydia: And I get that you should get to the point.

Slate: Fair enough. Last Shatter Point... did you see what happened? I certainly hope you managed to catch a taping of it, because it's not like you were personally there, were you?

Lydia: I have other obligations, Alex. I wrestle other places. You know this. You knew I wasn't going to be there to stop an ambush. Hell, maybe they knew it too.

Slate: I thought of that. But then I realized... when I was tapping out to Buck Evans, or when I was thrown out of the World Heavyweight Championship rumble in just over a minute, or even way back when, when El Pablo was giving me the fight of my life... where the hell were you? What, exactly, have you done to help me?

Lydia: I-

Slate: Nothing. Nothing, Lydia. Everything I've accomplished with you, I could've accomplished without you.

Lydia: You're seriously going to say that? After all the bullshit you spewed about respect?

Slate: I still respect you. All that “bullshit” I said still stands. Furthermore, I respect the passion and aggression to bring to women's wrestling, which is something it truly needs. However, your inaction in these cases is doing both myself and yourself a disservice. Essentially, neither of us is doing the other any favors.

Lydia: So what the hell are you trying to say.

Slate: You like being blunt and to the point so I'll follow suit. You're fired.

Lydia: Are you shitting me?

Slate: No such luck. You haven't done anything for me and it's time I shed such dead weight.

Lydia: You did not just call me that. I can't believe you'd do this to me.

Slate: I apologize, but-

Lydia: Bullshit you do. You knew I wasn't gonna be there, so then when you go and get ambushed, you use me as a scapegoat. Unbelievable.

Slate: Lydia. Listen to me. I don't care about Vlad Valo. I don't give a shit if it was Vlad Valo, Tim Timmons, Brian Blaze, Derek Damage, Courtney Cox, or anyone else with an alliterative name who ambushed me! If he wants to make a statement against me, you know what? That's fine. I'll take that as a compliment. He considers me worthy of being attacked, and that means something. But that doesn't change the fact that he doesn't matter. He's not the International title holder. No, that's Buck Evans. He's not a number one contender for it either. No, that award goes to me and only me. So why should I care about him? Is it supposed to give me momentum? Is it supposed to give me insight? I have plenty of both. My focus is on Buck Evans and I don't want anything to ruin that, and that includes you.

Lydia: You know? Alright. I see what you're saying. You don't need me, and I don't need you, so we might as well stop this train before it goes off a cliff.

Slate: I hoped you'd be able to listen to reason. I'm glad you understand-

Lydia: Understand? No, see, what I understand is that I now have free reign to tell you what I've been wanting to tell you for a while now.

Slate: And just what would that be?

Lydia: All the bullshit you pull about morals and honor and respect doesn't mean a damn thing if you aren't actually going to live up to it. And when the hell have you? You're right about some things. You're right about how wrestling should be about wrestling and about the combat. But then you go and twist it into so many lies. You don't like hardcore. You don't like what it represents. You don't like the short-sightedness of it, and all the injuries it can cause. Hell yeah a chair shot hurts, but what, you think a release German suplex is gonna tickle?

Slate: Of course not. But-

Lydia: And Peace of Mind? You're dropping them on the top of their friggin' head, for Christ's sake. If that's not a requiem for a neck injury, I don't know what is. And I'm not even going to start with the laundry list of submission holds in your repertoire, half of which could put somebody into surgery if they don't tap fast enough.

Slate: If you're trying to insult me, you're doing a terrible job.

Lydia: What I'm saying is, sugarcoat and spin it all you want, you're trying to hurt people. You're trying to debilitate them. You're trying to injure them! Tell me Alex, how the hell is that not hardcore?

Slate: Because I respect them.

Lydia: Right, like how you respect me. Do you even know the meaning of the word? You can't stand anybody, but that's okay, because you respect them, whatever the hell that even means to you. You don't like Buzzsaw. Can't stand the guy. 'Cause of what he represents. He's the Hardcore Icon, and therefore shouldn't be champion, right? But maybe being “hardcore” isn't about barbarism. Maybe it's about giving your heart and soul for this business. And he does. So do a lot of others. Dare I say, so do you. But you're damn sure not the only one so maybe it's high time you acted like it.

Slate: They don't give their heart and soul. They give blood and primal screams and nothing more.

Lydia: Yeah, they do give blood, and maybe if you weren't so blinded by the blood you'd see the sweat and tears. You wonder why the fans boo you? You wonder why people don't believe in you? This is why, Alex! This shit is why! You are an incredible athlete. When you're at the top of your game there isn't a damn person in this arena that can take you down, and you know it! Problem is, you won't forget it, even for a second. Think about it, Alex! You think the fans like Buck Evans? Hell no! At best he's a beer-guzzling cheater, at worst a beer-guzzling sack of pig shit. They want someone to beat him. They want someone to believe in, and it could be you if you weren't constantly in the worst submission hold of all: your goddamn head up your own fucking ass!

A long, heavy pause is felt as Alexander takes in everything Lydia has said.

Slate: Perhaps you're right. I'm not sure what I can do to fix things, but... perhaps you're right. I'll need time to think on this, however. Time I don't have if I'm meant to have both Vlad Valo and Buck Evans in my proverbial crosshairs. However... perhaps I have been hasty in considering your lack of capability. If nothing else, you deserve another chance, as you do seem to be an adequate voice of reason when given the chance to speak your mind. And after all, who knows? There might indeed be another ambush. So what do you say? Are you ready to assist me once more?

Lydia: Oh, Alex... Alex, Alex, Alex...

Slate: What's the matter?

Lydia: You seem to like it when I'm blunt and to the point, so I'll do just that. Fuck you, I quit.

Lydia walks out of the room, chuckling to herself while Slate looks on, stunned.