I am no obstacle, Jack Griffiths: I am the end of the line.

I do not hide behind my puppet Xaeroh, Jack Griffiths: I am the puppetmaster.

And I most certainly am no joke, Jack Griffiths: I am the comedian.

You, and all the others like you, look at me like a damn fool, some idiot to serve as your stepping stone to greater things, or as a sparring match to keep your skills warm between big bouts. I am neither of these things, Griffiths: I am, in fact, THE big bout.

I am the WWA United States Champion.

Oh, I hear you now. I can hear you laughing, your snivelly voice vocalizing how silly my statement is. "Oh, he's not the champion at all! I watched him walk out on Copeland and Colby Korver as if he'd pissed his pants in fear of the machine that is Copeland! Who, might I add, is the WWA United States Champion, in fact!"

Man, your snivelling is long-winded, and very detailed.

But you, of course, would be wrong. I have allowed Copeland to maintain the physical belt for me, to "keep it warm," so to speak, while I focus on Marcus Mancuso. When I am ready, I will walk up to him, tap him on the shoulder, and say, "Hello, my good man! I was wondering if I could have my title back now!" And he, being a gentleman, would oblige me.

Well, just replace what I would say into me punching him in the face, and how he would react into him falling stone-dead to the ground, and you'd have our exchange.

But that's neither here nor there, Griffiths. Because you are neither Marcus Mancuso nor Copeland.

You are, instead, nothing.

Have you noticed that your enemy, the immortal and immoral Ry Ballard, doesn't even care about you? Well, he did at first. But seemingly, he's lost interest in you, barely even bothering to be around you. The WWA fans have echoed his sentiments. And would you care to guess why that is?

It's because you're worthless and unremarkable.

Well, every WWA "superstar" is worthless except for me, of course. It's just that some are more worthless than others, and you are the worthlessest of the bunch. See that? Your existence is so pointless, I had to make a word up to describe it. You are a liability in the ring, you're a liability backstage, and you have no friends. The likes of Mr. Mystery and John Grant (both of whom tolerated you as much as they could and then fled as quickly as their legs could carry them) and Jaymz Watkins (who isn't far behind) merely put up with you to appeal to the fans, and now that the fans don't even care, Watkins will probably dropkick your ass as a friend quicker than you can say, "What the fuck, you fucking fuck fuck?"

And then there's me. US Champion, all-around talent, supremely handsome and mysterious to boot. I can taste the moist cooters of the WWA's female fanbase in the air every time I step through the curtains. Some of you may want to wash down there, by the way.

We're headed in opposite directions, Jacko. Here I am with rockets up my ass (NOT comfortable), getting ready to bloody my hands with the life's essence of Marcus Mancuso and, after that, taking back the US Championship and NEVER letting it go. And you, sir, are freefalling from your pedestal, a pedestal that was of questionable earning, I might add, about to crash land in the place where you old, useless, has-been wrestlers go to die. I don't know where it is, of course, since I will NEVER be there.

An obstacle in one's path? Well, I think that might be true. But next time you say that, make sure you know who the easily-moved obstacle in your metaphor is, because, as I've shown you with irrefutible evidence, it is certainly not me.