Jenny Myst stands in the center of the ring, mic in hand, head tilted just slightly as if she’s smelling something foul in the air. Gravy's mothers basement, perhaps?



“Oh XWF… I love a good community outreach program.”

She paces slowly.

“See, March Madness is upon us. Brackets. Busts. Cinderella stories. And somehow… I drew Dickie Watson.”

She pauses, fake gasp.

“I know. Try to contain your excitement. Keep it in your pants *cough* Dyson *cough*”

She kneels on the second rope, leaning forward over the camera.

“So here’s the deal. I’m offering twenty-five whole American dollars. That’s right. A crisp little gift card. Starbucks. Target. Maybe you wanna treat yourself to a sad little protein shake or order a Betsy Granger shaped Flesh light on Amazon---the Atara Themis ones only come a 'heavily used'--. I don’t care.”

She shrugs.

“But if anyone in this so-called XWF community has pertinent information about Dickie Watson—”

She starts counting on her fingers.

Jenny tilts her head and smirks.



“Oh no no no… we’re not talking boring little ‘technical scouting report’ stuff anymore. I want real investigative journalism.”

She starts ticking them off on her fingers again — but this time with pure venom-laced comedy.

“Old injuries he doesn’t talk about?
Like that mysterious ‘upper back strain’ that only flares up when he has to carry a promo by himself.”

“Bad habits in the ring?
Like checking his reflection in the hard cam before he throws a clothesline. Or stopping mid-match to adjust his hair like he’s filming a shampoo commercial nobody asked for.”

“A tell before he throws a right hand?
Maybe he whispers ‘okay here it comes’ under his breath. Maybe he winds up like he’s pitching in the World Series. Maybe he apologizes first.”

“A knee that clicks?
Or does it squeak like a grocery cart wheel every time he tries to run the ropes?”

“A shoulder that slips?
Emotionally or physically. I’ll take either.”

“A fear?
Clowns. Commitment. Condiments. Strong women. Therapy bills. The dark. His own Google search results.”

“A weakness?
Diet soda addiction. A secret burner account defending himself. Still owns a LiveJournal. Still texts his ex ‘u up?’”

“A pattern?
Always loses after tweeting something motivational. Always wins when he cheats. Always cries when someone mentions accountability.”

She grins wider.

“Oh — and if anyone’s got proof of a secret Coke habit, unresolved mommy issues *cough* Dyson *cough*, a hidden scrapbook of his own headshots, or the fact he practices his victory speech in the mirror?”

She leans toward the camera.

“That’s premium intel. That’s at least a $25 Target card… maybe even Olive Garden.”

She shrugs.

“Help me help the bracket.”

“And Dickie? Don’t worry. I’m sure none of this applies to you.”

Smile.

“…Right?”
She smiles slowly.

“Something I can actually use.”

Jenny leans back against the ropes.

“Not gossip. Not ‘he eats pineapple on pizza.’ I need ammunition. Strategy. Blueprint-level intel.”

She points at the camera.

“You bring me something useful? Something that helps me dismantle him in the middle of that ring? You get twenty-five dollars on a gift card of your choosing. I’ll even sign it.”

She laughs softly.

“Because let’s be honest… the only thing more embarrassing than the laziest Universal Champion in company history losing… is knowing you helped.”

She tosses the mic from hand to hand.

“And Dickie? If you’re watching? You better hope this locker room is loyal.”

Her smile fades into something colder.

“Because if even one of them isn’t?”

She taps her temple.

“I don’t just win brackets. I break them.”

She drops the mic.

5x

FORMER, 1x AND LONGEST REIGNING (101 Days)

FOREVER, AND ALWAYS

3X

2x XWF Bombshell Champion

Sex, Metal, Barbie, CHAOS