HIGH STAKES - TCC ARENA (TUCSON CONVENTION CENTER) - TUCSON, ARIZONA 

INT. LOCKER ROOM - NIGHT

[Mercedes is still in her gear, hair damp with sweat, makeup smeared. She isn't on the stage - she's slumped against a cinderblock wall backstage. No entrance music, no fanfare. Just the sound of her catching her breath, defeated. The Bombshell Internet Championship is no longer in her possession.

The chill from the concrete seeps through her gear, like the world reminding her it doesn’t care how many lights once followed her. Her fingers twitch, brushing over the spot where the championship used to rest against her shoulder. It feels lighter now—too light.

Someone walks by, a crewmember maybe, but she doesn’t lift her head. The usual post-match noise—booming music, chatter, laughter—feels like it’s happening in another world. A world she’s not part of tonight.

Mercedes exhales through her nose, sharp and shaking. She isn’t crying. Not yet. That would mean this is over, that the loss is real, and she isn’t ready to give the universe that satisfaction.

Finally, she pushes herself upright, every muscle protesting. She adjusts the strap on her shoulder, though there’s nothing there, out of habit more than pride. The empty hallway stretches ahead like a challenge. Maybe this is what the climb back starts like—not under the lights, but here, in the dark, where nobody’s watching.

She finds a quiet corner in the locker room, away from the others. The mirror in front of her is streaked with condensation, the harsh fluorescent light making the sweat on her skin shine like salt. She studies her reflection and almost doesn’t recognize it. The smudged eyeliner, the wild hair, the thin line of blood where someone’s nails caught her cheek. For a long moment, she just stares.

There’s a whisper of a voice in her head telling her she failed. It’s louder than the crowd ever was. But she forces herself to sit down, to breathe in through her nose, out through her mouth, counting to four. Just like her trainer taught her years ago, back when the title belt was just a dream. She remembers his words about loss being part of the job—but never part of who you are.

She picks up a towel, wipes her face, then pulls her phone from her bag. There’s a flood of notifications—memes, replays, fans picking sides. She scrolls once, twice, then locks the screen and sets it face down. Not tonight. Tonight isn’t about them. It’s about the silence that comes after everything crashes down, and what she does with it.

Mercedes leans back, letting the adrenaline drain out of her system. She’s still breathing hard, but there’s a strange peace in the quiet now. The kind that says, “You survived.” Tomorrow will hurt in all the ways that matter, but right now, in this small space behind the stage lights, she starts to remember why she fell in love with the fight in the first place.

The door creaks open, and Mercedes doesn’t look up at first. She expects a medic, maybe a stagehand telling her to clear out. Instead, the sound of heels against tile draws closer—measured, confident, deliberate. The kind of stride only someone proud of their new weight in gold would have.]

“Rough night?”

[The voice is smooth, familiar, and when Mercedes finally looks up, there she is. Crystal Zdunich, freshly crowned World Bombshell Champion. The title rests over her shoulder, the metal catching every bit of light in the room. There’s still glitter in her hair and sweat at her temples, but she looks radiant—like the universe itself is bowing to her.Mercedes tells herself she’s not jealous. Not exactly. Maybe just…tired. Crystal leans one hand on the lockers, studying her with the half-smirk she’s perfected over years in the ring.]

CRYSTAL
You know, I’ve been where you are. Four walls, one loss, and a heart that won’t stop pounding. It’s not the end.

[Mercedes lets out something between a laugh and a sigh.]

MERCEDES
Feels like it.

[Crystal shakes her head.]

CRYSTAL
Good. Let it feel that way. Means you still care. And that’s the part that makes you dangerous.

[She straightens, adjusts the belt on her shoulder.]

CRYSTAL
Take tonight. Grieve it. Then come find me. Because champions don’t stay down long.

[She leaves as quietly as she came, the echo of her heels fading into the hum of the arena beyond. Mercedes sits in the silence that follows, torn between resentment and something dangerously close to respect.]


Almighty Fire
Semana del 23 al 30 de noviembre de 2025

You know, sometimes, I forget how good I am at this. Not wrestling—everyone already knows that—but reminding the world that I don’t do average. I don’t settle for “good enough,” and I damn sure don’t lose sleep over the flavor-of-the-month duo that thinks they’re ready to stand next to Fire & Fury. Honestly, Young Justice? The name alone screams “try-hards.” Cute. Motivational. Just the kind of name you pick when you still believe hard work equals destiny. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t. Pregúntale a las que vinieron antes de ti—ask around. Ask the women who tried to outwork me, outshine me, outtalk me. They’re all in my rearview mirror, cariño, where they belong.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Let’s talk about this Climax Control main event—because make no mistake, this isn’t just another match. This is a masterclass. It’s the difference between those who make the spotlight and those who desperately chase it.

Now, Harper Mason. You’re… interesting. That little rebel streak? It’s cute. The fans eat it up. All fire, all heart, taking no prisoners, swinging for the fences—only to find out the fences are way higher than they look. You’ve got that “fighter’s grit,” that motor that just doesn’t quit. Admirable, really. Reminds me of myself when I was running this place years ago without needing to hashtag it every five minutes. But the problem, mija, is that your fight ends when experience begins. I’ve seen girls just like you: all ambition, no direction.

You’ve been hyped as the future of this division, which is funny, because I’m still very much the present. You don’t overthrow a queen just because you want to—you do it because you can. And tú no puedes.

Let’s be clear: nobody is denying your potential. You can go in there, take a few chops, maybe even get a pin if the stars align—but against me? Against Fire & Fury? You’re not just stepping in with veterans, sweetheart. You’re stepping into a legacy. Remember how we dismantled you and Cassie the last time? Same script here. You two might dream about stealing the show, but honey, I built the damn platform. You wouldn’t even have a show without women like me rewriting what “Bombshell” means in this company.

So when that bell rings in Tempe, don’t take it personal when I make an example out of you. I’ll give you your flowers when it’s over. Maybe even let you post about it, tag me in the caption—#WrestlingRoyalty, #Goals, #NeverForgetWhoHumbledYou. You’re welcome in advance.

Then there’s Cassie Wolfe. Little Miss Sunshine with the underdog spirit. The fans love you because you’re the scrappy one. The risk-taker. The girl who wears her heart on her sleeve, walks the line between brave and reckless. You’ve made people believe that just maybe, if they hustle hard enough, they can knock off legends. That’s adorable. Really, it is. I appreciate the fairytale. But this isn’t a Disney movie, muñeca. This is Climax Control, and you’re standing across from Mercedes Vargas—the final boss, la prueba definitiva. One of the .most decorated Bombshells of all time. You’re not facing a test, Cassie—you’re facing the final exam.

You and Harper are going to go viral for one night, sure. Clips of your fire, your hustle, your “heart.” And then what? When that bell rings and Fire & Fury are standing tall, when Crystal and I do what we always do—prove that dominance isn’t claimed, it’s earned—what happens next? You go back to promising that one day it’ll be your time. “Soon.” “Next time.” That speech never changes for your kind. But here’s the truth nobody tells you—sometimes “next time” never comes, mamita. Some of us were born to define eras. Others were just lucky to live in them.

Now, I’ll give you your due. You’ve got ring IQ. You’ve got reflexes. You’ve even beaten names that made people take notice. But beating Mercedes Vargas? That’s the difference between bold and delusional. And knowing you, I’d say you lean heavily toward the latter.

So please, do your cute pre-match ritual, smile for the cameras, tell the world that “you’re not afraid of Fire & Fury.” Then step into the ring and discover why everyone else learned they should have been.

People love to talk about setbacks. They bring up High Stakes like it's some kind of stain on my legacy. Victoria Lyons pinning me in that triple threat with Harper Mason—oh, the Internet ate that up, didn’t they? “Mercedes finally loses her touch.” “The era’s ending.” No, honey. The era doesn’t end because of a fluke. Victoria got her moment, Harper got her participation trophy, and I walked out still being Mercedes Vargas—the name that sells tickets. Losses don’t define me; they remind me who I am. And that’s dangerous for anyone standing across the ring from me.

See, every queen stumbles before she reclaims her crown. That night wasn’t a fall—it was an awakening. And someone’s going to pay for it. Funny how fate lined it up perfectly, because here comes Harper again, thinking lightning’s going to strike twice. Darling, lightning doesn’t strike twice in my sky.

Now, let’s pivot to something a little closer to home. Fire & Fury—Crystal Caldwell and Mercedes Vargas. You know, for two women cut from such different cloth, we fit together like destiny planned it that way. She’s the Fire—flashy, emotional, always needing to be seen. And me? I’m the Fury. The constant. The storm that doesn’t need to announce itself before it hits. That’s why this partnership works. Where Crystal brings the spark, I bring the execution. Together, we don’t just burn bright—we scorch anyone foolish enough to stand in our way.

Crystal is the World Champion for a reason. She talks her talk, she walks her walk, and like every megastar, she’s had her share of doubters. But here’s what people miss: champions need equals beside them, not shadows. That’s me. I’m the balance, the credibility, the reminder that no matter how high she climbs, she’s not standing alone—she’s standing next to greatness. And that’s the difference between Fire & Fury and every makeshift team thrown together hoping for lightning in a bottle. This isn’t lightning. This is legacy. You don’t get that at the performance center or scrolling through motivational quotes on social media. You earn that through years of blood, betrayal, and championship gold.

People talk about “chemistry” like it’s this mystical thing. No. It’s called respect, experience, and lethal focus. Crystal and I thrive under pressure because we are the pressure. We make the air thick, the crowd alive, the ring feel smaller the moment we step in. That’s Fire & Fury. And Young Justice, you’re going to find out that playing heroes doesn’t hit the same when you’re facing villains who write the rules.

See, matches like this—they’re not about wins and losses for me anymore. They’re about preservation. I’ve done the ironwoman runs, the title chases, the five-star classics. At this stage, I’m protecting my narrative. The narrative that says “Mercedes Vargas doesn’t fade.” The narrative that even after generations of bright-eyed newcomers, my name still headlines. I don’t crave validation—I command it. Every time I step into that ring, I’m not chasing championships, I’m chasing immortality.

And the funny thing about being immortal is watching mortals convince themselves they can slay you.

So Cassie, Harper—think of this match as your baptism. You’re about to find out what happens when ambition meets inevitability. You’ll fight, you’ll swing, you’ll hit your moves, and for a moment, the crowd might even believe you’ve got us on the ropes. But hope has an expiration date. And when that bell tolls, you’ll hear it—your illusion cracking under reality.

People keep asking me if I worry about “the future.” That one day, the next wave will push me out, make me obsolete. Please. The future is what I built. Every rookie who walks into this division is stepping into my design. The blueprint is mine. The Bombshell division runs on wheels I forged when most of these girls were still studying tapes. You don’t topple an empire by tweeting ambition—you do it by dethroning the monarch, and none of you have the pedigree for that.

Cassie and Harper, the two of you represent everything I’ve seen a hundred times before—energy without wisdom, passion without patience. It’s like watching someone try to sprint through a marathon. You burn bright, sure, but you burn out faster. And when you do, I’ll be right here, smiling that same satisfied smile I’ve worn for 12 years, still wearing gold, still being la estándar—the standard no one can touch.

Because when you’ve done it all, when you are the prototype, matches like this aren’t challenges. They’re public service announcements to the audience that the standard doesn’t fade just because others can’t reach it.

When I step through that curtain, they don’t see a wrestler. They see an institution. A brand. The way the light hits the gold, the way I carry myself—it’s intoxicating. The light hits me different because I am different. Some of you call it arrogance. I call it awareness. I could walk into that arena in Tempe, say absolutely nothing, and still outshine both of you without breaking a nail or smudging my lipstick.

Harper, Cassie, you wear heart on your sleeve. I wear gold on mine. That’s the difference between believing you’re special and actually being it.

When Climax Control ends, the world will talk about this match. They’ll praise your courage, your performance, your effort. They’ll admire your drive. But they’ll remember us. They’ll remember Fire & Fury standing victorious, the standard still unbroken, the throne still secure. Porque las leyendas no caen. Evolucionan And evolution’s never been kind to those who think heart can outlast history.

So bring your fight. Bring your fire. Bring every ounce of that “Justice” you think you stand for. Because once the Fury hits, justice won’t save you—it’ll drown with you.

In the end, the question won’t be whether Young Justice could hang with Fire & Fury—it’ll be how long you lasted before you burned out.

And when your fairy tale ends, I’ll be standing over you, fixing my hair, adjusting my title, and saying exactly what the whole world already knows: I told you so.


THREE WEEKS LATER

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

INT. MERCEDES’S LIVING ROOM - DAY

[Sunlight cuts through dusty blinds, hitting a cluttered coffee table piled with takeout containers, wrestling tapes, and a half-empty protein shaker, and a lopsided pumpkin pie tin from last night's rushed Thanksgiving leftovers. Mercedes attacks a shelf of faded title belts and framed posters with a feather duster, her tank top clinging from the effort. Irma hunches over a crumpled checklist, scribbling furiously. Ricardo sprawls on the sagging couch, tossing his jacket over an upturned chair amid scattered laundry.

A sharp knock rattles the door. Mercedes freezes mid-swipe, eyes flicking to the wall clock.]

MERCEDES
Okay, everyone! Landlord’s here in five—this place has to look like a Pinterest board.

[Irma glances up from her list, nodding toward the kitchen.]

IRMA
I already vacuumed twice, but the kitchen sink is a disaster zone. Gravy everywhere from Tomas's "experimental" stuffing.

[Ricardo slings another jacket over the chair, smirking as he sinks deeper into the cushions.]

RICARDO
I threw my dirty socks in the closet. Out of sight, out of mind, right?

[Door swings open. Tomas steps in with a neatly dressed woman carrying a suitcase. The woman scans the room, eyebrows climbing as Ricardo and Irma freeze in mid-argument over a mop.]

TOMAS
This is Abby, my new "ideal roommate"—just until I sort my stuff out after the hospital shift shake-up. Abby, meet the crew: Mercedes the ring general, Irma the list queen, Ricardo the... uh, vibe curator, and that's Hugo lurking in the shadows.

[Abby sets her suitcase down with a deliberate thud, arms folding across her crisp blouse as she takes in the chaos: pie crumbs on the rug, protein powder dusting the TV remote.]

ABBY
Ideal? Cozy's one word for it.

[Hugo edges in from the hallway, camera raised, a sly grin splitting his face as he frames the shot. Abby narrows her eyes at the bickering duo.]

HUGO
Perfect lighting for the chaos. This will make an amazing documentary.

[Mercedes waves the group into line, her duster jabbing the air.]

MERCEDES
Remember, no fights, no messes. Pretend we’re all the responsible adults the landlord hopes we are. And if he asks about the pie crumbs, blame Ricardo.

[Ricardo straightens half-heartedly, sarcasm dripping.]

RICARDO
Pretending’s our strong suit. I'm thankful for pie and plausible deniability.

[Irma tips a wobbly vase of fake flowers in her rush to straighten a curtain; Tomas lunges to catch it, colliding shoulder-first with Abby. It shatters on the hardwood anyway, ceramic shards skittering like escaped marbles. Silence drops heavy, broken only by Hugo's stifled chuckle behind the lens.]

MERCEDES
Act natural. Like we actually live in harmony.

[Mercedes wipes down a framed photo on the shelf—her younger self and Crystal Zdunich, arms raised high with grins wide as arenas. Dust motes dance in the light. She mutters under her breath.]

MERCEDES
If the landlord sees one more speck of dust on that shelf, we’re toast. This place needs to look like we’ve got our act together, even if half of us don’t. At least Thanksgiving gave us an excuse for the mess.

[Irma clutches her checklist, shooting a glance at Ricardo slouched against the wall, thumb scrolling his phone with feigned innocence, ignoring the laundry avalanche beside him.]

IRMA
Ricardo, could you at least put your phone down and help? The pile of laundry in the corner isn't going to fold itself.

[Ricardo raises an eyebrow, smirk widening as he pockets the phone.]

RICARDO
Hey, I’m folding it in my mind. Very thoroughly. Zen laundry. You should try it—less stress wrinkles.

[Mercedes rolls her eyes but pivots to Tomas, who fumbles unpacking a box, a hospital ID badge peeking out.]

MERCEDES
How’s Abby holding up? Settling in okay?

[Tomas straightens, defensive edge sharpening his tone, glancing at Abby who's now eyeing a suspicious stain on the couch arm.]

TOMAS
She’s trying, but you know how first impressions go. Abby thinks this place is practically a disaster zone. She’s not wrong, but we survive. Turkey toughens you up.

[Abby stands by the couch, lips tightening as she crosses her arms tighter, her polished nails tapping an impatient rhythm.]

ABBY
I just don’t get how you all live like this. Wrestling careers or not, there’s a level of dignity missing here. My family's Thanksgiving was Martha Stewart clean.

[Hugo chuckles low, camera dipping as he captures her skepticism.]

HUGO
This is gold for the documentary. The sacred art of the messy wrestler’s lair.

[Mercedes shoots him a hard stare, snatching a rag.]

MERCEDES
Don’t embellish. We’re not circus animals.

[Irma's gaze snaps to a juice spill by the kitchen door.]

IRMA
Who spilled juice here? And don’t say Ricardo.

[Ricardo spreads his hands, mock-innocent.]

RICARDO
Wasn’t me this time. Maybe the ghost of the last tenant?

[Mercedes sighs deep, raking fingers through her hair before clapping once, sharp.]

MERCEDES
Let’s circle up, quick pep talk. Abby, you’re new, so here’s the deal. We don’t always see eye to eye, and our definition of clean might differ, but this isn’t just a place to crash. It’s home. And right now, it’s survival mode till the landlord’s satisfied.

[Abby uncrosses her arms slowly, a reluctant nod forming as she glances at the mismatched crew.]

ABBY
Okay. No mess, no fights, and pretending we’re adults. Got it.

[Ricardo's phone buzzes loud from his pocket; he fishes it out, eyes lighting up.]

RICARDO
Looks like the landlord’s texting. This is it, folks.

[Mercedes claps again, surging forward as the group scatters into motion.]

MERCEDES
Final push! Irma, mop those spots. Ricardo, hit the closet with those socks. Tomas, unpack quick, make the space look lived-in but tidy. Abby, help me organize the kitchen counter—no counters should have crumbs after I’m done.

[A loud CRASH erupts from the kitchen. Irma bolts toward it.]

IRMA
What was that?!

[Tomas calls back, shards crunching underfoot.]

TOMAS
The plate slipped. Don’t worry, it’s fine!

[Mercedes starts for the kitchen, but Abby waves her back and kneels amid the glittering pieces, lifting a shattered frame delicately—a younger Mercedes beaming beside a handsome man in a wrestling singlet, arms slung brotherly around her shoulders. Abby pauses, her voice softening amid the debris, eyes tracing the faded photo.]

ABBY
Looks like there’s more history here than just wrestling belts. This guy... he meant something big.

 Mercedes drifts over, eyes lingering on the photo, a flicker of old pain crossing her face before she steels it.

MERCEDES
That’s my wrestling trainer, Eddie. Passed a few years back—car wreck after a show. Taught me every hold, every hustle. This place has memories, messy or not. Keeps him close.

[Hugo lowers the camera, breath held on the quiet beat. He whispers to himself.]

HUGO
Moments like these—this is what tells the real story.

[Mercedes scans the room, shoulders easing as the frenzy quiets.]

MERCEDES
Okay... maybe the place isn’t perfectly picture-perfect. But it’s ours. And that’s what counts.

[The doorbell rings. Ricardo jolts upright.]

RICARDO
Landlord’s here. Showtime.

[They scramble to posed spots—calm facades cracking at the edges. Mercedes whispers fierce as her hand hits the knob.]

MERCEDES
Let’s show them what responsibility looks like—Messy or not.

[The door swings wide. Lights flare.]

[END]


Present Day ♦ T E M P E, A R I Z O N A

[REC•]

[Scene opens with handheld camera footage—grainy, sun-bleached from the Arizona heat. The Tempe landscape hums in the background: cars, footsteps, faint chatter. Mercedes Vargas stands under the shadow of an overpass, dressed like she’s perpetually unbothered, phone in hand, sunglasses perched on her head. Her hair sticks a little to her face—the kind of sweat you earn. No music. Just the low hum of traffic and the clatter of a skateboard rolling by somewhere off-camera.

She’s quiet for a moment, then finally speaks—not to anyone in particular.]

"There’s a story people tell about this town. People come here chasing the sun. They think heat equals heart. They think if they sweat enough under that Arizona sky, it somehow baptizes them into greatness. But let me tell you something about heat—it doesn’t build character. It exposes it. It peels back the shine and the smiles until all that’s left is who you really are when the spotlight burns too long."

[Mercedes slowly turns toward the camera. She smirks, almost to herself.]

"So here we are. Climax Control. Main event. Fire & Fury setting the ring on fire, as usual, because when you’ve got me and Crystal Zdunich on the same team, that’s what you call inevitability. You can dress it up however you like—new talent, next generation, changing of the guard—but what’s really happening is the same thing that’s always happened. Legends lead. The rest follow."

[She tilts her head slightly. The smirk widens.]

"Oh, I can already hear the sound bites. “Mercedes, you’ve been at this too long. Mercedes, you’ve had your time. Give the kids a chance.” The kids.

"That’s what you call Cassie Wolfe and Harper Mason, right? Young Justice. Cute name. Nostalgic in that Saturday morning cartoon kind of way. But you know what cartoons have in common? They end after thirty minutes. And when the credits roll, the heroes go back to being ideas. Not champions. Not foundations. Just fantasy."

[She chuckles under her breath and steps closer to the camera, lowering her voice.]

"You want reality? The reality is I built this. This Bombshell division that you all love to hashtag and romanticize? This is my house. I turned it from promise into permanence. From experiment into empire. Every title reign built on that work. Every newcomer walking through the locker room doors owes their introduction to people like me—and people like Crystal Zdunich—who didn’t just show up when the lights came on. No. We’re the reason the lights even come on."

[She pushes her sunglasses up into her hair and looks straight into the camera.]

"So when I hear, “Mercedes, the future has arrived,” I laugh. Because the future can only exist if the past allows it to."

[Pause. She folds her arms, leaning casually against a concrete pillar. The sounds of traffic echo around her. For a moment, she looks up at the overpass lights flickering above.]

"Legacy never clocks out, mamita. It adapts, evolves, and waits for the next pretender to make the same old mistake—thinking youth equals dominance. Thinking ambition is the same thing as accomplishment. Cassie Wolfe and Harper Mason, you’ve got ambition, I’ll give you that. You’ve got spirit, too. You come flying down the ramp all bright-eyed and bulletproof, swinging at every shadow that looks legendary. But here’s the thing about experience: it doesn’t just fight back—it rewrites the ending."

[Her tone drips with calculated sweetness, each word deliberate, teasing.]

"Crystal calls me her ride-or-die for a reason. You don’t survive this long at the top without someone equally unafraid to get her hands dirty. Fire & Fury isn’t just a name—it’s a declaration. Fire destroys what shouldn’t last. Fury humbles what gets in the way.

"Tell me, Young Justice... which one do you think you can survive?"

[Mercedes lets the rhetorical question hang in the air. A breeze kicks up her hair. She pushes off the pillar and starts pacing slowly, eyes trained on the ground, voice mellow yet sharp.]

"You girls remind me of myself once upon a time—believing the world was waiting for me to claim it. But there’s a difference between believing you’re the moment and proving it. Belief talks. Proof walks. And when the bell rings, belief doesn’t mean anything if you can’t stand toe-to-toe with greatness without trembling.

"You see, Fire & Fury aren’t rattled by pressure. Pressure creates us. Every challenge makes us sharper, colder, hungrier. And this match? It’s not about survival for us. It’s about statement. We’re not just defending our reputations—we’re redefining what “main event” means in a division that sometimes forgets who made it matter."

[She smiles knowingly.]

"Crystal and I, we don’t just wrestle—we curate history. Every time she steps into the ring as World Champion, she reminds everyone why the title still means something. And me? I stand beside her, not because I need validation, but because I am validation. I’ve been the measuring stick for nearly every generation that’s come and gone. And Sunday night, when Tempe lights up with noise, all those cheers for the next big thing? They’ll fade once the bell sounds, because the audience always remembers one thing—class is forever."

[Her tone drops, suddenly serious.]

"Cassie Wolfe. Harper Mason. Let me address you directly. You said you’re coming into this match with nothing to lose and everything to gain? That’s exactly why you’re dangerous. But also exactly why you’re predictable. You mistake recklessness for bravery. You think because the cameras love your fresh faces and Twitter adores your hustle, that somehow puts you at my level. It doesn’t. Hell, you’re not even in my orbit."

[A car horn blares above. She flinches slightly but doesn’t look away.]

"I don't know how you continue to shoot at me when you underachieved. One championship, only four wins on the year? If I stop wrestling today, my career was better, way more impactful. You're not special, you're barely even average. Your resume got to be a little better to keep taking shots. Maybe you just don't have the talent to compete with your opponents and that's becoming clear. Whatever the case, things are bad, and you should feel bad."

[Mercedes takes a step closer, the camera tightening on her expression—equal parts irritation and amusement.]

"Every time one of you swings at legacy, you underestimate the cost of the punch. You think one upset victory makes you immortal. But immortality doesn’t come from one night. It comes from decades of nights when you’re the headline, not the headline chaser. When no one questions your worth because your résumé answers for you."

[She taps her chest once, with quiet emphasis.]

"That’s me. That’s Mercedes Vargas. Thirteen years. That's my ledger. Wins, losses, nights I dragged my ass to the ring with a busted knee because the booker said so. 13 years, and still the one they mention in the same breath as greatness. Still walking into hostile arenas and leaving people silent because I don’t need permission to dominate—I was born for it."

[A faint smile returns. She glances around, noticing the faded graffiti on the pillar, then back to the camera.]

"Tempe might think they’re in for a moment of history with Young Justice. And in a way, they are. But not the kind they expect. See, history isn’t just made by who wins—it’s written by who defines what winning looks like. Fire & Fury already did that. We’re not here to earn respect; we’re here to remind everyone why respect still has our names attached to it."

[She takes off her sunglasses now. Her eyes are fierce, unwavering.]

"You want to shock the world? Beat us. You want to headline this division for the next decade? Defy us. But if you think we’re going to lie down and hand you the keys to the kingdom, darling, you picked the wrong queens to overthrow. Because no matter how fast lightning strikes, fire burns longer."

[The camera catches the shimmer in her expression—a mix of pride, exhaustion, and firebrand arrogance.]

"Every generation needs its awakening. Maybe you two are the ones destined to rattle the cage. But before you can claim the throne, you have to live through the storm. And the storm’s name is Fire & Fury. The veteran and the champion. The blueprint and the benchmark. The epitome of what you still dream of becoming."

[She shrugs, leaning closer to the lens again.]

"If it sounds harsh, it’s because truth doesn’t come gift-wrapped. It comes earned. You’ll learn that in Tempe."

[She takes a deep breath, tone softening slightly.]

"And when it’s over, when the final bell rings and you’re lying there looking up at the lights—remember that this isn’t punishment. It’s education. Because win or lose, you’ll walk out of that arena understanding something that can’t be taught in training or captured on hashtags. You’ll understand legacy."

"And you’ll remember that you didn’t just face Mercedes Vargas and Crystal Zdunich—you survived Fire & Fury."

[She looks off-camera again, voice low, near a whisper.]

"Survival isn’t shame, my darlings. It’s the first step to becoming something real."

[She slips her sunglasses back on and finally starts walking away from the camera. But before she’s completely out of frame, she turns her head just enough to deliver one last line.]

"The future might be bold, but the present? The present always belongs to the legends. See you in Tempe."

[She exits. The camera doesn’t follow. Just lingers on the graffiti and the roar of the freeway for a few seconds before fading out.]

[***FADE***]

KNOTT'S SCARY FARM -  BUENA PARK, CALIFORNIA

[Somewhere at Knott's Scary Farm. The camera pans in on Mercedes Vargas and Crystal Caldwell. Crystal is still catching her breath, visibly proud after her tournament final victory over Bella Madison. Mercedes stands beside her with the Bombshell Internet Championship resting on her shoulder.]

Crystal:
Mercedes, I can’t believe it! We did it. I’m going to High Stakes to face Frankie Holliday for the World Bombshell Championship!

Mercedes:
And they said you couldn’t do it without me. You proved them wrong. I told everyone you would. Bella Madison gave you a fight, but tonight, you proved that you’re ready for the spotlight.

[Crystal smiles, shaking her head as the moment sinks in.]

Crystal:
And speaking of spotlight, your title defense against Harper Mason is coming up too. You feeling ready for her?

[Mercedes pushes off the railing, that half-grin never fading.]

Mercedes:
Ready? Crystal, I was born ready. Harper’s tough, sure—but this title isn’t going anywhere. I’ve got that defense locked down.

[Before Mercedes can continue, Rocky Mountains rushes into frame, clearly out of breath and holding a microphone.]

Rocky:
Mercedes, sorry to break up the celebration, but we’ve just received major news. Victoria Lyons attacked Harper Mason backstage. Harper’s hurt, but the office made the call… you’re not facing Harper alone anymore. High Stakes just became a triple threat. Harper Mason. Victoria Lyons. And you.

[The silence that follows is heavy. Crystal looks over, waiting for Mercedes’ reaction. Mercedes doesn’t flinch at first; her jaw tightens, her grip on the title stiffens.]

Crystal:
Wait, Victoria Lyons? She’s been added to your title match? What the fuck?

Mercedes:
You know what? That’s fine. Victoria and I have crossed paths before and both times, it ended without me getting the win. I’ve had two chances to beat her for the Bombshell Roulette Championship, and she’s slipped away both times. But at High Stakes? Third time changes everything, and I've got something she want this time. Harper and Victoria both want this title so badly they’re willing to tear each other apart before even getting to me. Works in my favor.

[Mercedes takes a step toward the camera, her gaze firm.]

Mercedes:
Triple threat or not, I’ve beaten Harper before, and I’ll do it again. Victoria can play mind games all she wants. At High Stakes, when the lights are brightest, I’ll finally get her in the ring with everything on the line—and this time, I walk out still champion.

[Crystal nods, her expression shifting from surprise to encouragement.]

Crystal:
That’s the energy we need going into High Stakes. You get your redemption. I get my world title shot. Two champions. Two matches. One unforgettable night.

Mercedes:
You handle your business. I’ll handle mine. Frankie Holliday, Harper Mason, Victoria Lyons—doesn’t matter. High Stakes belongs to us.

[Mercedes’ smirk returns—sharper this time. She extends her fist. Crystal bumps it without a word.

The camera lingers on the two of them standing amid flickering carnival lights—the hum of fog machines, the sound of faint screams in the distance—and then the image cuts to black.]


Almighty Fire
Semana del 26 de octubre al 2 de noviembre de 2025

Your girl's a little spicy today, so let's get into it.

There’s a lot of noise in the wrestling world, stories told from every angle, some with more truth than others, but you know what sets a real champion apart? Perspective. And I’m here to give you mine, unfiltered and unapologetic, before High Stakes puts everything on the line.

Let’s start by clearing the air about the Bombshell Internet Championship. I didn’t just snatch that title out of nowhere; I earned it at Climax Control 436 back in August, defeating Lilith Locke in a hard-fought battle that showed why I belong at the top. Since then, I’ve defended it fiercely, overcoming threats, distractions, and yes, even the pressure of proving I’m more than a flash in the pan. They said I was done. They said I had nothing left to prove. But here I am—still standing tall while others have come and gone.

Now, the talk is all about “underdogs,” “curses,” and “destined upsets.” Let me get something straight: I’m no fairy tale, but I am no victim either. I’ve built this reign with grit, cunning, and hard work, not just luck or alliances. Crystal Caldwell has been a steadfast ally in this journey, but make no mistake, this title has been earned and maintained with sweat and skill — not handed out.

And speaking of challengers — Harper Mason. The underdog with a chip on her shoulder who’s been counting her curses instead of her victories. She loves to talk about bad luck, missed chances, and supposed “curse” around High Stakes. But here’s the reality: Harper’s struggled more with consistency than with any hex. She’s unpredictable, hungry, that’s true. But hunger alone doesn’t win championships. It takes grit. It takes focus. It takes results — something I’ve delivered over and over.

And then there’s Victoria Lyons. Halloween was yesterday, I know, but this woman has haunted me longer than I’m willing to admit. Make no mistake: Victoria is a threat. She’s cunning and chaotic, a wild card who never backs down. But don’t let the rumors fool you — Victoria hasn’t exactly been lighting this division on fire since losing the Bombshell Roulette Championship. Some might say she lost the spark she once had after she and Harper lost to Song and Lilith Locke in a tag match back in May. Her attack on Harper at Climax Control 440 was desperation, pure and simple, an attempt to claw her way back into relevance at the biggest show of the year.

I’ve faced Victoria twice before, and though she may have the bragging rights on paper, I know exactly what it will take to finally put her away for good. My reign isn’t about grudges or unfinished business. It’s about proving who truly rules this division.

This triple threat match isn’t some convenient storyline. It’s a reckoning. Harper brings fire, Victoria brings chaos, and I bring the unshakable confidence of a champion who refuses to lose what she’s fought so damn hard to keep. They should consider themselves lucky — they get to be part of history when I become the all-time leader in career wins and PPV victories in SCW history.

Some call me the thorn in their sides, the glass ceiling, the lucky champ. Good. That means their ambition is real. Their hunger is sharp. Without worthy challengers, where’s the glory?

At High Stakes, I’m not just defending a title. I’m defending a legacy. A legacy built on blood, sweat, and victories that none of my opponents could ever dream of achieving. Mercedes Vargas doesn’t bow, doesn’t break, never backs down. Whether it’s Harper’s fire or Victoria’s fury, I will stand tall when the final bell rings.

And with everything I’ve accomplished this year, I’m in the running for top honors at the SCW Year-End Awards, including Woman of the Year. It’s not just about the hardware in my hands; it’s about the respect, the dominance, and the mark I’m leaving on this company.

Bring your curses, doubts, and desperation. I live the reality that counts — a champion still rising, reigning, and ready to prove why this championship is mine.

The question isn’t who’s going to let me; it’s who’s dumb enough to try and stop me. Watch closely, because High Stakes is where history will be made. And I’m ready to make mine.


KNOTT'S SCARY FARM – LATE NIGHT

[The carnival noise is gone now. All is quiet except for the steady hum of the overhead lights. Backstage corridor away from the active scare zones. Mercedes Vargas sits on a weathered bench, half in shadow, cleaning her Bombshell Internet Championship with a towel. Her reflection in the metal plate is weary but focused. Crystal Caldwell enters, her hair still damp from a post-match shower, a hoodie thrown over her gear.]

[Crystal finds a spot near her.]

Crystal:
You didn’t have to wait around this long.

[Mercedes smirks faintly.]

Mercedes:
Couldn’t sleep. Still hearing the crowd. Still seeing Victoria’s name flashing on the monitor.

[Crystal exhales, sitting across from her, elbows on her knees.]

Crystal:
You’ll handle her. You always do.

Mercedes:
No. That’s the problem. I haven’t.

[The weight in her voice lands heavy. Mercedes sets the belt down between them with care, fingertips tracing the worn center plate as if searching for answers.]

Mercedes:
She gets in my head. Always has. Every time we cross paths, it’s like she’s already halfway there before the bell even rings. And Harper—she’s another story. She’s got fire. She’s hungry. That makes her unpredictable. This time, I can’t afford to be just good. I have to be unbreakable.

[Crystal looks at her, studying her expression. The energy between them has shifted—more somber than celebratory now.]

Crystal:
You talk about being unbreakable like you haven’t already proved it a hundred times. You’ve carried this company when half the roster was just trying to stay visible. You earned everything you’ve got.

[Mercedes smiles a little.]

Mercedes:
You sound like a motivational poster.

Crystal:
Maybe. But I mean it.

[She leans forward.]

Crystal:
You think I don’t have my own doubts? Frankie Holliday’s been the face of this division for how long now? Half the fans already see me as another name on her list. But that’s what fuels me. That’s why I fight.

Mercedes:
That’s what makes you dangerous, Crystal. You don’t need validation. You just want the fight.

[They share a quiet laugh, broken by the dull clang of a locker slamming somewhere down the hall. Both women glance toward the sound, then back at each other.]

Mercedes:
You ever stop and think how strange this all is? We give so much of ourselves to moments—titles, storylines, chances at glory. And at the end of it, we’re just hoping someone in the seats remembers the feeling.

Crystal:
Maybe that’s all it ever is. Moments. Good ones. Bad ones. But if we can make people feel something, even for a heartbeat, then maybe it’s all worth it.

[Mercedes studies her for a long moment, then finally nods. She stands, slinging the Bombshell Internet Championship over her shoulder. The dim light catches the gold plate for just a second before it disappears into shadow again.]

Mercedes:
High Stakes. You go make Frankie remember your name. I’ll make Victoria wish she never showed up.

Crystal:
And after that?

Mercedes:
After that… we go find what’s next.

[Crystal nods in agreement. Mercedes walks toward the exit, the sound of her boots echoing down the hall. Crystal lingers for a moment, staring at the empty locker opposite her. Her voice falls into a whisper.]

Crystal:
One night at High Stakes. Everything changes.

[END]
 

Present Day ♦ L O S A N G E L E S • C A L I F O R N I A

[REC•]

[Sunset. A Los Angeles rooftop. The Bombshell Roulette Championship glimmers on a table nearby. Mercedes Vargas sits, silk robe sliding from her shoulder, golden light painting her silhouette. The city hums below, and she doesn’t look at it—she lets it look at her.]

"You can tell a lot about a city by which side the sun sets on. Los Angeles—everyone here desperate for a little starlight, like fame is perfume they can rub on their wrists and call it ‘legacy.’ I don’t chase spotlights. I built my own. And while most of these tourists mistake traffic for movement, I already own every lane."

[She glides closer to the camera, drapes the Bombshell Roulette Championship over her shoulder. The metal catches a bleed of copper sunlight.]

"Harper Mason, you finally get a taste of altitude sickness. See, High Stakes isn’t about you climbing a mountain. It’s about you realizing how thin the air gets when you finally reach the summit—only to find someone already sitting in first class, and the view’s reserved."

[Her fingers trace the gold plate, a smile hovering just between mockery and meaning.]

"You remind me of every right-now girl in this city—so busy turning validation into performance that you forget legacy isn’t rehearsed. Willing to do anything for a headline—so desperate for a crown you end up wearing plastic. You call yourself the future? Every future needs a past to study. Too bad the only history they’ll remember is the night you learned why legends aren’t made—they’re born stubborn. Like me."

[Mercedes rises, the cityscape spreading behind her in quiet reverence.]

"Inexperienced girls always think surprise is strategy. But after a decade of mastering this game, surprise just looks like a beginner’s mistake from here. You want to “break through”? The only thing breaking is your carefully curated confidence. They say every match is a story. Let’s just call this one an overdue correction."

[She steps toward the edge, voice dropping lower, precise.]

"You’ll have your moments, Harper. The near falls. The crowd convinced they’re moments away from something historic. But come next Sunday, inevitability’s wearing red, gold, and that trademark Vargas grin. You grew up chasing rebellion. I became its definition. There’s a difference."

[She glances down at the belt, then back at the lens—measured, indifferent.]

"Let’s be clear, Harper. High Stakes is more than a main event, it’s a reminder that “potential” is just an excuse people use when they haven’t delivered. I don’t trade in excuses. Only receipts."

[She adjusts the title’s strap across her shoulder.]

"And you? You’ll be one more ‘almost’ who thought destiny owed her something. Sorry, mamita. Destiny and I have an exclusive arrangement."

[Mercedes walks closer until only her expression fills the shot: fierce, still, almost kind.]

"Here’s your gift, Harper. Next Sunday, you’ll know the true weight of a crown. Maybe you’ll thank me one day—when you’re wiser, humbler, and no longer under the illusion that a lucky night rewrites the book I authored. Because while everyone else is busy dreaming in Los Angeles, I never had to wake up.

"This reign? It’s real. It’s earned. It’s untouchable."

[Pause, then softer.]

"So when the sun sets and the only thing left on your side is disappointment, remember—This view from the top is breathtaking. Just not for you."

[Mercedes continues, now turning attention to her other opponent.]

"Funny thing about climbing, Victoria—it’s only impressive if you stop falling."

[Pause. A faint smirk.]

“I admire the effort. You’ve finally realized that dragging excuses behind you doesn’t look flattering under bright lights. So congratulations — you’ve discovered accountability. Late, but better late than never, right?"

[She tilts her head, amused.]

“But that wasn’t what caught my attention. No, what made me stop… what made me laugh, honestly… was hearing you talk about your brother being deadweight. Sweetheart, come on. That’s not shadow work, that’s projection. You spent most of 2025 blaming circumstance for every stumble, every oversight, every match you couldn’t close. You wore setback like it was a personality trait and now you want applause for shedding the skin you outgrew six months too late?

How about the fact that Vincent is holding a championship right now while you're not?”

[The smirk widens slightly — restrained, yet cutting.]

“I’ve seen talent like yours before, Victoria. Ambitious. Emotional. Fragile. Always eager to talk about rising, but allergic to staying consistent once the spotlight tilts elsewhere. You’re not reinventing yourself, Victoria. You’re recycling your same story under new packaging.”

[Mercedes’ tone stays even, conversational, like she’s explaining simple math to someone who insists two plus two equals five out of pride.]

“If you truly were a different woman now, you wouldn’t need to announce it. Real change is quiet. It’s done in the dark when no one’s watching, not shouted across timelines begging for validation.”

[There’s a certain rhythm to Mercedes’ words, the cadence of someone who doesn’t shout because she doesn’t have to. Every sentence lands with precise weight, deliberate, unhurried, scalpel-sharp. She continues.]

“You called me out as if your newfound self-awareness gives you license to stand at my level. That’s cute. Truly. Reminds me of when rookies still believed confidence alone could bridge experience. You want to talk about rising out of a pit? I’ve lived long enough in this business to know when someone’s simply decorating the walls of theirs.”

[A subtle jab, delivered with such poise that the insult glides by like perfume in the air — sweet but unmistakably pointed.]

“You think your transformation makes you dangerous. But what it really makes you is predictable. Every woman who reinvented herself in the last decade has tried the same storyline. Mass-marketed enlightenment looks good for press, but it never survives pressure.”

[She leans forward, elbows on knees, voice low but firm.]

“You see, the thing about someone like me isn’t that I’ve stayed the same. I’ve simply remained true. I don’t need to burn things down to know my worth. I build on foundations I laid years ago. You? You keep starting over every time your story doesn’t test well.”

[For a brief moment, Mercedes looks away, almost contemplative. Then her voice softens further — not out of empathy, but precision.]

"I could’ve stayed quiet, let you talk yourself into irrelevance. But then again, it’s not in my nature to watch someone make a fool of themselves publicly when I can make it educational instead.”

[Another pause, then a sigh that sounds too faintly pleased to be genuine.]

“I said 2024 Victoria Lyons isn’t the same as 2025 Victoria Lyons, and I still believe it. The difference is that last year, at least, you still knew where you stood — behind the line of relevance, waiting for your moment. This year? You still haven’t caught up. You’ve just convinced yourself that louder footsteps mean faster progress.”

[She leans back again, expression calm, unbothered.]

“And yet, here you are — mentioning me by name. That tells me everything I need to know. Every time a woman like you feels the need to prove she’s changed, it’s because deep down, she knows she hasn’t. She just changed the reflection — not the reality.”

[Camera pans closer. Mercedes tilts her head, gaze unwavering.]

“You brought up family. You pointed fingers. You said your brother dragged you down. And yet, the common denominator between every misstep, every failure, every burnt bridge — is you. You’re the gravity you try to outrun.”

[Then, with just enough venom to sting.]

“So tell me, Victoria, what happens when you run out of people to blame? When there’s nowhere left to climb because you tore down every rung yourself?”

[This is where Mercedes' influence shines through most clearly — that quiet cruelty wrapped in elegance, the ability to disarm through calmness rather than chaos. Mercedes doesn’t yell. She never needs to. Every word feels measured, rehearsed, intentional. The aesthetic of authority.]

“Rising out of the pit, you say. Funny. From up here, it still looks like you’re digging.”

[Mercedes shifts her tone now — smooth, professional, detached — the kind of demeanor someone adopts when discussing a legacy too established to question.]

“You should study me, Victoria. Seriously. Not because I’m your opponent — but because I’m your future if you ever get your story straight.”

[She holds up a single finger.]

“One. You’ll need one reinvention. Just one. Because the moment you find the identity that was meant for you, you won’t have to keep rewriting the prologue. The fact that you’re still workshopping your persona halfway through the year tells me you’re not living your rise — you’re rehearsing it.”

[Two fingers now.]

“Two. You’ll learn that control isn’t loud. I don’t flaunt victories. I let history archive them. When you’ve spent as much time dominating this industry as I have, you don’t crave eyes — eyes crave you.”

[And finally, a third.]

“Three. You’ll stop pretending you’re misunderstood when the truth is simple: you’re just not respected yet. There’s a difference.”

[Another slight smile — poised, knowing, confident.]

“You’ll figure that out… eventually. Maybe you thought this would be a story about redemption. Maybe you envisioned me as the wall you crash through to declare your rebirth. But I’m not your obstacle, Victoria. I’m the reminder.”

[She stands now, voice still calm but colder.]

“I remind the naïve of their limits. I remind the ambitious that confidence without calculation is chaos. And I remind women like you that the spotlight is not a wish — it’s a responsibility.”

[Mercedes smooths the sleeve of her jacket with deliberate care, then glances back at the camera.]

“I don’t need to shout I’m better. Time does that on its own.”

[A heartbeat. The faintest smirk.]

“So keep rising, Victoria. Burn as bright as you like. Just remember — the higher your flame, the easier it is to see the smoke."

Blog: Almighty Fire
semana del 21 de 28 septiembre de 2025

Hola, mis amores.

Violent Conduct was supposed to be the night it all came crashing down, right? Headlines said it. Prediction polls said it. Experts screamed it. Lilith Lock and Diamond Steele were going to take my championship and “prove” Mercedes Vargas was past her prime. And yet, here we are. Same stage. Same spotlight. Same champion. Me.

You can dress it up however you like.  Lilith fizzled, Diamond flopped. SCW loves throwing me these projects, but I have to ask… how many more ‘next big things’ do I have to demolish before we all accept the obvious?

You know the scene well because you’ve seen it play out time and time again, with me at the center of it all. There’s something magnetic about my name showing up in “Main Event” billing, isn’t there? Mercedes Vargas practically screams box office guarantee. And now, once again, Sin City Wrestling comes calling on me, the standard bearer, to close out the night, raise the bar, and—let’s be honest—save the show.

I know, I know. Some of you are tired of seeing me with this Bombshell Internet Championship draped across my shoulder or strapped around my waist. Believe me when I say: nobody is as tired of winning as I am. It’s exhausting, truly. Having to constantly elevate opponents who could barely lace my boots, only for them to cry robbery when I pin them anyway. Championship defenses have become my charity work.

And speaking of charity cases, let’s talk Diamond Steele.

The “Rockstar Goddess.” The woman who really believes her hype is bigger than her résumés, plural, because she’s dusted off so many personas I lost track around gimmick number six. I’d say she was a chameleon if the problem wasn’t so obvious: chameleons adapt. Diamond just… clings. Clings to every opportunity, every spotlight, every passing second where the crowd doesn’t yawn at her entrance. But I’ll give her this—she screams really loud while clinging. Her career is like her accent—unpolished, overdone, and impossible to take seriously.

Now, I don’t want to sound ungrateful. I appreciate General Manager Evelyn Hall doing her job and all. Granting title matches, keeping order, making sure SCW remains the brand the rest of the wrestling world copies but can’t quite match—applause all around.

But could we at least pretend, just this once, that Diamond Steele earned something the right way? This is the rematch nobody asked for. At Violent Conduct, I already beat her. Correction: I beat both challengers, but as fate would have it, I pinned the other woman in our triple threat. Cue Diamond’s meltdown—a complete Broadway-level production about how she “never lost” because she wasn’t the one staring up at the lights.

Here’s the thing, mamita. Triple threats don’t work like that. You had your chance. You had more than your chance. Second place is the first loser. ¿me entiendes? If you were really as desperate to win as you keep screaming into microphones, maybe you should have been better. But no, your fallback plan is the same tired strategy: whine until management throws you a pity title match.

Congratulations, Diamond—you whined your way into another chance. Too bad it’s the closest you’ll get to any championship again. Enjoy it. Savor it. Because come Sunday night, you're mine little girl.

Which brings us to the stipulation: the Gemstones barred from ringside.

Oh, how tragic. How will Diamond cope without her little backup singers? No harmonized pep talk? No clapping at ringside whenever she kicks out of a two-count? No distraction finish where someone jumps on the apron while Diamond “accidentally” hits her big move and capitalizes?

Forgive me, but wasn’t Diamond supposed to be this empowered “rock goddess” who didn’t need anyone? You know… an original diva? What does it say about your wrestling legacy if management had to call in security just to make sure you play fair?

Me? I don’t need goons, bodyguards, or entourages. I don’t outsource victories. When I hold up my championship after the final bell, it’s because I earned it. Alone. Every single reign, every single defense, every single historic run I’ve cemented in SCW? All Mercedes Vargas, all day. Meanwhile, Diamond needs backup the way most people need fashion advice.

Spoiler: one of us clearly doesn’t.

Let’s talk imagery for a moment. Diamond Steele. The name alone sounds like a contradiction. Hard on the outside, soft in performance. Expensive brand name, cheap results. She insists she’s sparkling—yet I can’t count the number of times she’s dimmed the place rather than lit it up. Honestly, the only thing diamond about her is the way she scratches and claws for attention.

And while we’re on contradictions, can we address how she styles herself a “legend”? A legend in what domain, exactly? Karaoke? Gimmick recycling? Chronically posting that she would have been champion if only things went differently that one time? Legends aren’t people who keep telling you they’re legends. They’re the ones who show up, do the work, and are undeniable.

Much like myself.

I don’t slap “legend” on a t-shirt. I don’t scream “icon” into a camera until the cameraman’s ears bleed. I live it. Record-breaking reigns. Consistency. Respect, even from the people who can’t stand me. Now compare that with Diamond—a woman who’s just loud enough to trick people into thinking she’s relevant a little longer.

If Mercedes Vargas is timeless, Diamond Steele is seasonal. And I think Winter left her behind a long time ago.

You know what really separates us? Legacy.

I walk into every arena carrying more than just this Bombshell Internet Championship. I carry the weight of history, of expectations, of excellence. People look at me and expect greatness—and then I deliver, over and over again. Mercedes Vargas, the woman synonymous with longevity and dominance in Bombshell history.

Meanwhile, Diamond walks into the arena carrying… flyers for her next failed band gig.

There’s a reason management keeps putting Mercedes Vargas in these main events. There’s a reason my name is always attached to championship lineage. Because I’ve cemented my place whether my opponents want to admit it or not. Win or lose, I’m the conversation. Diamond has to beg to be involved in it. And even then, it’s usually out of pity.

Let me make this perfectly clear, just in case anyone missed the point:

Diamond is only in this match because she complained enough. She hasn’t earned it, doesn’t deserve it, and without her Gemstones, she’s exposed for what she is: one-dimensional.

I don't need gimmicks or ring rats to validate my greatness. The proof is already in the record books.

And, sweetheart, subtlety is an art form. Consider this little blog not so much a reading as it is a styling. The messy split ends of Diamond’s career need trimming, and I always bring the sharpest scissors.

Here’s your spoiler for Climax Control: Diamond will march to the ring, basking in an applause that’s equal parts pity and déjà vu. She’ll spin around on the ramp, point to the crowd, maybe even try to start a “let’s go Diamond!” chant so she can feel important. She’ll talk big about how this is “her night” and how she’s finally ready to “take what she deserves.” Cute.

Meanwhile, I’ll do what I always do. I’ll out-think her. I’ll out-wrestle her. I’ll make her look better than she actually is. I’ll strip away whatever illusion of greatness she tries to hide behind, because that’s the Vargas way. And then I’ll do what Diamond has nightmares about: I’ll beat her clean, center of the ring, 1-2-3.

No excuses, no controversies.

Then, once again, Mercedes Vargas walks out Bombshell Internet Champion. Because that’s the natural order of things. History won’t remember this as Diamond’s big moment—it’ll be remembered as another Mercedes Vargas defense. Another night challengers failed to reach the crown.

So, Diamond, practice your entrances, pose for the crowd, soak it in. Soak it all in, mamita. Because when the bell rings, you’re going to face reality. And reality is spelled M-E-R-C-E-D-E-S V-A-R-G-A-S.

Your Bombshell Internet Champion,
Mercedes Vargas.

Siempre vencedora.

Prepare for the worst. Hope for the best. And may the odds be ever in your favor.


INT. LITTLE HAVANA – EVENING –

[The evening hum of Little Havana buzzed with music, laughter, and neon light. Mercedes Vargas sat outside a café on Calle Ocho, her Bombshell Internet Championship propped against the chair. A cafecito rested between her fingers. Crystal Caldwell arrived, carrying Christian’s lecture like a stormcloud but masking it beneath oversized sunglasses and a Hollywood smile. She sat opposite Mercedes, removing the shades with a flourish and dropping them onto the table. In her hand was a plate of pastelitos, steam curling into the night air.]

CRYSTAL
Can you believe him? Christian. Acting like we’re the bad guys? We’re the reason people even watch—and yet now we’re villains because we dared to stand up for ourselves?

[Mercedes smirks—the belt shifting on her chair as she leans back.]

MERCEDES
Exactly. Christian should be thanking us. We bring class, gold, and professionalism—well, when people don’t try to step in our spotlight. Instead, he’s lecturing us like children. He should be kissing our Hall of Fame rings.

CRYSTAL
And the nerve of him, trying to make me feel guilty about Seleana. Seleana. Like I don’t know my own wife. She knows exactly what business she signed up for.

[Crystal slams her pastelito down, powdered sugar scattering like stage dust. Her frustration is real but played big—Hollywood melodrama that mirrors her "actress" persona.]

CRYSTAL (near breaking)
And then Zenna—of all people!—grabs me like I’m some extra in her little debut? La odio. Not even signed here, and she tries humiliating me? She’s lucky Christian’s spineless, because next time, she won’t walk away.

[The glow of the sunset stained the sky in warm pastels as Mercedes stirs her cafecito with deliberate calm.]

MERCEDES
Zenna made her first mistake stepping down to that ring.

CRYSTAL
That’s right. She better enjoy her little cameo. If Christian won’t sign her, then she’s just handing herself to us the next time she shows her face

[Mercedes sets her cup down—deliberate. She leans in with surgical calm.]

MERCEDES
We didn’t become champions in multiple companies by shrinking back. We shut people like them down every time. Seleana and Zenna together? They don’t scare me. They don’t scare us. If anything, they just signed up for their own funeral.

CRYSTAL
Well, look at us. Survivors. You walk out of Violent Conduct with that shiny toy still on your shoulder, and I… walk out with my wife pinning me clean in the middle of the ring. Not exactly the Hollywood ending I dreamed up.

[Mercedes smirked faintly, lifting her cup of coffee.]

MERCEDES
Survivors? I’d say one of us has a better word. Winners. Victors. Campeonas. That’s me, Crystal. You? Well, it’s complicated, isn’t it?

[Crystal scoffed, biting into her pastelito a little harder than necessary.]

CRYSTAL
Don’t remind me. Everyone was expecting you to finally lose, too. Lilith Locke, Diamond Steele—they all thought you were done. Hell, some of them probably had tweets pre-drafted for the exact moment you hit the mat. Yet here you are.

[Mercedes chuckled, leaning back in her chair, her tone smooth but cutting.]

MERCEDES
Here I am. Still champion. Still headline. Lilith couldn’t cash in on the hype if her life depended on it. And Diamond? She’s been trying to make herself look relevant longer than I’ve been wearing gold. Violent Conduct was supposed to crown a new era… instead, I added another chapter to my legacy.

[From the nearby domino tables, an abuelo slammed a tile with triumph, shouting “¡Capicú!” while the rest groaned in frustration. Mercedes raised her cafecito in a mock toast before returning her gaze to Crystal.]

MERCEDES
Too bad you couldn’t even book the fairytale ending. You lost to your wife. That’s not just a headline—it’s a soap opera. And you of all people should understand how that plays on screen.

[Crystal narrowed her eyes but muttered through another bite, muffling her words.]

CRYSTAL
So yeah, I lost. But I don’t break, Mercedes. I rebuild. And when I come back? Telenovela or not—it’ll be my rewrite, not yours. And trust me, Mercedes, I never die in a sequel.

MERCEDES
Spoken like someone who doesn’t know when the curtain’s already down.

[Crystal leaned back in her chair, one eyebrow raised.]

CRYSTAL
Says the woman everybody counted out—and then who proved ‘em all wrong. Don’t act too high and mighty. If you can keep rewriting your story, maybe I can too.

[Mercedes set her cup down, her expression sharpening under the Miami glow.]

MERCEDES
Difference is, Crystal, I didn’t just rewrite my story—I owned it. I made sure nobody else held the pen. That’s why I’m sitting here with a championship, and you’re sitting here with excuses.

[For a moment, the rhythm of salsa music filled the pause between them. Crystal finished off her pastelito and sighed, her bravado giving way to something quieter.

Crystal looks away first. Not weakness, but weariness. She toys with her pastelito, then exhales, voice low now.]

CRYSTAL
You don’t ever get worn down, Mercedes? Always being the one with a target on your back? Carrying all of it?

[Mercedes smirks, but her eyes lower just for a second to the championship draped across the chair, a shadow of weight behind the gold. She lingers a moment too long before snapping her gaze back to Crystal with that trademark calm.]

MERCEDES
Tired? Always. That's the cost.

[Mercedes draped the title back across her shoulder with casual precision before glancing at Crystal with her trademark smirk.]

MERCEDES
So eat your pastelitos, cry about your telenovela marriage storyline, and hope for that sequel. Me? I’ll still be the one headlining, still holding gold, still reminding everyone that I’m siempre vencedora.

[Crystal forces a smile—half admiration, half bitterness. She raises her pastelito like a toast.]

CRYSTAL
Fire & Fury forever.

[Mercedes smirks, tapping her cafecito against the pastry.]

MERCEDES
Forever. And if anyone forgets? They’ll burn.

[The camera lingered on them for a moment—the battered but unbowed Crystal Caldwell across from the reigning champion Mercedes Vargas. The clash of loss and legacy. Little Havana rattled with music and life around them, but the unspoken line was clear: one’s chapter felt closed, while another’s story kept writing itself.]

[END]

Present Day ♦L O S A N G E L E S • C A L I F O R N I A

[REC•]

[The screen cuts in from static to a bright, vibrant shot of The Paul Smith Rainbow Wall, its bold wide stripes of colors shining under the California sun. Mercedes Vargas stands directly in front of the wall, the SCW Bombshell Internet Championship draped across her shoulder. She adopts a poised, commanding stance, her presence as bold as the wall behind her.]

“How do you like me now, SCW…”

[Mercedes adjusts the Bombshell Roulette Championship gracefully, tilting the plate so it catches the light before draping it over her shoulder with an effortless smirk.]

“They all swore Violent Conduct was going to be my undoing. They said I was walking into the lion’s den, that Lilith Locke and Diamond Steele were destined to rip this championship from me. That’s what the whispers, the chatter, the breakdowns, the odds were about. Everyone counting me out, waiting for my fall.

"But isn’t it funny how the story always ends the same? With me, standing right here, still the champion. And them? Still talking. Still wishing. Still failing. In fact, the only thing faster than my victories… is how quickly they’ll vanish from relevance once the spotlight isn’t handed to them. Because unlike them, I don’t just show up—I last. And that’s why this championship stays with me.”

[She pats the title like it’s an accessory to her legacy, flashing one last smirk before adjusting the belt slightly higher on her shoulder.]

"But let's get this back to where it should be: Climax Control 436. The main event. Once again, Diamond Steele tries her luck."

[Mercedes drops the belt on her shoulder with precise confidence, the colors of the wall merging into the reflection of the gold plate.]

"People love to say diamonds are forever. What they forget is diamonds chip. Diamonds shatter. And over time, diamonds lose their shine. Diamond Steele? She proves that week after week: loud voice, cheap sparkle, no staying power."

[She tilts the belt slightly upward with her hand, letting the gold catch the light. A faint chuckle escapes before she shakes her head.]

"The truth is that a diamond only has value in jewelry. In the ring, against someone like me? Worthless."

[Her eyes narrow. She points delicately toward the lens as if addressing Diamond directly.]

"After Violent Conduct, you cried, “I didn’t lose because I wasn’t pinned!” Ay, Dios mío, how many times do we have to hear it? Mamita, you were in the match. You had the chance. You failed. End of story. Triple threats don’t come with excuses, Diamond. That you still cling to this proves you’ll never be on my level.

"You want to be champion? Entonces lucha como campeona. Fight like one. Don’t whine like one of your Gemstones forgot their lyrics.”

[Her smirk returns, wider this time—mock amusement.]

"And speaking of the Gemstones—barred from ringside. Gracias a Dios. Finally, no off-key backup singers ruining my performance. This isn’t a garage band, this is Sin City Wrestling. You want a chorus? Go book open karaoke night."

[Mercedes raises a brow, tilts her head slightly, lifting her chin with elegance. Her tone hardens.]

"No backup, no distractions. Just you, me, and the undeniable truth: alone, Diamond Steele is nothing."

[Her tone lowers, deliberate. She touches the belt with both hands, squeezing it briefly, like an emphasis on legacy.]

"Mientras tanto, look at me. Mercedes Vargas, la eterna campeona. The walking legacy of this company. When I say I’m decorated, it’s because I put in work, match after match, year after year. I keep showing up, I keep winning, and I keep proving why I’m untouchable.

Meanwhile, you strut around pretending to be iconic without ever earning it. Newsflash, mamita: calling yourself ‘legendary’ doesn’t make it true. Legends don’t announce it—they prove it. Yo no hablo de ser campeona. Yo lo soy."

[She lifts her finger and waves it slowly, deliberately, at the camera as if correcting a child. Her smirk twists into a sharper sneer.]

"And while we’re here, let’s address the elephant in the room: tu estilo, chica. Diamonds may sparkle, but you? You’re cubic zirconia. Loud colors, glitter everywhere, Hot Topic sequins that scream ‘try hard.’ Me? I am class. Timeless. Effortless. You? Still stuck in 2009, begging people to call you edgy. Ándale, chica. Evolution is mandatory."

[Mercedes drapes the Bombshell Internet Championship over her forearm. She begins pacing with calm, measured steps, owning the frame.]

"So let’s talk about Sunday. You’ll do your spinning routine, shout “rock goddess” like anyone believes it, play to the crowd with your wannabe rebel attitude… and then the bell rings. That’s when it falls apart. The illusion dies, reality sets in. Mercedes Vargas rises. Diamond Steele falls.

No Gemstones. No distractions. No escape."

[She stops pacing, centers herself directly to the camera, the belt raised slightly now at chest level, gleaming under the sunlight. Her tone shifts, smooth, cutting, almost final.]

"In the end, cariño, you’ll walk away talking about how “next time things will be different,” while I stand tall, Bombshell Internet Championship in hand, adding another victory to my list. Escrito en piedra. History doesn’t remember excuses. History remembers winners."

[Mercedes lets out a measured laugh as she adjusts the belt on her shoulder before leaning closer to the camera. Her eyes narrow again, sharp and piercing.]

"And Diamond, history already knows my name. Not whispered. Not forgotten. My name se grita en voz alta—it’s shouted. Mercedes Vargas isn’t just booked. Yo soy el espectáculo. I am the show, the main event, the pulse of this division."

[Her voice drops lower, almost whispering directly to Diamond through the lens, pulling the viewer in tight.]

"You live in fantasies, Diamond. Fantasies where you’re special, celebrated, legendary. But fantasies end when the alarm clock goes off. On Sunday, that alarm will be me. That bell will sound, and reality will hit harder than any slap I ever could.

"Reality says you fold under pressure. Reality says talk is all you have. Reality says your reigns don’t last. Diamonds may be forever, but you? You’re already cracked."

[Mercedes takes a step closer toward the camera now, the lens subtly adjusting upward into a low-angle, giving her a commanding presence. She steadies the title belt across her shoulder, then slowly drags her fingertips across the faceplate, tracing the golden edge. Her smirk fades into a sharp, cold seriousness.]

"Cracks can be polished or hidden, but they never disappear. They only grow bigger until the whole stone shatters. Eso es tu destino"

[Mercedes lets her hand fall from the faceplate, then lifts the championship belt fully off her shoulder with both hands. She holds it up at eye level, staring into the gold for a moment before turning it outward, presenting it directly to the camera like a mirror. Her expression remains cold, serious.]

"This? This is the standard. This is proof that when you face me, you’re facing the bar no one else can clear. And before you even step into that ring, Diamond, I want you to look at this title and understand: it isn’t yours. It’s never been yours. And after Sunday? It still won’t be."

[Mercedes slowly lowers the belt again, draping it carefully back onto her shoulder with precision—almost ritualistic, as if placing a crown back where it belongs. She steps closer, closing the gap between herself and the lens until her presence dominates the frame. Her voice steadies into a deliberate whisper.]

"Long before you knew, and long after you'll remember."

[She tilts her head back slightly, her smirk returning at last—measured, confident, untouchable—as the rainbow wall colors fade softly behind her before the feed snaps back to static.]

***Fade***

Blog: Almighty Fire
semana del 31 de agosto al 7 de septiembre de 2025

There’s a strange sort of calm before nights like the one that’s coming. People expect chaos, they expect bedlam, they expect noise, but the loudest thing in my world before the bell rings is silence. Because when I walk in, I already know what’s going to happen. The others? They’re still trying to convince themselves they do.

I’m not scrambling for validation. I’m not losing sleep over who believes in me and who doesn’t. When you’ve walked into more storms than anyone else and walked out with everything intact, you stop measuring yourself against who’s shouting the loudest. You measure yourself against who’s still standing when the shouting stops. That’s where I separate myself. Lilith Locke wants to swing between brilliance and breakdown like she’s living inside some fairytale written for her own amusement. Diamond Steele? She lives to hear herself talk, even if every time she opens her mouth she empties the room of respect. Both of them kick, claw, and scream about how much they deserve this Bombshell Internet Championship, how much they need it. And there’s me—still here, todavía campeona, still watching them glare at me for having something they can’t keep.

This match doesn’t cage us in the ropes. It’s not about holding yourself up on a ten count, or finding a corner to breathe. Falls Count Anywhere strips wrestling down to what it should be: who can take the fight anyplace and still win. No escape routes. No excuses. That’s bad news for two women who spend their time pretending to be larger than life when, truthfully, they’ve barely figured out how to keep their feet underneath them when the ground shifts.

Take Lilith, for example. She’s unpredictable, right? She’ll laugh, she’ll scream, she’ll try to drag you into her little theater of madness. People like to pretend she’s dangerous because she doesn’t color inside the lines. The truth? She’s just messy. Desordenada. There’s no control behind her chaos, and when there’s no control, there’s no discipline. And when there’s no discipline, there’s no consistency. That’s why every time she’s given the ball to run with, she drops it. It isn’t because she lacks ability—it’s because she can’t stay tethered to the reality that wrestling isn’t about moments, it’s about endurance. She can give you a highlight, pero no puede ganar la guerra. Highlights fade. Yo colecciono victorias. Y ella colecciona excusas.

Then there’s Diamond Steele. Now, Diamond will happily tell you she’s the most hated woman in this business. She’ll smile about it, brag about it, let that arrogance seep through every word like it’s perfume. But when the lights come down and the cameras stop rolling, being hated doesn’t cash the check. Being hated doesn’t pin shoulders to the mat. What it does is make her a lightning rod for her own downfall. Every time she cuts a corner, every time she puts herself above the work, she leaves a crack in the armor. And the cracks keep growing wider. People don’t hate her just for arrogance. They hate her porque es perezosa. Loud, yes. Pero nunca cumple. She says she’s hated. Nadie la respeta. Because she thrives on attention but starves when it comes time to deliver. And in this kind of fight, where there are no rules to wriggle out from under, being her own worst enemy is going to devour her faster than anything I could do to her.

The truth neither of them can say out loud is simple: they orbit me. They take every chance they get to talk about how much they don’t care, how much they’ve moved on, how much they don’t need me in their sightlines. But look at where we are. Look at whose name is printed first on the card. Look at whose championship is fueling the entire storm. Their obsession is my advantage. I don’t need to obsess over them. I don’t need to waste energy picking them apart day after day. They’re already doing the job for me, ripping at each other, trying to prove who the bigger threat really is. Y mientras ellas se destruyen, I'll be standing right here, pulling strength from the fact that none of this is new to me.

I’ve been in arenas where the walls shook. I’ve had matches where I walked out with bruises that didn’t fade for weeks. I’ve heard the noise, the boos, the cheers, the people begging for me to fail, and the people secretly relieved when I didn’t. And each time I didn’t fail, I added another brick to this fortress around me. So when the stakes rise and the rules vanish, I don’t panic. I adapt. That’s why the old saying goes: pressure makes diamonds. And maybe that’s cute for Steele if she thought about herself as more than a running joke, but diamonds can crack under sustained force. La presión me fortalece. Bajo el calor me forjo. Y yo nunca me rompo. Diamonds break. I don’t.

The Bombshell Internet Championship is mine because I understood from the beginning that this was never about a moment to brag with or a prop to validate my existence. It’s about outlasting. It’s about standing tall after everyone else gives out. Lilith fought for it once, and she crumbled. Diamond scratched at it, bled for it, whined when it wasn’t handed to her, and still walked away empty. And they’re supposed to survive Falls Count Anywhere when they couldn’t survive the simplest obstacles before? Por favor.

When I walk into this match, I’m not walking in to prove anyone wrong. That’s too easy. I’m walking in to prove myself right and remind them why this championship doesn’t sit on their shoulders, why it looks best where it is. Because when we’re brawling through the stands, cuando alguien golpea contra las cajas tras bastidores, when the asphalt of the parking lot scrapes skin raw, it won’t matter who screams the loudest or who postures the biggest. It will only matter who finishes the fight, whose hand is raised, who’s holding this title high when everything goes quiet again. And they’ve both proven time and time again that when the fight reaches its end, it’s not them left standing.

I don’t play dress-up in delusion pretending I’m invincible. I just don’t give out proof otherwise. You can stack the odds, throw both of them at me, lock me in situations designed for someone else’s downfall, and it still won’t shift me off center. I don’t chase control. Porque yo no busco el control—lo poseo. I own it. That’s the difference. Lilith is busy trying to paint the walls of this match with her brand of madness, Diamond is clinging to what’s left of her relevance by throwing tantrums with words, and I’m walking straight into the middle of the storm already knowing where I’ll be standing when it ends.

If people think that makes me cold, that makes me calculating, then they’ve finally started paying attention. Because this sport doesn’t reward sentiment, it doesn’t reward illusions, and it doesn’t reward the delusional. It rewards the one who can see three steps ahead, who can let the noise swirl without letting it drown her. I cut deeper — corto más profundo, sin necesidad de gritar. That’s me, every time I step out there.

So when the bell rings, the silence will end. Lilith will throw herself into the fire like it’s the only way to be seen. Diamond will try to manipulate the moment to make it about her, like always. And me? I’ll let them dig their holes deeper, let them expose themselves for what they are, and then I’ll finish it. Anywhere. Anytime. Así funciona esta lucha. No hay límites. No hay escondites. No boundaries. No excuses. Just the truth revealed in every strike, every crash, every count of the referee’s hand slamming the ground.

By the time they realize their truths don’t stack up to mine, it’ll already be decided. Lilith’s unpredictability won’t save her. Diamond’s arrogance won’t carry her. And both of them, when they’re sprawled out wondering how I keep doing this, will finally see that I don’t need to scream for attention. I don’t need to beg for credibility. I don’t need to cling to gimmicks, taglines, or hollow words. I just need one more match to prove that none of them are walking out with this championship.

Chaos doesn’t shake me. El caos me moldea.

And when Falls Count Anywhere is over, cuando esta arena quede patas arriba, when bodies are left broken across concrete and steel, I’ll be the one the cameras find holding the fight’s only prize.

Todavía firme. Todavía en control. Todavía tu Bombshell Internet Champion.


INT. PARKING STRUCTURE - NIGHT

[The fluorescent buzz in the parking structure isn’t sound so much as headache — high-pitched, thin, and too steady. Each tube light hums like a bad memory. Mercedes adjusts the championship belt on her shoulder, letting the teeth of gold glass the dull concrete gray, her fingers brushing it like it’s part of her pulse.

Her heels hit each step with precision. No rush, no stagger. Just enough echo to carry ahead of her.

At the far end of the lot, the security guard nearly drops his clipboard when he notices her. He fumbles with it, trying to look official — shuffling papers, flicking the pen as if it’s some kind of weapon.]

GUARD
Uh— yeah, ma’am? Parking’s all clear down here. Didn’t see anybody. Just— y’know, are you, uh… sure you don’t want me to, like… walk you out? Late night and all.

[His words hang shaky, already bracing for dismissal. Mercedes tilts her head, narrowing her eyes, more confused than angry.]

MERCEDES
If somebody was stupid enough to find me here, do you honestly think you would be the one protecting who walks out of this building?

[The guard freezes. One of his papers slides off the clipboard and drifts to the floor face-down, the loud slap of cheap paper against concrete exposing his silence. Mercedes blinks slow, unimpressed. She taps her fingertips once against the cold face of the title belt. Then she brushes past, her stride loosening the air with cool dismissal. Over her shoulder, her voice drapes backward, too calm to be casual.]

MERCEDES
Besides… I don’t get followed. I get chased. Difference is… they never keep up.

[The guard stammers quickly.]

GUARD:
Y-Yeah, no, totally. I chase people sometimes too. Like for exercise.

[Mercedes stops walking. The silence that falls afterward is painful in its precision. She turns her head just enough, cutting a sideways glance. Not rage. Pity disguised as disdain.]

MERCEDES
Do you hear yourself?

[The guard stands stranded in her wake, clipboard clutched like a child’s shield. The belt’s glint lingers longer in memory than in light.

She doesn’t wait for him to try another reply. Stepping into the driver’s seat of a sleek dark sedan, she sets her title onto the passenger seat like royalty resting its crown, then slides behind the wheel. A pause, the hum of lights above trying and failing to compete with the roar of her ignition.

From the far end of the lot, the guard raises the clipboard lamely in farewell. But by then, she’s already gone, vanishing into the night.]


INT. HOTEL ROOM – NIGHT
INTERCUT WITH – CRYSTAL CALDWELL'S APARTMENT – NIGHT

[The city outside the hotel window doesn’t sleep; it just changes rhythms. Neon reflections smear across the glass, headlights streak against the pale curtain fabric. Inside isn’t silence, not really — the hotel’s AC rattles like it could quit any minute, the TV glows, the world outside keeps humming its pulse.

Mercedes sits hunched in an armchair, belt propped across her knees, laptop perched on the low table. The screen glows with Crystal Caldwell’s face, framed by the buzz of her own messy apartment lighting. A half-drunk can of Sprite sits at Crystal’s elbow, condensation streaking into her notes.]

CRYSTAL
You looked like you were gonna strangle that poor security guard in the garage.

MERCEDES
Strangle? Please. That man nearly fainted when I raised an eyebrow. I wouldn’t waste the energy. He almost took himself out.

[Crystal laughs, shaking her head.]

CRYSTAL
C’mon, he was just doing his job. You could’ve at least said thank you.

MERCEDES
Thank you for what? Offering to escort me? If I need an escort, I’ll call a car service and request one that doesn’t trip over a clipboard every five seconds.

[Mercedes taps the belt plate with her nail. The sound clangs into the mic, sharp enough Crystal lifts her eyebrows.]

CRYSTAL
And here I thought winning meant you’d get less bitter. Silly me.

MERCEDES
Winning doesn’t make you less bitter. It just means you’re right about being bitter. Validation with sequins.

[Crystal leans back in her chair, smirking.]

CRYSTAL
Speaking of validation, you, Lilith, and Diamond Steele. You ready to juggle that circus?

[Mercedes’ eyes don’t even flinch. Her voice comes low, matter-of-fact.]

MERCEDES
One who calls herself unpredictable. Another who calls herself a rockstar. Neither one knows what it actually takes to outlast me, but sure. Let’s call it a circus. I’ll even play ringmaster when it’s done.

Crystal (grinning):
You’re not giving Diamond much credit, huh?

MERCEDES
She’s written more songs about winning than she’s actually done it. And Lilith? She’s one botched spell away from disappearing mid-match. Neither qualifies as a threat.

CRYSTAL
Lilith’s gotta be confident after that triple threat with you and Bella at Summer XXXTreme.

MERCEDES
Confident? Like a kid duct-taping socks and calling it cosplay.

[Crystal snorts, trying not to laugh.]

CRYSTAL
You’re cruel.

MERCEDES
I’m efficient. She talks about unpredictability like it’s a strategy. It’s not. That’s just code for being so inconsistent nobody can plan for you, including yourself.

[Crystal tilts her head, eyes narrowing in mock sincerity.]

CRYSTAL
You do realize you’re facing both Lilith and Diamond at once, right? Triple threat means—

Mercedes (cutting in):
Triple opportunity. That’s how I read it. Two women chasing me at the same time. It’ll just be twice the proof when they can’t keep up.”

[Crystal raises an eyebrow.]

CRYSTAL
Lilith sounds motivated. You don’t think she’s a threat?

[Mercedes looks directly into the camera, piercing, sardonic.]

MERCEDES
She’s lost more times than I care to watch, yet still clings to her ‘aura.’ Dangerous, unpredictable, wild… pick one adjective and stick to it. Then maybe win something.

[Crystal laughs outright this time, covering her mouth.]

CRYSTAL
God, you’re savage. Do you ever turn it off?

[Mercedes shrugs, voice flat, humor in its plainness.]

MERCEDES
Never.

[Crystal leans her chin into her hand, smirking.]

CRYSTAL
Well, at least your match is straightforward. Meanwhile, I’m stuck pretending a mud pit fight with my wife isn’t deranged marital counseling.

[Mercedes arches an eyebrow, voice flat and deadpan.]

MERCEDES
Or a bad reality show. Same difference.

CRYSTAL
You must love watching me suffer.

MERCEDES
Your words, not mine.

[Mercedes taps the belt plate absentmindedly, metal ringing clear.]

CRYSTAL
Come on, don’t pretend this isn’t the most embarrassing thing on the card.

MERCEDES
Are you billing the referee as your therapist, or just splitting it fifty-fifty with Seleana after?

[Crystal snorts, covering a laugh with her hand.]

CRYSTAL
God, don’t even. Every time I picture it, all I see is Thanksgiving dinner afterward, both sides of the family pretending we didn’t try to drown each other in sludge. If Seleana pins me face-first in a pit of sludge, I’m never hearing the end of it.

MERCEDES
At least you won’t hear it clean—mud muffles the shame. It’s better than being buried in sand, or pretending it never happened. Besides, you’ll win the match and the argument. That’s efficiency.

[Crystal takes a long pull from her drink, eyeing Mercedes with mock severity.]

CRYSTAL
Yeah, until I get mud in places we’re not even supposed to mention on the company website. Real glamorous life we live.

MERCEDES (dryly):
Glamour is just suffering with better lighting.

CRYSTAL
You should put that on a shirt. I’d buy it before Violent Conduct.

MERCEDES
Merch isn’t my job. My job’s making sure nobody else ever gets to wear this.

[Crystal grabs her can, takes a long sip just to stall, eyes narrowing at Mercedes with mock offense.]

CRYSTAL
You’re dead serious right now.

MERCEDES
Always.

[Crystal sighs through a laugh, sets the can back down.]

CRYSTAL
Fine. You bully Lilith and Diamond at the top of the card. I’ll roll around with my wife in a puddle shaped like a lawsuit waiting to happen. That way Violent Conduct has both the prestige and the spectacle.

[The joke lands, but the silence after feels heavier than the humor.]

CRYSTAL
God help them if they actually let us be the marketing department.

MERCEDES (deadpan):
No. God help everyone else.

[The call lingers on both of them smirking at their screens, the glow of absurdity and inevitability mixing across their faces. The AC rattles again in the background, adding just enough comedy to match the madness waiting at Violent Conduct.]


Present Day ♦L O S A N G E L E S • C A L I F O R N I A

[REC•]

[Late afternoon sun hits the rainbow stairs in Silver Lake. Mercedes Vargas sits casually, championship resting on her shoulder like a badge of honor. The camera pulls in close, catching every inflection in her voice and the knowing smirk on her face.]

"I’ve been around long enough to know the difference between hype and reality. I’ve seen people talk a big game, and I’ve watched most of them crumble when it actually matters. Kate’s got the heart, Lilith’s got the edge, but heart and attitude don’t win matches. Execution does. Consistency does. And neither of them have proven that to me yet."

[She taps the faceplate of the title on her shoulder.]

"But you know what? Forget all the noise, forget the hype, because here’s the real truth. At Violent Conduct, both Kate Steele and Lilith Locke get their chance to prove me wrong. Falls Count Anywhere means anything can happen, and it will. On the stage, in the stands, hell, in the street if it comes to that. But when that dust settles, when it’s all said and done, we’re going to see who’s built for it… and who was just pretending. Spoiler: that doubt isn’t on me.”

[Mercedes leans forward slightly, narrowing her eyes into the lens.]

"You know who I am. You know what I stand for. I’ve been through this business and seen it all. When I speak, it’s not just words — it’s truth forged through years of proving everybody else wrong.

"Now Kate... Katherine... 'Diamond'... whatever identity crisis it is this week. Three weeks ago in Mykonos, you walked out in the ring, opened your mouth, and wasted everybody’s time. A whole lot of noise… just to say nothing. Honestly? Silence would’ve done you a bigger favor."

[She tilts her head mockingly, smirk sharpening.]

"But you’re the ‘Diamond in the Rough’, right? Sweetheart, cubic zirconias shine too. But nobody’s ever fooled into thinking they’re worth anything. You can call yourself a gem, you can call yourself beautiful… but if you have to keep reminding people you’re a star? Then you probably aren’t one. That’s facts."

[She delivers the final two words—“That’s facts”—with a dismissive flick of her hand, like she’s brushing away lint.]

"You beat Frankie Holliday, and now you think that makes you a top star? Cute. But it’s the same old Kate — one win, one rebrand, one comeback — and you convince yourself you’re entitled to more than you’ve earned. That’s your whole résumé: Demands. Spotlight. Attention. Respect. But earning? That part never makes the cut."

[Mercedes leans forward again, her voice cutting sharper. The sunlight catches across the plate of the championship as she gestures slightly with her shoulder.]

"Truth is, mamita, you’ve practically made a career out of falling just short. Very on-brand. That’s who you’ve always been. That’s just what your life is when you’re a Steele."

[Mercedes reclines in her seat again, crossing one leg casually over the other. She gestures expansively now with her free hand, smug and comfortable. The camera pulls back slightly, giving her space as her delivery relaxes.

Mercedes reclines again, relaxed now. She gestures with her free hand as she speaks, almost casual.]

"If you want to talk about history, legacies, dominant stables—we can do that. The difference is, my history and legacy will always be remembered. My place in one of the most dominant groups in this company’s history - the Mean Girls - is etched in stone. Delia, Veronica, Liz, Tessa, Amanda, Holly—we defined an era. Our names are remembered. Our success is remembered."

[Mercedes pauses here, her tone shifting abruptly from casual to cutting. The camera cuts quick to a cold tight close-up, isolating her face.]

"Your legacy? Not so much. Because let’s be honest — when people talk about Jet City, they don’t remember you. They remember Kris Ryans. Not you. Never you. And the worst part, Kate? Deep down... you know it."

[Mercedes glances down at her championship, brushing the plate lightly, then looks back with a sly smile.]

"Now, I could be cute and throw little jabs about your marriages… the weddings, the rings. But you’ve collected more jewelry in your personal life than you’ve ever collected in championships. And that’s not credibility — that’s a hobby. Cute, but meaningless. But see this right here?"

[Mercedes lifts the Bombshell Internet Title high, the sunlight gleaming off it.]

"This isn’t a hobby. This is credibility. And that’s exactly why I’m holding it… and you’re not."

[Her smirk fades into a deadly serious stare.]

"Now, Lilith Locke—don’t go thinking I forgot you. August 3rd, Climax Control 431, remember that night? I do. It was the night your title reign ended, and my legacy added another chapter. So if Kate wants to chase respect she’s never earned, and you want your redemption story—go ahead. Violent Conduct isn’t about fairy tales. It’s about reality. And the reality is this: you don’t get to take back what I’ve already made mine."

[Mercedes chuckles under her breath.]

"So in less than two weeks: Falls Count Anywhere. No boundaries, no restrictions. You really think a stipulation is going to change the ending? Please. The difference between me and the both of you is simple: I don’t just talk about respect—I command it. Match after match, year after year, era after era. That’s why I'm a two-time Hall of Famer. That’s why I’m holding this title right now. And after Violent Conduct?”

[She shrugs with casual arrogance, lifting the belt slightly.]

“I’ll still be here.”

[Mercedes leans in, closing the distance with the camera. Gloves come off tone-wise, her smirk cutting ice.]

"You want respect, Kate? You think people are waiting to finally give it to you? Let me help you here: respect isn’t something you announce on a microphone. Respect is earned. Week in, week out. Every night, every match. And the truth is, you’ve been gone so long, people forgot you even work here. And for the ones who do remember? All they remember is that you used to matter."

[Pauses, narrowing her eyes into the lens.]

"But now you’ve got my attention. Dangerous game, mamita. Be careful what you ask for. Because asking for my attention? That’s not putting yourself on my level—you’re volunteering to embarrass yourself in front of me. And trust me, when I’m standing across from you, those cameras you love so much? They’ll be too busy filming your crash-and-burn — and not with your little third-rate garage band this time. No, this time they’re going to capture every second of you realizing just how badly you don’t belong here."

[Mercedes smirks again, her expression ice-cold finality.]

“And when you ask yourself, ‘Why me?’”

[She adjusts the Internet Title on her shoulder, smile widening.]

“We both already know the answer."

[Pause, smirks to the camera.]

"Because you’re a Steele."

[Fade out on the close-up of Mercedes holding the championship high. The smirk never leaves her face.]

Blog: Almighty Fire
semana del 13 al 20 de agosto de 2025

There’s a quiet satisfaction that comes with knowing the work speaks for itself. I don’t need confetti, I don’t need hyperbole, and I certainly don’t need anyone telling me that I’ve “shocked the world.” That kind of energy is for people who aren’t used to winning. For people who rely on moments, because moments are all they have.

For me, winning isn’t a surprise. Es la expectativa. It’s the expectation.

Climax Control 431 was not an accident. It wasn't fortune smiling on me. It wasn’t “Lilith Locke slipping on a banana peel” or “Mercedes Vargas stealing one.” No. Fue inevitable.

Lilith stepped into that match believing she’d set the pace. She thought holding the Bombshell Internet Championship meant she could dictate how that match unfolded. Se equivocó. She miscalculated. Championship matches aren’t about the belt you hold in the beginning — they’re about the decisions you make under pressure. And when the moment came, the gap between us was clear.

It showed in my composure when she threw her best shots. It showed in her doubt after every kick-out, wondering why this wasn’t going according to her plan. And it showed when I closed that match exactamente when I intended — perfectly on my terms.

The Bombshell Internet Championship is back where it belongs. No necesito gritarlo. El título tiene otro peso conmigo. I don’t need to scream about it. I don’t need to campaign for recognition. I just know that there’s a different weight to the title when it’s in my possession. It carries an authority it didn’t have before, because I’ve proven what happens when someone with my composure and my consistency gets their hands on it.

Lilith — if you’re listening — I trust you’ve already started replaying every mistake in your head. It would be easy to blame it on conditioning, or on ring rust, or on the idea that you underestimated me. Pero el problema es tu enfoque. But see, that’s the problem. I don’t underestimate people. I study them. I take my time. I read every flourish in their offense, I notice every subtle pause in their footwork, I detect every flicker of hesitation behind their eyes. By the time I step into the ring, mis salidas, mis aperturas, y mi final. I already know my exits, my openings, and my finish.

That isn’t bravado — es la verdad. At Climax Control, that truth ended your reign, that truth made all the difference.

Now, that chapter’s closed. The next one begins at Climax Control 433. And that brings me to Harper Mason, your new Bombshell Roulette Champion.

Harper, you’ve been making the rounds lately, haven’t you? Your name’s been bubbling up on match cards more frequently, and you’ve been getting buzz from people who like to attach themselves to “potential.” I understand why. You’ve got the look. You’re athletic. You’ve had a few nice outings where people could point at you and say, “There’s something there.” It’s the kind of chatter that turns into opportunity in a place like SCW.

But here’s the part they usually leave out when they’re hyping someone up: “potential” is the most fragile currency in this business. It loses value every time you walk into a situation where you’re expected to win and you don’t. It erodes when the right lights shine on you and you flinch instead of step forward.

This weekend, Harper, you’re not getting a proving ground — you’re stepping into an exam you’re not prepared to pass. And I’m not saying that as a threat. I’m saying it like someone stating the weather. The outcome here doesn’t need prediction; it’s forecasted.

I’ve been watching you. I notice that when things are going your way, you find a rhythm. But when you get disrupted — when someone doesn’t respond to your pace, when they force you to adjust — that’s where it starts to come apart. You become reactive instead of proactive. Matches aren’t dictated by whoever gets the first offense in, Harper — they’re dictated by whoever controls the transitions. And right now, that’s not you.

When people look at you and see “promise,” I see unfinished edges.

You’ve had opponents who gave you space. I don’t give space. You’ve had opponents who tried to match your style. I don’t match styles — I dismantle them. You’ve been praised for your fire, and that’s fine. Fire’s impressive for about five minutes, until someone like me smothers it with precision and leaves you grasping for oxygen.

People like to believe that wrestling comes down to passion, or hunger, or desire. It looks better in headlines. The truth is, it comes down to how you handle inevitability. You can be as hungry as you want. Es saber qué hacer cuando tu mejor golpe no sirve. But what do you do when you find yourself in a position where your best shot didn’t work and you don’t have a second one? Ese es mi territorio. That’s where I live. That’s where I win.

I’m not dismissing you entirely, Harper. Everyone in this division is capable of a good night. On a good night, someone pulls off the upset. Someone exceeds expectations. You did that at Summer XXXTreme by defeating Victoria Lyons and ending the longest Bombshell Roulette Championship reign in history. It took you three tries to beat her, but credit where it's due.

You beat Victoria. That’s fine — but you’re not catching me on a night where my eyes are off the prize, mamita. You’re not walking into our match to find a distracted champion still basking in the glow of victory over Lilith Locke. No me quedo mirando atrás. I don’t bask. I move forward.

And right now, moving forward means you’re about to be the first statement of this new reign. See, reclaiming the Bombshell Internet Championship wasn’t about nostalgia for me. It wasn’t about “getting back” to something. It was about reaffirming that I can — and will — operate at the top of every division I set foot in. This reign is going to be defined by selective precision. Lo que significa que si estás en mi esquina opuesta… ya estás en terreno peligroso. Which means that if you’re standing across from me, you’re already in dangerous territory.

I know how the conversations go in the back. The polite compliments, the “good lucks,” the people telling you that this is “your moment.” They’ll pump you up before this weekend. They’ll tell you to go “shock the world.” But just remember something: nobody who’s telling you that has to actually stand in the ring against me.

I’ve seen wrestlers crumble because they spent too much time convincing themselves they were ready for something they weren’t. They confuse excitement with competence. You have to understand that when I look across the ring at you, I’m not hunting for inspiration. Estoy calculando. I’m measuring. I’m watching every small adjustment you make and deciding what it tells me about the next minute of this match.

Everyone has patterns, Harper. Yours? They’re glaring.

You push the pace early to see if you can get ahead before someone finds their bearings. You rely on momentum — not strategy — to carry you through. You thrive in exchanges, but you’re not built to break stalemates. And when your rhythm gets disrupted, you try to reset by creating distance. Which means? If I control the space, I control you.

That’s not bravado. That’s game theory.

By the time Climax Control 433 is over, people aren’t going to be talking about a “breakthrough” for Harper Mason. They’ll talk about a clean, decisive victory. How I was two steps ahead before you even tried to adjust. They’ll remember la claridad de saber exactamente dónde estás en esta división.

That’s the gift I give you — clarity. Not hype. Not bias. Reality.

And maybe that’s the best thing I can give you, Harper — clarity. The kind that comes from standing across from someone who isn’t there to give you space to breathe, who isn’t there to help you look good, and who isn’t there for your moment. I’m there to win. I’m there to make sure my name stays anchored to this championship in a way that isn’t up for debate.

You’ll walk away from Climax Control 433 knowing the difference between being good and being good enough.

Lilith learned it the hard way. You’re next.

Prepare for the worst. Hope for the best. And may the odds be ever in your favor.


EXT. SUBURBAN SIDEWALK – LATE AFTERNOON

A warm afternoon. Sunlight filters through leafy trees. The air hums faintly with cicadas. A sprinkler ticks in the distance. A small, colorful lemonade stand sits just off the curb in front of a tidy suburban house. The stand is manned by K, a sharp-eyed 11-year-old with a ball cap turned backwards. He leans on the table, one sneaker dragging patterns into the dust. A tip jar holds some coins and a couple of crumpled bills. He’s sucking on a red Freezie like it’s the most casual day in the world.
Down the cracked sidewalk, Malcolm and Carmen move with weary authority, uniforms crisp but faces telling of long days.

MALCOLM 
Speaking of… remind me how your cousin here schooled Lilith Locke in Spain? 

MERCEDES 
(grinning) 
Oh, you mean when I won back the Bombshell Internet Championship? In front of a sold‑out Ibiza crowd? 

CARMEN 
Here we go… 

MALCOLM 
What? Big win, high stakes, and your cousin actually brought it home. 

CARMEN 
She doesn’t bring it up much… except every day.

MERCEDES 
(laughing) 
What can I say? Some wins are worth the rerun.

All three hold paper cups of lemonade — unusually opaque, a bit too thick. As they close in on the stand, Mercedes eyes her drink with suspicion, swirling it slowly before taking a cautious sip.

MALCOLM
(takes a sip, grimaces)
Damn. Didn’t figure lemonade could double as molasses.

K smirks, leaning casually against the counter of the stand.

MERCEDES
Tastes like they melted a lemon and a grapefruit together. You sure this is lemonade?

K
That’s 'cause it’s premium. Less water, more lemon.

MALCOLM
More pulp too, apparently.

[Malcolm squints next door, where a worn-down two-story sits dark behind drawn curtains.]

MALCOLM
You know the family next door?

K
Sure. The dad’s a drug dealer.

[Malcolm freezes mid-sip, the words hitting harder than the lemonade’s texture. He tries to keep his reaction subtle but fails slightly.]

MALCOLM
Uh-huh…

K
My mom gets really, really weird when she’s around chardonnay.

[Malcolm raises an eyebrow at the unrelated comment but presses on.]

MALCOLM
Have you seen him around today?

K
No. He’s probably at the thing.

[Carmen, curious, steps closer to the stand.]

CARMEN
What thing?

K
Buy some more lemonade, and I’ll tell you.

[Carmen crosses her arms slowly, a mock dangerous smile creeping in.]

CARMEN
Are you trying to extort a law enforcement officer?

K
(shrugging)
No. It’s basic supply and demand. I have something you need. I can set the price.

[Malcolm chuckles to himself, amused.]

MALCOLM
Kid's getting a quality education.

MERCEDES
(smirking at Malcolm)
Better than most classes, I bet.

CARMEN
Too bad he won’t get the same one when he’s in juvenile detention.

[She leans on the table, scanning the operation like she’s doing a food inspection.]

CARMEN
You got a permit for this lemonade stand?

[K hesitates — eyes dropping like a permit might appear, then cutting to the tip jar, calculating if it’s enough for a bribe.]

K
Do you take lemonade as a bribe?

[Malcolm glances at Carmen like, “Is this conversation doing cartwheels?” Mercedes laughs quietly, shaking her head.]

MERCEDES
Depends. What’s the sugar to water ratio?

[CAMERA PULLS BACK — The four figures are locked in a silent standoff: the kid defensive but amused, the officers balanced between neighborhood goodwill and gentle authority. Mercedes tosses the rest of her lemonade into a nearby bush, still smirking.
The sound of a distant lawn mower drones in the background. A neighbor walks past with a dog, eyeing the stand suspiciously. K nudges the tip jar an inch closer to the edge — just in case.]

[END]


Present Day ♦ M Y K O N O S, G R E E C E

[REC•]

[The Cycladic sun blazes above, wind stirring the wild grasses of Fokos Beach. Mercedes stands alone on the sand, a sweep of turquoise water and unspoiled cliffs behind her. There is no noise, no crowd — just the serene power of nature, and her.]

"This is Fokos. Not the scene, not the hype. Just the truth. Mykonos isn’t only parties, bars, and noise. It’s places like this — raw, untouched, the kind of beauty that doesn’t need approval or attention. It stands the test of time, quietly owning every inch."

[Mercedes stands poised, Bombshell Internet Championship slung over her shoulder, its shine muted against the wild backdrop.]

"People talk about glamour, about what glitters. They chase what’s loud. But out here? You learn fast that noise fades — substance doesn’t. That’s been my story since day one."

[Mercedes’ lips curve slightly, with the kind of smile that says she’s already seen the ending of this story.]

"So here we are. Mykonos. Climax Control 433. Champion versus champion — you with the Bombshell Roulette Title, me with the Bombshell Internet Championship. No gold on the line this weekend, Harper… but make no mistake, this match still belongs to me."

[Her voice is level, almost disinterested — like stating a fact.]

"You can beat me, Harper. You’ve beaten me before — not once, but twice. I’m not going to stand here and pretend that didn’t happen. But those matches? They live two years in the past. If that’s what you’re holding onto now, it says more about where you’re stuck than where I am. If all you’re chasing is a feeling you already had years ago, the best you can do now is cling to it while I keep moving forward — champion, as always."

"Now, you probably think this is an opportunity. And maybe for you, it is. Maybe to you, this feels ‘fresh.’ New. An opening to make your mark. I can see how it might look that way. You’ve convinced yourself you’ve got an edge, that you’re walking into this with something I haven’t seen before. But newsflash?"

[Her tone subtly tightens — not loud, not brash, but cutting.]

"I’ve seen every version of you before. The fresh faces with the big talk. The ones who think a different paint job means a different car. Meanwhile, I’m the driver who’s been lapping the same track long enough to know every turn before it’s coming."

[She shifts her weight, one purposeful step toward the camera. Her shoulder angles slightly — an imposing stance, but smooth, never forced.]

"These cliffs behind me have been here long before any of us, shaped by every tide, unmoved by every storm. Out here, the waves don’t yield — and neither do I."

[She lets her hand smooth the title belt, positioning it better on her shoulder — not for show, but because it belongs there.]

"See, Harper… this isn’t about what moves you can pull off or how fast you can run the ropes. It’s about composure when the air gets thin. Strategy when the space closes in. And you won’t last if you can’t keep your head when the pace shifts — especially because I’m the one shifting it."

"You’ve got heart? Adorable. The thing about heart is, it’s a fantastic story until it breaks. And when the match hits that moment? When you realize that everything you came in thinking was going to work just… doesn’t? That’s when you’ll start asking yourself why you thought you could defeat me in the first place."

[The subtle venom in the “adorable” lingers as she takes another calculated step toward frame.]

"I don’t have to raise my voice, Harper, because facts don’t need volume. My facts are right here."

[She lifts the Bombshell Internet Championship into the frame, center plate catching the afternoon sun, held not high in a scream of triumph but casually, like a judge displaying evidence no one can refute.]

"You think this might be your moment? I’ve been everyone’s ‘moment’ at one point. The only difference is… when it’s over, it’s my hand the referee’s raising. That doesn’t happen because I’m lucky. It happens because I don’t hinge my chances on unpredictability — I make you predictable."

[She compresses the space between herself and the camera again, filling the frame more now — intensity climbing, but still delivered in that frosted-glass calm.]

"Do I hesitate sometimes? Sure. That’s the reality of competition. It’s weighing every angle before you commit. But when I walk into that ring and the lights hit, that moment’s gone. Hesitation doesn’t survive between bells. You either act with precision… or you fall into mine."

[Her gaze hardens — she’s not admitting weakness so much as translating it into power.]

"Harper Mason, you’ll walk into Mykonos thinking you’ve got options. That you can make me adjust to you. And maybe in those first few seconds, it might even look like you’re keeping up. That illusion will fade the second you realize you’ve been following my lead the whole time. That you’ve been dancing to my rhythm since the opening lock-up."

"You won’t see the end coming — you’ll just feel the mat hit your back and hear the count. And I won’t have to say, ‘I told you so.’ One glance at me with this championship still in my hands will be enough."

[Mercedes now lowers the belt, holding it at her side. No longer framed as a trophy — now it’s a weapon, a statement.]

"This weekend isn’t about hype. Hype fades the moment the noise dies down and the crowd clears. This is about control. It’s about who owns every step of the match. And that’s me. It always has been. The people who beat me? They don’t keep it. The people who stand across from me? They don’t forget it."

"You can test me, you can throw what you’ve got, but at the end of the night? I’m still here. Still champion. Still in control."

"Harper, when Climax Control 433 is over, you’ll go home knowing what so many before you have had to learn the hard way: When you step into my match — yes, my match — you’re walking into a design that was finished long before you got here. You’re just the latest variable. And I’ve already run every outcome. Spoiler — they all end the same way."

[She raises the title again, this time resting it against her midsection, hands firm on the main plate. Her stance is locked. The pace of her words slows, almost daring the camera to blink before she’s finished.]

"Long before you knew, and long after you'll remember."

[She lets one perfect beat of silence stretch. Then the faintest, knowing smirk touches her lips — not arrogance, but confirmation.]

"See you at Climax Control."

[***FADE***]

Blog: Almighty Fire
semana del 13 al 20 de julio de 2025

So, let’s talk about Summer XXXTreme. Triple threat match. Me versus Bella Madison versus Lilith. Management thinks they’re being clever, stacking the odds against me. But they’ve made it clear who should be feared. It’s not the wolves. It’s me.

Bella Madison. The eternal runner-up. Always rewriting history to justify her failures. That ‘loophole’ isn’t clever—it’s desperate. It's the last gasp of someone who knows, deep down, she can't beat me fair and square. You're like that kid on the playground who keeps changing the rules when they're losing. "No, no, that didn't count! I wasn't ready!" Pathetic doesn't begin to cover it.

You want to talk about respect? Respect is earned in this business, not handed out like participation trophies. And so far, all you've earned is my pity. You strut around with your little catchphrases and your Twitter tantrums, thinking you're making waves, but honey, you're barely making ripples in a puddle.

You finally took a singles title—but it took three years floundering before that chance arrived. The Bombshell Internet Championship should terrify you, Bella, because it’s everything you’ve never been: consistent, proven, undeniable.

You've spent your entire career trying to convince the world you’re the protagonist of this story. But newsflash, mamita: you’re not even the villain. You’re the punchline. The ‘almost’ when people talk about greatness. You’re the one who shows up, makes noise, and then fades into the background when the real work begins. You keep getting ‘robbed’ of your moment because you never earned it.

You’ve got the heart of a champion and the will to fight through anything. But that’s exactly what I’m counting on—because when you give it your all and still lose, that’s when you’ll know I’m on another level.

They say that in order to be great, you have to win twice. I've already beat you twice, Bella. Now imagine me beating you a third time—and picture how little that surprises anyone.

And Lilith? The dark horse. The wildcard. The woman who thinks intensity can substitute for strategy. I've watched you claw your way up, leaving blood and broken bodies in your wake. Impressive—if this were amateur hour. But this is my division, my spotlight, my era. Your darkness might swallow others whole, but against me? It's just another shadow I'll step through. I’ll give you credit: you’ve got presence. You’ve got mystique. But you know what you don’t have? Results. You’ve had your moments since your debut, but can you handle the pressure when the stakes are raised? You already failed once at Into the Void for the Bombshell Roulette Championship.

You can paint yourself in shadows, you can talk about chaos and carnage, but at the end of the day, wrestling isn’t about theatrics—it’s about winning. And when you step into the ring with me, Lilith, the only thing you’ll be haunting is your own shattered dreams.

The truth is, ladies, both of you are just footnotes in the Mercedes Vargas legacy. Years from now, when they talk about this era of SCW, your names will be mentioned only in relation to mine. Years from now, people will talk about this match. Not because of you. Because of what I did in spite of you. That is your place in this division—the ones I beat in full view of the world.

Management thinks they’re backing me into a corner. Giving two challengers a shot. That doesn’t weaken me. That makes what’s coming even more concrete. When I beat two of you at once, there won’t be excuses left. Because here's what scares everyone in SCW, from the locker room to the boardroom: Mercedes Vargas, unleashed. Mercedes Vargas, with nothing to lose. Mercedes Vargas, with a point to prove.

I didn't claw my way to the top by being nice. I didn't become champion by following rules. I became champion because I am, simply put, better than everyone else. And at Summer XXXTreme, I'm going to remind the world why.

Bella, you can hide behind your loopholes. Lilith, you can embrace your darkness. Management, you can stack the deck. None of it matters. Because when that bell rings, when the lights are brightest, when the pressure is at its peak—that's when Mercedes Vargas becomes inevitable.

So to everyone watching, to every fan who's ever doubted, to every competitor who's ever whispered that I got lucky: Summer XXXTreme isn't just another defense. It's a reckoning. It's the night when I silence the doubters, crush the pretenders, and cement my legacy not just as a champion, but as THE champion.

You both want to make a name for yourselves at my expense. You want to use Mercedes Vargas as your stepping stone. But here’s the thing about stepping stones—they’re solid. Unmovable. You can try to climb over me, but you’ll just end up flat on your back, staring at the lights, wondering where it all went wrong.

Everyone talks about making history, but most of you can’t even make a mark. That’s what separates me from the rest. I don’t just survive pressure—I thrive in it. I don’t just accept challenges—I demand them. I don’t need management’s approval, I don’t need the fans’ validation, and I sure as hell don’t need anyone’s permission to be great.

So here’s what’s going to happen at Summer XXXtreme: I’m going to walk into that ring, surrounded by doubters, haters, and wannabes. I’m going to stare down two challengers who think they’re hungry enough to take what’s mine. I’m going to show the world—again—why Mercedes Vargas is inevitable.

And when it’s over, when the dust settles and the bodies are cleared from the ring, I’ll still be standing. I’ll still be champion. And all that will be left for the rest of you is to pick up the pieces and wonder how you let greatness slip through your fingers—again.

To management: Keep stacking the deck. Keep throwing every obstacle you can find in my path. All you’re doing is making my legacy bulletproof. Every time you try to make me stumble, I rise higher. Every time you try to break me, I get stronger. You want to make an example out of me? Congratulations—you just did. But not the way you hoped.

To the locker room: Watch closely. Take notes. Because what you’re about to witness isn’t just another title defense—it’s a masterclass in dominance. It’s a reminder that while you’re all busy fighting for scraps, I’m feasting at the head of the table.

To the fans: Love me, hate me, cheer me, boo me—it doesn’t matter. Because deep down, you know the truth. You know that when Mercedes Vargas is on the card, you’re getting the main event. You’re getting history. You’re getting a champion who doesn’t just talk the talk, but walks the walk—every single night.

And to Bella and Lilith: Bring your best. Bring your worst. Bring every trick, every loophole, every ounce of desperation you’ve got. Because when you step into the ring with me, you’re not just fighting for a title—you’re fighting for relevance. For a place in history. For the right to say you went toe-to-toe with the greatest to ever do it.

But be warned: History doesn’t remember the runners-up. It doesn’t remember the “almosts.” It remembers the winners. The legends. The icons.

It remembers Mercedes Vargas.

So, here’s my final message, loud and clear: You can chase the spotlight, you can beg for opportunities, you can scream for respect—but as long as I’m here, you’ll always be standing in my shadow.

And trust me, that’s a cold place to be.

So, step up. Swing for the fences. Give me everything you’ve got. Because when you fail—and you will fail—don’t say I didn’t warn you.

The era of loopholes, excuses, and empty promises is over. The era of Mercedes Vargas is eternal.

So bring on the Ultimate X. Bring on the pool. Bring on the competition. Because I'm ready to make history one more time.

The question isn't who's going to let me, it's who's going to stop me.


ABOARD THE SUN PRINCESS
[INT. PRIVATE SUITE – NIGHT]

[The room is dim, sleek—modern cruise opulence muffled by shadow. Mercedes sits alone at a table, elbows resting wide. Her Bombshell Internet Championship lies in front of her, polished to near armor. She stares forward—not at it, through it. Behind her, sea and moonlight filter in through slanted blinds.

Mercedes keeps her voice low, but there’s no mistaking the edge behind it—controlled, unwavering.]

MERCEDES
I’ve already beaten her twice. No one cares.

[She picks up a file folder—Bella’s match history, complete with post-its and glitter stickers—and tosses it aside like it personally offended her.]

MERCEDES
The only thing louder than her hype machine... is the silence after I win. And now they’re giving me two opponents. What is this, a clearance sale?

[Ricardo, dressed sharp—pressed vest, phone in pocket. Always calculating. He’s scrolling through Lilith’s Instagram, which is 93% black-and-white candles and ominous song lyrics.]

RICARDO
You know why.

MERCEDES
Yeah. They want me cracked. They want someone young, marketable. Not the woman who’s already rewritten every record they pretend don’t matter.

[Mercedes stands—crosses slowly to the window as if she’s delivering a monologue in a Netflix special. Her cherry red nails tap the glass rhythmically, like a ticking clock counting down to someone else’s defeat.]

RICARDO
Lilith’s unpredictable. Bella’s durable.

[Mercedes cuts him off.]

MERCEDES
Lilith cosplays as a Suicide Girl reject and Bella couldn’t beat me with cheat codes and divine intervention. Come on.

[Mercedes arches an eyebrow, her gaze fixed ahead, unbothered—she doesn’t even need to look to make her point.]

MERCEDES
You make it sound like experience is enough.

[Door opens. Hugo walks in. Hoodie. Broad shoulders. He doesn’t say hello. Doesn’t need to.]

HUGO
It is. If you still want it.

[Mercedes turns. Holds Hugo’s stare. Doesn’t speak.]

HUGO
You’ve been going through the motions. You show up. You destroy. But you haven’t made anyone feel it lately. This one needs blood.

[He tosses hand wraps on the table. They land beside the belt. A challenge.]

RICARDO
If she gives them blood, she gives them momentum. That’s what they’re waiting for—make her slip so they can say, ‘She’s lost a step.’

[Mercedes shakes her head.]

MERCEDES
No.

[She walks to the table. Picks up the wraps. Tightens them in her fist like she wants them to bleed, too.]

MERCEDES
They’re not expecting me to slip. They’re praying I do. Because if I win again—clean, decisive, unbothered?

[She pauses, adjusts the belt like an accessory, not a trophy.]

MERCEDES
There’s nothing left to question.

RICARDO
They’ll call you boring.

MERCEDES
Good. I excel at boring people with excellence.

[She sits down again, the wraps still in hand.]

MERCEDES
They’re already rewriting history. Like I haven’t held this division together for years. Like I didn’t build a dynasty out of dominance and call it a legacy.

[Door knocks twice, then opens. Irma steps in—older, poised, professional. She closes the door quietly.]

IRMA
Lilith sent another haiku. I still don’t know what it means, but it’s bleeding edge character work.

[She sighs. Tosses a folded note onto Ricardo’s tablet like a blackjack dealer.]

IRMΑ
It’s eerie. But it’s also... good. In that creepy “she-may-murder-us” Etsy witchcore kind of way.

[Everyone chuckles but Mercedes. She brushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear.]

IRMA
You okay?

[Mercedes doesn’t answer. Hugo and Ricardo step aside. Irma approaches. She gently adjusts Mercedes’ hair—one of the few who gets to. Mercedes closes her eyes for a beat.]

IRMA
I know what this match feels like. You don’t want to just beat them. You want to erase them.

[Irma opens a mini fridge, grabs a bottle of water, tosses it underhand to Hugo. Silence builds.]

MERCEDES
They earned this match on technicalities. Bella with fine print. Lilith with presence. Not performance. And yet they pretend I’m the one with something to prove. This isn’t destiny. This is mercy. And it’s running out.

[She sets the wraps back on the title. Everyone’s energy shifts.]

MERCEDES
I don’t want them questioning why I’m champion. I want them questioning why they ever thought they could be.

[Everyone stands still, the tension stewing. Hugo grabs the wraps. Irma collects the files. Ricardo taps the tablet and nods.]

IRMA
You ready?

MERCEDES
Born ready. Raised better. Booked best.

[Lights dim darker as the ship vibrates slightly beneath them—engine turning under the sea. Mercedes runs a hand across the gold plate of her title, fingers resting just beneath her nameplate.

[Mercedes lowers her voice, each word laced with venom.]

MERCEDES
And when the night ends…

[She looks off like she hears dramatic music.]

MERCEDES
They’ll still be drowning. But with a front-row view of my greatness.

[END]


Present Day ♦ T H E S U N P R I N C E S S

[REC•]

[The Sun Princess cruise ship, Observation Deck. The moonlight glints off the endless ocean. Mercedes Vargas stands at the railing, city lights far behind, the wind tugging at her hair. She faces the camera, posture regal, lips painted a venomous red, a glass of champagne in hand. Her gaze is cool, unblinking, and every word lands with the weight of a gavel.]

"Let’s get down to business, shall we?"

"The threats, the sermons, the declarations of war—they echo through halls like cheap karaoke: all bravado, no melody. But here’s the difference between you and me—I don’t talk to set the world on fire. I walk in... and the room adjusts."

"You want to know what pressure feels like, Bella? That tightness in your chest? The weight in your lungs? That’s not the sea air. That’s me. That’s the feeling of a champion you can’t touch and a legacy you can’t rewrite."

"Since Into the Void, you’ve chased my shadow, convinced you’re owed something. You threw your best at me and still came up empty. And now, here you are again—hoping something’s changed. But let me make it clear, Bella... nothing’s changed. I’m the same woman who beat you before. Only now, I have no hesitation. No patience. Just pain.”

[Mercedes steps forward, the camera following her as she passes a bronzed caricature artist sketching another guest—a face being covered in darker lines. She throws a glance at the portrait and smirks.]

"That’s you, Bella. Covering cracks with fake confidence and new coats of paint. Desperate for someone—anyone—to believe your hype. But hype doesn't last—and you? You’re already fading."

[She rises to the railing again, the vast dark water behind her. Her stare sharpens.]

"And now you’re back again, hoping things are different. They’re not. I’m the same woman who beat you before—only now, there’s no hesitation. No patience. Just pain. I’ll break you faster than last time, and this time, when it ends, no one’s going to call it controversial. They’re going to call it what it is: domination.

[She rises to the railing again, the vast dark water behind her. Her stare sharpens.]

"You’re not stepping into just any match. You’re stepping into my ring, on my division, with my legacy.. I hope you’re ready for the kind of pressure that crushes dreams, because once that bell rings, there’s no turning back. No hashtags, no retweets, no second chances, no crowd to hide behind. Just you, me, and the cold, hard truth: you’re out of your depth."

"And Lilith—let’s not leave the horror out of the story, shall we? You call yourself a nightmare. The consequence. The reckoning. You lurk in shadow, whispering about pain, fear, and madness like they’re weapons. You talk in riddles—I stack results. While you were learning how to lace your boots, I was building the very foundation this division stands on.

Last time you stepped into real pressure, you folded. All the darkness in the world doesn’t help when the lights hit hardest. You want fear? I’m not scared of you. You want pain? I’ve given more than you’ve taken. And when it’s time to climb, when that structure hangs overhead and the screams start? I’ll be the one pulling the title down. You’ll both still be looking up."

[Footsteps drum lightly near a shuffleboard game a few feet away. Mercedes steps over a line painted in gold.]

"You both want this championship? You want to end my reign? Talk won’t get you there. Fire won’t get you there. You’ll have to be better than you’ve ever been. And even then, it still won’t be enough. You better be ready to lose more than just a match, mamita. You better be ready to give everything—mind, body, and soul. Because I won’t just fight to keep this title—I’ll fight to break you, to remind every girl in the back why Mercedes Vargas is the name they whisper when the lights go out. I’ll fight to remind everyone watching why I am the Bombshell Internet Champion. You want to make history? I’ll make you history. You want to be remembered? I’ll make sure you’re remembered—for the beating you couldn’t survive and the lesson you never saw coming."

[She stops near the edge of the upper deck, where a group of guests participate in a fitness bootcamp. One stumbles during a high-knees drill and drops out. Mercedes watches him fall behind before turning back.]

"You talk a big game, but when you step into this ring with me, all those words are going to mean nothing. Because I’m not just defending this title—I’m defending my legacy. And I’m going to make sure that when the dust settles, the only thing left standing is the champion.

[She presses her boot into the netting beside the climbing wall, one of many obstacles lining the course. She leans into the rope.]

"And when it’s all said and done, when the lights fade and the crowd goes silent, you’ll understand what it really means to step to Mercedes Vargas. You’ll know what it’s like to come up short against the very best."

[She glances over the side of the deck where diving practice continues in the pool below, then lowers her voice.]

"This isn’t some story where the hero rises or the monster wins. This is real life. And in real life, I win. I’ve made careers disappear. I’ve turned buzz into silence. And the two of you put together still don’t make a real threat."

[She pulls the title off her shoulder, holds it at her side like a weapon.

"At Summer XXXTreme, nobody’s walking out with this but me. You can bleed. You can scream. You can throw everything you’ve got."

[Her voice drops, now low and final.]

"And it still won’t be enough."

[The hum of the ship continues. Somewhere, music plays faintly from an upper deck.]

"People say this is a new era—fresh faces, fresh energy. But eras don’t change until someone rips the crown from my head and until someone actually steps up and takes the throne. And you? You’re still just knocking at the door, hoping someone lets you in. Meanwhile, I built this house. I set the rules. And I decide who gets to stay."

"You’re hungry? Good. Because I’m starving for another victim. And out here, only the ruthless survive. I’ve made a career out of turning hopefuls into has-beens."

"And let’s be honest, you’ve had your moments—but moments don’t make legends. Consistency does. Resilience does. The kind of resilience that only comes from standing in this ring, night after night, with everything on the line and everyone gunning for you. I’ve done it. I’m still doing it. And you? You’re about to find out how heavy this crown really is."

"So when you walk down that ramp at Summer XXXtreme, soak it in. Feel the energy. Because that’s as close as you’ll ever get to this championship. When the bell rings, all the noise fades, and it’s just you and me—no more hype, no more hashtags, just reality."

"And that reality, is that Mercedes Vargas always finds a way to win. I hope you’re ready to learn that lesson the hard way when I break your spirit, shatter your confidence, and send you back to obscurity where you belong."

[Beat.]

"Bella, at Into the Void, I stripped away your relevance, your pride, and your very identity, piece by piece. At Climax Control 426, I suffocated your dreams of taking the Bombshell Internet Championship. Lilith, I shut down your opportunity for a title opportunity the first time.

This time at Summer XXXTreme, aboard that cruise ship, in front of the entire world, you will look me in the eye, and you will realize that I am going to have to beat you."

"You will have to find something deeper than heart. Something more brutal than fire. Because to truly beat me, ladies, you can't just want it. You can't even just fight for it."

[She leans in, voice sinking.]

"You’d have to kill me."

[She smirks, hoisting the title higher on her shoulder, her eyes never leaving the camera.]

"Good luck surviving that."

"Prepare for the worst, hope for the best. And may the odds be ever in your favor."

[***FADE TO BLACK***]

Blog: Almighty Fire
semana del 29 de junio al 7 de julio de 2025

OK, let's get one thing straight from the jump: there’s a difference between being a champion and acting like one. But apparently, in Sin City Wrestling, definitions are as loose as Bella Madison’s grasp on reality—or her Twitter password.

So, I log into Twitter, minding my own business, and what do I see? Bella Madison, the perennial sidekick of her own story, chirping away about loopholes and crayons. Sweetheart, if I needed a lesson in coloring outside the lines, I’d ask a toddler, not someone who’s been coloring her career with excuses since day one.

Let’s recap for those in the cheap seats:

After Into the Void:
I had a “bad night.” Oh, the horror. Newsflash: even legends have off nights. But unlike some, I don’t need a support group and a hashtag every time I stub my toe. I move on. Winners do.

Climax Control, two weeks after that:
Suddenly, matches “don’t count.” The mental gymnastics required to keep up with Bella’s logic would put Simone Biles to shame. Apparently, if you don’t like the outcome, just say “REASONS” and hope nobody asks for specifics.

Now, Summer XXXtreme:
Bella wants another shot. Because, of course, the world revolves around her rematch clause. She’s out here acting like the only thing standing between her and greatness is a technicality. Honey, it’s called talent. Look it up.

And then, the pièce de résistance:

“IT'S CALLED A LOOPHOLE, BITCH.”

Oh, Bella. Such language. I suppose when you run out of arguments, all that’s left is to shout into the void (no pun intended) and hope someone retweets you. Maybe next time, she should try a puppet show. I hear that’s more her speed.

But let’s talk about respect. I requested Bella vs. Crystal at the go-home show. Denied. Instead, Bella has the night off, I get Kayla Richards this weekend, and then, at Summer XXXtreme, I’m defending my title in a triple threat against Bella and Lilith. Let’s pause for a moment. Triple threat. As in, I have to beat two challengers at once. Because apparently, being the best isn’t enough. Now, I have to prove it against double the competition. Outrageous doesn’t even begin to cover it. I’m the champion. I should be calling the shots. But apparently, in SCW, respect is a one-way street. Bella gets handed opportunities on a silver platter, while I have to jump through hoops just to get a fair fight. Funny how that works.

Meanwhile, Bella wonders if I thought I could “get away with making that match.” Sweetheart, I don’t “get away” with anything—I earn my opportunities. Unlike some, I don’t need to dig through the rulebook for loopholes. My legacy isn’t built on technicalities; it’s built on victories.

And just when you think the circus is over, Victoria Lyons chimes in—Bombshell Roulette Champion, self-appointed voice of reason:

“Instead of complaining, why don’t you just woman up and handle your flies?”

Victoria, darling, I’d love to, but it’s hard to swat flies when you’re constantly surrounded by gnats buzzing about rematches and loopholes. Maybe if everyone spent less time whining and more time training, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

If Bella spent half as much time perfecting her craft as she does perfecting her victim complex, maybe she'd be champion by now. But hey, not everyone can be Mercedes Vargas. Thank God for that.

I don’t need loopholes. I don’t need hand puppets. I don’t need to shout in all caps to make my point. My resume speaks for itself. But if SCW management wants to stack the odds, I say bring it. Triple threat? Fine. I’ll beat two at once. Maybe then, Bella will finally get the hint: you can’t loophole your way to greatness.

That’s what separates me from the rest. I don’t just survive pressure—I thrive in it. I don’t just accept challenges—I demand them. I don’t need management’s approval, I don’t need the fans’ validation, and I sure as hell don’t need anyone’s permission to be great.

So, to all the would-be contenders, the loophole hunters, and the self-appointed keyboard warriors among you: Step up or step aside. Because while you’re busy arguing about crayons and clauses, I’ll be busy doing what I do best—winning.

And that, darlings, is the only lesson you’ll ever need.

So, here we are. Another weekend, another match, another opportunity for Mercedes Vargas to remind the world why this division revolves around me.

Now let's get one thing straight: I don’t overlook anyone. I don’t underestimate anyone. That’s why I’m still champion, and everyone else is fighting for scraps. But when it comes to Kayla Richards, the World Bombshell Champion herself, stepping up to face me, I can’t help but notice a familiar pattern—big talk, bigger ambitions, and when the lights are brightest? That’s when the real stars shine.

Let’s be clear: Kayla’s reign as World Bombshell Champion is impressive. No one can deny she’s earned her spot at the top of that division. She's a champion in every sense of the word. But this weekend, the spotlight isn’t just on Kayla’s belt, it’s on her heart, her grit, and her ability to handle the pressure that comes with facing me.

This isn’t just another match. This is a collision of legacies. The Bombshell Internet Champion versus the World Bombshell Champion. The woman who holds the division’s spotlight versus the woman who is the spotlight.

So, what can the SCW Universe expect this weekend? Simple: A show-stealer. A match that reminds everyone why the Bombshell division is the best in the business. Expect fireworks. Expect a battle that will have everyone on the edge of their seats. Expect two women who refuse to back down, who refuse to settle for second best.

And when the final bell rings? Expect Mercedes Vargas to still be standing—because I don’t just defend my title, I defend my legacy.

This weekend isn’t about loopholes, excuses, or Twitter drama. It’s about wrestling. It’s about legacy. It’s about proving, once again, that when you step into the ring with Mercedes Vargas, you step into greatness.

This weekend, it’s more than just pride on the line. It’s about proving who truly runs this division. Who deserves the spotlight. Who’s the real queen of SCW.

So to Kayla Richards, before our collision this weekend: Don't mistake my confidence for arrogance. Don't mistake my words for empty threats. What you're hearing is the voice of a woman who has been forged in fire, who has turned pain into power, who has transformed setbacks into comebacks.

You're good, Kayla. Maybe even great. But I'm legendary.

When we lock up, when we stand toe to toe, when we push each other to our limits, remember this moment. Remember that I warned you. Remember that I saw through your facade of confidence to the doubt that lingers beneath.

Because that's the difference between us. You hope you can win. I know I will.

So bring your title. Bring your best. Bring everything you've got. It won't be enough. It's never enough against Mercedes Vargas.

The spotlight doesn't find me—I command it. The crowd doesn't cheer for me—I demand it. Success doesn't come to me—I seize it.

That's not arrogance. That's not hype. That's the cold, hard truth that everyone in Sin City Wrestling has to face eventually: In a world of contenders, there's only one Mercedes Vargas.

Will Kayla’s World Bombshell title shine brighter, or will my Bombshell Internet championship—and my legacy—outshine her? The answer lies in the ring.

This is the moment. This is the match. This is Mercedes Vargas, reminding the world why I’m not just in the spotlight—I am the spotlight.

Kayla Richards. Mercedes Vargas. Two champions, two titles, one ring—and only one can walk out standing tall.

And after this weekend, after I've beaten Kayla Richards, after I've demolished both Bella Madison and Lilith Locke at Summer XXXtreme, maybe—just maybe—they'll finally understand what I've been saying all along:

This isn't just my time. This is my legacy. This is my dynasty.

And dynasties don't fall. They reign.

So come at me with your loopholes, your darkness, your titles, your threats. Throw everything you have at me. And when the dust settles, when the smoke clears, look for me.

I'll be the one still standing. Still champion. Still Mercedes Vargas.

I’m not out to prove if I still got it. I’m here to remind the world I never lost it.


B O U L D E R • C O L O R A D O

[The same boulder at Garden of the Gods, late afternoon. The sky is streaked with soft hues of orange and pink. Mercedes sits hunched on the boulder, elbows on her knees, her championship belt draped loosely across her lap. Her breath clouds in the cooling air. She absently rubs her thumb over the metal plate of the belt, lost in thought.]

“You ever lie awake at night, replaying every time you almost walked away? Every time you wondered if any of this was worth it—if you were worth it?”

[She pauses, her eyes fixed on the horizon, fingers tightening around the belt. A gust of wind stirs her hair. She closes her eyes for a moment, steadying herself.]

“But then I remember why I started. Every door slammed in my face, every ‘you’ll never make it.’ And the first time I held this belt—how heavy it was. How real."

[She swallows hard, voice cracking just a little. She shifts, sitting up straighter, as if bracing herself against the weight of memory.]

“I’m not just fighting Bella and Lilith soon. I’m fighting every shadow that ever tried to swallow me. And I’m still here. Still standing.”

[She exhales slowly, shoulders dropping as a quiet resolve settles over her. She runs her palm along the rough surface of the boulder, grounding herself.]

“This isn’t just about winning. It’s about proving to myself that I’m more than the doubts, more than the pain. I’m still here.”

[Suddenly, footsteps approach softly from behind. Irma appears, carrying a giant thermos and a suspiciously large sandwich.]

IRMA:
You look like you need a snack and a pep talk. Lucky for you, I brought both.

[Irma sits beside Mercedes, plopping the sandwich on the boulder and offering the thermos.]

MERCEDES:
Is that… a triple-decker? Irma, we’re supposed to be training, not eating our weight in carbs.

IRMA:
Hey, fueling up is part of the process. Besides, champions need carbs. And that belt looks better with a full stomach.

[Mercedes fiddles with the belt, pretending it’s a fashion accessory.]

MERCEDES:
I’m scared, Irma. Not just of Bella and Lilith. I’m scared of losing myself—of fighting so hard I forget who I am. What if I start talking in nothing but wrestling promos?

IRMA:
“Then you better start practicing your ‘What?’ chants. But seriously, you’re stronger than you think. You’ve faced down every doubt, every shadow, and every bad haircut. And you’re still standing."

[Mercedes shifts, tracing the edge of her championship belt with trembling fingers. She lets out a shaky breath, gaze dropping to her hands.]

MERCEDES:
Sometimes I wonder if this belt is a chain, not a crown. If it’s just another way to trap me in a fight I can’t win. What if all I am is this title? What happens when it’s gone?

[Irma leans in, voice steady and warm. She reaches over, gently turning the belt so the nameplate faces her.]

IRMA:
The belt doesn’t make you—you make the belt. It’s just proof of what you’ve survived, every scar you turned into armor. Bella and Lilith can’t take that. Even if you lost it tomorrow, you’d still be the woman who never quit.

[Mercedes breathes deeply, the tension in her shoulders easing just a moment.]

MERCEDES:
I want to believe that. I want to believe I’m more than the fear, more than the mistakes. But mostly, I want to believe this thermos has coffee in it.

IRMA:
Better. It’s hot chocolate. Because sometimes champions need a little sweetness. And you on more caffeine? No thanks.

[Mercedes laughs, then takes a big sip from the thermos.]

MERCEDES:
Okay, I take it back—hot chocolate is the real championship fuel.

IRMA:
See? I told you. Forget protein shakes. Next time, I’m bringing churros.

MERCEDES:
Churros? Now you’re talking. Think I can get a snack break written into my contract?

IRMA:
Only if you promise not to hit anyone with a baguette again.

MERCEDES:
That was one time! And technically, it was a breadstick.

[They both burst out laughing, the tension broken, as the sun dips lower behind the rocks.]

MERCEDES:
Heard The Floating Penalty Box is going all out for the Fourth of July.

IRMA:
Nothing like celebrating freedom with a side of root beer BBQ wings and a river breeze. I’m already dreaming of those bacon-wrapped poppers. Tomas keeps bragging about those sweet potato tots and his house-made fry sauce. Honestly, that sauce deserves its own trophy.

MERCEDES:
If I win Sunday, I’m claiming the biggest slice of that berry pie. No questions asked.

IRMA:
And I’ll be right there, making sure you don’t get distracted by the fireworks and forget who you’re supposed to be beating next. Kayla Richards is no joke.

MERCEDES:
Deal. But if I lose, you’re buying me a round of those “Delayed Penalty” cheeseburgers.

IRMA:
You’re on. But fair warning—those burgers are almost as dangerous as Kayla's finishing move.

MERCEDES:
Good. I like a challenge—on the plate or in the ring.

END


Present Day ♦ G R A N D J U N C T I O N • C O L O R A D O

[REC•]

[Sidewalk Café, late morning. Mercedes Vargas sits at a sun-drenched bistro table, the bustle of Grand Junction reflected in her sunglasses. She’s dressed impeccably: crisp white blouse, tailored slacks, designer heels. Her Bombshell Internet Championship belt is draped over the back of her chair, just visible to the camera. She checks her phone, then sets it aside, crossing her legs with practiced elegance.

[She lifts her coffee cup, savoring a slow sip. Her Hall of Fame rings catch the sunlight as she sets the cup down with a soft clink. She leans back, a knowing smile playing at her lips as she looks straight into the camera.]

"You know, there’s something refreshing about Grand Junction in the summer. The air is clean, the sun is bright, and the people… well, they’re not nearly as bitter as some of the company I keep in Sin City Wrestling."

[Mercedes idly drums her fingers on the table, her Hall of Fame rings glinting. She glances at her phone, scrolling briefly before locking the screen and placing it face-down. She picks up a silver spoon, stirring her coffee with a gentle swirl, unhurried and precise.]

"I always appreciate when someone takes the time to talk about me at length. Kayla certainly has a way with words—so many of them, in fact, I almost needed a second cup of coffee to get through her little TED Talk. But don’t worry, I took notes. I always do. Some of us like to be prepared for the test."

[Mercedes casually stirs her coffee, a faint smirk tugging at her lips as she glances over the rim of her cup, clearly amused.]

"First, let me say how touching it is to hear you finally admit what I’ve known all along: I’m not so easy to get rid of. I mean, you’ve practically made a hobby out of telling me to quit. You begged, you pleaded, you even tried reverse psychology. I haven’t seen that much effort since the last time you tried to convince yourself you were humble. Or the last time you tried to convince the world you’re not obsessed with me."

[She pauses, letting the words hang in the air, then leans back with a playful roll of her eyes.]

"But I get it. It must be exhausting, constantly trying to keep up with someone who refuses to fade quietly into the background. While you’re busy counting titles and talking legacy, I’m busy making moves—quietly, efficiently, without the need for a spotlight every step of the way."

[Mercedes taps her rings lightly on the table.]

"The “I’m not a bitch, I just play one on TV” routine is so you, Kayla. I have to admit, you do arrogance like nobody else—except maybe me, but I do it with better shoes."

[She glances down, shifting her foot to show off her designer heels, then looks back up with a sly smirk.]

"You’ve got a lot of opinions about who’s “over the hill” and who should retire, but let’s be honest—you talk about legends like you’re not desperate to become one. You’ve set records, collected titles like Starbucks rewards points. But for someone “untouchable,” you sure spend a lot of time talking about everyone else’s legacy."

[She leans in, lowering her sunglasses just enough to reveal a glint in her eye, her voice soft and conspiratorial.]

"But here’s the thing, Kayla. You keep asking me to walk away, but you never seem to ask yourself why I’m still here. Maybe it’s because I love this business. Or maybe it’s because every time you think you’ve got me figured out, I give you something new to worry about. Like, say, this Bombshell Internet Championship. Looks good on me, doesn’t it? Almost as good as that World Bombshell Championship looks good on you—back when you still smiled in your photos."

[Mercedes takes another sip of coffee, unbothered.]

"You say you’ve never given me your best. That’s cute. It’s easier to claim you were holding back than admit you just couldn’t put me away. But hey, if you need to tell yourself bedtime stories to sleep at night, who am I to judge? Some of us count sheep, others count excuses. Guess which one sleeps better at night?"

[She scrolls idly on her phone, then sets it down, her attention returning to the camera as she leans forward, elbows on the table.]

"You want to talk about hunger, about motivation, about legacy? Sweetheart, I built mine while you were still figuring out which side of your face photographs better. And I didn’t need to tear down every woman in the locker room to do it. See, that’s the difference between us: I don’t need to be the loudest in the room, because my actions speak for themselves. Bombshell Internet Champion, and still here. Still winning. Still making history, even when people like you pray for my downfall."

[Mercedes flashes a dazzling smile, her tone light but her words sharp. She uncrosses her legs, shifting in her chair to face the camera more directly]

"And let’s be honest, Kayla, you can’t resist coming back to this well, can you? No matter how many times you try to move on, you keep finding yourself face-to-face with me. Almost poetic, really. Remember the last time you tried to write me off? You walked out thinking you’d silenced me for good. But here I am, still standing, still winning, still the name you can’t escape."

[She picks up her phone, scrolling idly as she continues.]

"It’s adorable that you’re proud of me. I’ll be sure to send you a thank-you card—maybe even a fruit basket. I hear humility pairs well with citrus. And if you’re lucky, I’ll autograph it for you. A keepsake for when you’re feeling nostalgic. But let’s not pretend this is charity, Kayla. You know as well as I do that every time I step up, I force you to step up, too. That’s why you’re finally giving me your best, right? Because you know anything less just isn’t enough anymore."

[She leans back, crossing her legs, championship gleaming.]

"So here’s what’s going to happen, Kayla. You’re going to walk into our match with all the confidence in the world, and I’m going to walk in with all the experience in it. You’ll try to make an example out of me, and I’ll remind you—gently, of course—that you can’t kill a legend. You can only hope to keep up."

[Mercedes winks at the camera, then stands, gathering her purse and slinging it over her shoulder with effortless grace. She picks up her championship belt, draping it over her arm, and saunters down Main Street. The camera follows, heels clicking confidently on the pavement]

[She passes a mural of the Colorado River, pausing to let the sun catch her hair. She gestures to the mural, voice soft but pointed.]

"There's something poetic about this town. A place where the river carves its own path through stubborn rock, where the landscape refuses to be tamed. It reminds me a lot of this business we’re in—the wrestling world. You can try to shape it, control it, dominate it, but there’s always going to be someone ready to push back, to carve out their own legacy."

[She brushes her fingers along the painted river, then turns back to the camera.]

"That river? That’s me. Flowing, relentless, and always finding a way forward, no matter the obstacles. You? You’re the rock. Solid, sure, but worn down by time and pressure. And no matter how hard you try to hold your ground, eventually, you erode."

[Mercedes smiles, a mix of kindness and challenge. She resumes her walk, passing local shops and art galleries, occasionally glancing in windows, her stride never faltering.]

"I’ve been watching you the last three  years, Kayla. Watching you build your empire, stacking those titles like trophies on a shelf. But here’s the thing about empires—they’re fragile. Built on fear, on intimidation, on the illusion of perfection. And when the foundation cracks, the whole thing comes tumbling down."

[She starts walking again, passing local shops and art galleries, occasionally glancing in windows, her stride never faltering.]

"You say you’re “built different.” That you’re better than anyone who’s come before or after you. That you’re the standard by which all others are measured. That’s a bold claim. And I respect confidence—I really do. But confidence without humility is just arrogance. And arrogance? Well, that’s a dangerous game."

[Mercedes passes a jewelry store, her gaze lingering on the sparkling display before she pivots gracefully, meeting the camera’s eye.]

"You talk about me like I’m some relic, some fading star clinging to the past. But I’m not here to relive the past. I’m here to make new history. To redefine what it means to be a champion in this division. To show that experience and heart can still outshine youth and flash."

[She laughs softly, shaking her head, then adjusts her sunglasses, pushing them higher up her nose.]

"You think this is about age? About who’s “over the hill” and who’s “past their prime”? That’s a tired narrative. Wrestling isn’t a young person’s game—it’s a fighter’s game. And I’m still fighting. Still hungry. Still hungry enough to stare down someone like you and say, “Bring it.”"

[Mercedes’s expression hardens, eyes narrowing with intensity as she stops at the curb, waiting for the crosswalk signal.]

"You say you’re afraid of what would happen if I beat you. That it would be the “death of your legacy.” That’s adorable. But here’s a little secret: legacies aren’t built on avoiding defeat. They’re built on how you respond to it. On how you rise after you fall. On how you keep going when everyone else expects you to quit."

[She steps closer to the camera, voice dropping to a confident whisper.]

"And if I beat you? That won’t be the end of your legacy, Kayla. It’ll be the start of a new chapter. One where you finally learn humility. One where you finally learn what it really means to be challenged. To be pushed. To be humbled. Because that’s how champions grow. Not by talking themselves up, but by proving themselves in the ring."

[Mercedes straightens, smoothing her dress and sliding her sunglasses back up. She glances at the mountains in the distance, gesturing with her free hand.]

"I’m not here to break you. I’m here to elevate this division. To raise the bar. To inspire every woman who’s been told she’s too old, too small, too “not enough” to chase her dreams. Because I’m living proof that it’s never too late to rewrite your story."

[She gestures to the mountains in the distance, their peaks glowing in the late morning sun.]

"Look at those peaks. Majestic, unyielding. They didn’t get that way by standing still. They got there by weathering storms, by enduring the harshest conditions, by standing tall no matter what."

[Mercedes turns back to the camera, eyes shining with conviction. She rests her hand on her championship belt, thumb tracing the gold.]

"That’s what I bring to this match. Not just skill or strength, but heart. Experience. The kind of resilience that only comes from decades in this business. And that, Kayla, is something you can’t fake. Something you can’t buy. Something you have to earn."

[She smiles slyly, stepping off the curb as the crosswalk light changes.]

"They say wisdom comes with age. Lucky for me, I'm dripping in both. So, Kayla, by all means—bring your best. Bring the fire, the bravado, the monologues. I’ll bring the experience, the resilience, and the inconvenient truth that legends don’t die just because you wish they would. They evolve. They adapt. And sometimes, they remind you why you started chasing greatness in the first place."

[Mercedes walks confidently across the street, the camera pulling back to capture the vibrant life of Grand Junction around her—families, artists, the distant hum of summer. She pauses, looking back over her shoulder with a final, confident smile.]

"When we step into that ring, Kayla, don’t expect the “crusty old bitch” you think you know. Expect the champion who refuses to be written off. The woman who’s still got plenty of fight left. The one who’s going to remind you—and everyone watching—why I’m still here.

"And to everyone out there watching—get ready. Because this isn’t just a match. It’s a battle for respect. For legacy. For the future of the Bombshells division.

[Mercedes stands at the edge of the crosswalk, glancing up at the traffic light. She tightens her grip on the championship belt, draws a steadying breath, and steps forward with purpose as the signal changes, her silhouette framed by the morning sun.]

"So here’s to Climax Control 430—champion versus champion, legacy versus legacy. May the best woman win, Kayla. And if, by some chance, you find yourself needing a little pep talk after, don’t worry. I’m always happy to lend a hand. After all, I’ve made a career out of helping women like you remember who set the standard in the first place."

[Fade out as Mercedes crosses the street, the sun casting long shadows behind her, the sounds of Grand Junction fading into the background.]

[***Fade***]

Blog: Almighty Fire
semana del 1 al 8 de junio de 2025

Alright, let’s talk. Let’s really talk. Because this Sunday at Climax Control, the world’s about to see something special. Something unforgettable. And I’m not just talking about another match—I’m talking about a moment that’s gonna be written in the history books. A moment where Mercedes Vargas reminds everyone why she’s the one to beat.

But before we get to Sunday, let’s rewind a little. Two weeks ago, in Paris—the city of lights, the city of love, and, as it turns out, the city where dreams come to die for anyone who steps in the ring with me. Into the Void. That’s where it all went down. That’s where Bella Madison thought she had a shot. That’s where she realized—too late—that she was in way over her head.

Let me tell you something about Paris. It’s beautiful, but not everyone gets to leave with a souvenir. Bella tried, but the only thing she took home was another lesson—courtesy of yours truly. And honestly? She should be thanking me. Not many people get a front-row seat to greatness. Most just get a free lesson in humility. But Bella? She got both.

That night, I showed the world what I’m made of. I showed Bella what it takes to be a champion. And when the dust settled, when the crowd was on their feet, when the lights were shining down on me and that title was around my waist—that’s when she knew. That’s when everyone knew. Mercedes Vargas is the real deal. The rest? They’re just playing catch-up.

But here’s the thing about being at the top: you never get to rest. There’s always someone nipping at your heels, always someone thinking they can take what’s yours. And this time, it’s Bella again. She wants a rematch. She wants another shot at the title. And you know what? I get it. I’d want another shot too, if I were her. But wanting ain’t getting, and getting ain’t keeping. And this title? It’s not going anywhere.

Let’s talk about Bella. She’s got heart, talent, and a legion of fans behind her. She’s got the passion, the drive—and after tasting defeat in Paris, she’s hungrier than ever for redemption. That hunger makes her dangerous, but it still won’t be enough to take this title from me. Not now, not ever. Bella’s story is one of perseverance. She’s been in this business for years, grinding, fighting, always coming up just short. She’s had her share of wins, but the big one has always eluded her. That’s why she wanted this match so bad. That’s why she gave everything she had in Paris. And that’s why she’s coming back for more. But let’s be real—sometimes, being the people’s champ is just a fancy way of saying you’re still chasing the real thing. And honey, I am the real thing.

I get it, everyone wants a second chance. But sometimes, the story’s already been written. Bella’s looking for redemption, but she’s still trying to figure out the ending.

Bella’s been grinding for years, and I respect that. I really do. But respect doesn’t win matches. It just reminds you how far you still have to go. And for Bella, that journey isn’t over—it’s just getting longer. Because every time she thinks she’s close, I’m there to remind her that the top is still out of reach. I’ve seen the way she trains, the way she talks, the way she carries herself. She’s all heart, all effort, all the time. And that’s admirable. But at the end of the day, effort doesn’t put titles around your waist. Skill does. Determination does. And a little bit of that Vargas magic—that’s what gets it done.

People ask me, “Mercedes, why are you so sure? Why are you so confident?” People love to call me arrogant, but let's face it—I've earned the right to be. I’ve fought and beaten every kind of challenger, and Bella is just another name on that list. She thinks she can walk in and take what’s mine, but this Sunday, she’ll learn again: you don’t just step up to Mercedes Vargas—you have to earn it. And so far, Bella hasn’t earned a damn thing.

This title is more than a trophy—it’s a symbol of everything I’ve fought for and overcome. I’ve been counted out and underestimated before, but I always come back stronger. This Sunday, I’m not just defending my title—I’m defending my legacy. And I’m not about to let anyone, especially not Bella Madison, stand in my way.

This Sunday, I’m not just looking to win—I’m looking to dominate and prove, once and for all, that Mercedes Vargas is the best. This is about respect, legacy, and showing I belong at the top. The stakes are high. For Bella, it’s about redemption. For me, it’s about proving that I’m still the best in the world. The fans are split—some want to see Bella finally get her moment, others want to see me continue my reign. The tension is real, and you can feel it in the air. But let’s be real: this isn’t about what the fans want. It’s about what I want. And I want to remind everyone why I’m still the one to beat.

I’ve seen the social media posts, the polls, the predictions. Some people think Bella has a shot. Some think I’m unbeatable. The truth is, anything can happen in that ring. But I know one thing for sure: I’m ready.

Let’s talk about the spotlight. It’s not for everyone. Some people crumble under it, some people chase it, and some people—like me—own it. I’ve seen what happens when the lights get too bright. I’ve seen challengers who talk a big game, but when the cameras roll and the crowd roars, they shrink. Bella’s got heart, I’ll give her that. But heart doesn’t make you a star. It doesn’t make you unforgettable. And it definitely doesn’t make you a winner.

I know what it’s like to have everyone watching, waiting for you to slip up. I know what it’s like to have the pressure of an entire arena on your shoulders. But here’s the thing: pressure doesn’t break me. It fuels me. It sharpens me. It reminds me why I’m still here, why I’m still the one to beat. And it reminds everyone else, too.

Bella’s hungry, sure. She’s got the drive, the passion, the fans. But hunger isn’t enough. Not against me. Not when I’m at my best. Not when I’m the one standing between her and everything she wants. I’ve seen her hunger before. I’ve seen her determination. And I’ve seen it crumble, every single time.

So bring your best, Bella. Bring your fans. Bring your excuses. It won’t matter. Because at the end of the night, you’ll still be looking up at me, wondering what it takes to be a real champion. And I’ll be happy to show you—again.

That’s why I’m still here. That’s why I’m still the one to beat. And that’s why, no matter how hard you try, you'll never be able to take this from me.

Prepare for the worst.

Hope for the best.

And may the odds be ever in your favor.


L O S A N G E L E S • C A L I F O R N I A

[Carmen and Malcolm sit together in their patrol car, engines idling as the city outside blinks awake. Neon lights fading and replaced by the pale glow of dawn. Inside the car, it feels like another round of the same old dance.

Malcolm’s voice breaks the quiet, dry as the desert heat outside.]

MALCOLM:
Another day, another dollar… and another ride with you.

[Carmen shoots him a look, half-amused, half-exhausted.]

CARMEN:
Complaining already? We haven’t even started.

[Malcolm smirks, eyes flicking to the rearview. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, nervous energy bubbling under his calm exterior.]

MALCOLM:
Just saying, last time you let your cousin tag along, we ended up chasing a stolen ice cream truck.

[Carmen shakes her head, a wry smile tugging at her lips. She remembers the absurdity of it all—the flashing lights, the wailing siren, the bewildered driver with a cone in his hand.]

CARMEN:
That was a one-time thing. And we caught the guy, didn’t we?

[Malcolm leans back, feigning dramatic regret. He clutches his chest as if wounded, eyes rolling skyward in mock despair.]

MALCOLM:
Bean's Scene closed for renovations.

CARMEN:
You’re kidding. That diner’s been our breakfast spot since the academy.

MALCOLM:
I had to drink gas station coffee. I can still taste the regret.

CARMEN:
And just for $1.49.

[Her phone buzzes—a message from the universe, or maybe just her family, ready to throw another curveball. Carmen sighs as she reads the text, already bracing for impact. The screen’s blue light flickers across her tired face, casting shadows under her eyes.]

***

HOLLENBECK DIVISION, LAPD § L O S A N G E L E S • C A L I F O R N I A

[Outside the LAPD station, Mercedes waves from her beat-up hatchback, grinning like a kid before a school trip. The car is a riot of bumper stickers and faded paint, a testament to her free spirit. Carmen and Malcolm step out of the patrol car, stretching their legs in the cool morning air. The station looms behind them, a fortress of brick and glass.]

[Mercedes calls out, voice bright and eager, cutting through the quiet of the parking lot.]

MERCEDES:
Hey, cuz! Ready for another adventure?

[Carmen arches an eyebrow, crossing her arms over her chest. She eyes her cousin with a mix of suspicion and affection, already steeling herself for whatever chaos Mercedes might bring.]

CARMEN:
How did you even get my schedule?

[Mercedes shrugs, all innocence and mischief. She hops out of her car, her sneakers scuffing the pavement as she bounces on her toes, energy radiating from every pore.]

MERCEDES:
I have my ways. Besides, Aunt Estelle said you needed company.

[Carmen turns to Malcolm, weary but resigned. She throws her hands up in a gesture of surrender, a silent plea for backup that Malcolm only answers with a knowing smirk.]

CARMEN:
Tell me again why I can’t just arrest her for loitering?

[They pile into the car. Mercedes wedges herself between the seats, buzzing with questions. She leans forward, elbows on the center console, eyes darting between Carmen and Malcolm like a kid at a magic show.]

MERCEDES:
So, Carmen, you ever catch any real bad guys? Like, bank robbers or something?

[Carmen rolls her eyes, shifting in her seat to get comfortable. She glances at Mercedes in the rearview, her reflection a blur of excitement and mischief.]

CARMEN:
Mostly just traffic stops and noise complaints. Exciting, huh?

[Malcolm smirks, remembering wilder days. He drums his fingers on the wheel, a faraway look in his eyes as he recalls chases and close calls.]

MALCOLM:
And the occasional ice cream truck.

[The radio crackles to life—a call out to the streets: shoplifting, 4th and Main, blue hoodie. Carmen answers, voice steady. She sits up straighter, her posture shifting from relaxed to alert in an instant.]

CARMEN:
Copy that. We’re en route.

[Mercedes claps her hands, eyes shining. She bounces in her seat, unable to contain her excitement, as if she’s just won front-row tickets to her favorite show.]

MERCEDES:
Yes! This is what I’m talking about!

***

STOREFRONT, 4TH AND MAIN, LOS ANGELES • CALIFORNIA – DAWN

[At the store, Carmen and Malcolm move in, Mercedes trailing behind, trying to look official. The storefront is a patchwork of neon signs and sale banners, the glass doors reflecting the morning sun. Inside, the aisles are narrow and crowded, the scent of fresh bread and cleaning supplies thick in the air. Carmen leans close to Malcolm, voice low, her eyes scanning the room for trouble.]

CARMEN:
Keep an eye on her, will you?

[Inside, the suspect bolts—right into Mercedes’ outstretched foot. He stumbles, caught off guard, his arms flailing as he tries to keep his balance. Mercedes stands there, grinning, her arms crossed triumphantly.]

MERCEDES:
You’re welcome.

[Carmen sighs, rubbing her temples. She pinches the bridge of her nose, her patience wearing thin, but a hint of a smile tugs at her lips despite herself.]

CARMEN:
Mercedes, you can’t just trip people!

[Mercedes shrugs, unrepentant. She dusts off her hands, as if she’s just completed a difficult task, her grin never fading.]

MERCEDES:
It worked, didn't it?

[Back in the car, Mercedes brags about her “police work.” She leans forward, her voice animated, gesturing wildly as she recounts her heroic tripping of the suspect. The car is filled with her laughter and the faint hum of the engine.]

MERCEDES:
See? I’m a natural. Maybe I should join the force!

[Carmen groans, slumping in her seat. She rests her head against the window, the cool glass pressing against her temple as she tries to tune out Mercedes’ enthusiasm.]

CARMEN:
No. Just… no.

[Malcolm laughs, shaking his head. He glances at Carmen in the rearview, his eyes twinkling with amusement, then turns his attention back to the road.]

MALCOLM:
I don’t know, Carmen. She’s got potential.

[Carmen shoots him a look, her eyebrows raised in warning. She points a finger at him, her expression a mix of exasperation and affection.]

CARMEN:
Don’t encourage her.

[Mercedes' phone rings—Aunt Estelle, checking in. Mercedes answers, her voice loud and cheerful, filling the car with chatter. She nods along, her free hand gesturing as she recounts the morning’s events.]

MERCEDES:
Hey, Aunt Estelle! Yeah, we caught a bad guy. Well, I helped anyway.

[Carmen rolls her eyes. Some things never changed. She watches the city blur past the window, the familiar streets a comforting backdrop to the chaos of her life.]

[At the end of their shift, Carmen and Malcolm walk Mercedes to her car at the station. The sun is higher now, casting long shadows across the asphalt. The air is warm, the scent of gasoline and pavement mixing with the faint aroma of coffee from a nearby cart. Mercedes bounces ahead, her energy undimmed by the long morning.]

MERCEDES:
Same time next week?

[Carmen shakes her head, her expression stern but her eyes soft. She crosses her arms, her posture relaxed, the tension of the morning finally easing.]

CARMEN:
Absolutely not.

[Mercedes grins, her eyes sparkling with mischief. She throws her arms around Carmen in a quick hug, then hops into her car, slamming the door with a satisfying thud.]

MERCEDES:
You say that every time. See you next week!

[She drives off, honking the horn, laughter trailing behind her. The sound echoes across the parking lot, a bright note in the quiet morning.]

[Malcolm watches her go, a smile tugging at his lips.]

MALCOLM:
You know, she’s kind of growing on me.

[Carmen smiles despite herself, shaking her head. She watches the hatchback disappear around the corner, the morning sun warm on her face.]

CARMEN:
Don’t tell her that.

[Malcolm and Carmen share a look—exhausted, amused, and somehow, ready for whatever comes next. Around them, the city pulses, endless and alive, as another shift ends—another day in the life, another round with family, another story to tell.]

[END]


Present Day ♦ P R E S C O T T  V A L L E Y • A R I Z O N A

[REC•]

[Camera opens at Watson Lake Park in Prescott Valley, Arizona. Mercedes Vargas sits on a smooth granite boulder by the water’s edge, the late afternoon sun casting golden light across the rugged landscape. Her championship belt rests across her lap. She gazes out at the horizon, then turns toward the camera, her eyes sharp, her tone confident and playful.]

"Alright, let’s get into it. Two weeks ago in Paris—Into the Void—I showed the world exactly what I’m made of. I stepped into that ring against Bella Madison, and I walked out champion. Not by luck. Not by fluke. Because when the lights are brightest—that’s when I shine."

[Mercedes grips the title belt, her knuckles whitening for a moment. She exhales, shaking her head with a playful grin.]

"Now, this Sunday at Climax Control, Bella wants her rematch. She wants another shot at this title, at me. And let’s be real—who wouldn’t? But here’s the thing: beating me once was never in the cards for her, and beating me twice? That’s a fantasy.

But let’s talk about what’s really going on here. Alexandra Calaway—Queen for a Day, huh? Booking this match like you’re doing me a favor. Let’s be honest, you’re just setting Bella up for another fall. No bet, just faith? That’s not faith, it’s fear. You won’t even bet a dollar on Bella, and that says everything. You’re all hype and no guts, Alexandra. You’re not just booking a match—you’re booking a disaster. For Bella. For yourself. For anyone dumb enough to doubt me."

[Mercedes runs a hand through her hair, a confident smirk playing at her lips as she stands up, slinging the title belt over her shoulder. She steps down from the rock, the crunch of gravel under her boots echoing in the quiet park.]

"Don't worry, I’ll make Bella’s loss so legendary, you’ll be apologizing to her for ever believing she had a chance—and to me for ever wasting my time. Seriously, Alexandra, if you had a dollar for every time you made a bad call, you’d be richer than the champ. But here you are, still betting on the wrong horse."

[She chuckles, shaking her head.]

"It's easy to see why you're rooting for Bella with nothing to lose. That’s because you’ve already lost your dignity. I’ll make sure both of you regret ever stepping into my spotlight. Bella’s going to wish she never met me—and you, Alexandra, are going to wish you never opened your mouth. I’ll be sure to win so hard, you’ll wish you’d cashed in on my name. I’ll make Bella’s defeat so brutal, even your support will need a refund. Watch and learn, darling."

[She walks closer to the camera, her boots kicking up a small cloud of dust. She points at the lens, her voice dropping to a determined growl.]

"I know Bella. I know what she brings. I’ve felt her best, and it wasn’t enough. And let me tell you, Bella wanted it. She wanted it bad. She came at me with everything she had. Heart, soul, grit, you name it. She’s got heart, she’s got fans, and she’s got something to prove. But guess what? So do I. I’ve got a legacy to build, a title to defend, and a reputation to uphold. And I don’t plan on letting anybody—especially not Bella—get in my way."

[Mercedes pauses, tapping the championship belt against her thigh, her eyes narrowing as the wind picks up. She leans in, voice dripping with confidence.]

“You hear that, Bella? That’s the sound of your window slamming shut. Paris was just the beginning. At Climax Control, I’m not just closing the door—I’m locking it. And you’re on the outside looking in.”

[Mercedes tilts her head, smirking at the camera.]

"You know, Bella, I've been thinking... You say you got a family waiting for you back home. That you're living your dream, like you're some kind of superhero. And I respect that. I really do. I love how you walk around like you're the first woman to juggle a family and a career. Yes, you CAN have it all!

"But, see, Bella, I'm not threatened by your story. I'm not threatened by your little girl, your husband, or your highlight reel. I've seen it all before. I've crushed fairy tales and rewritten endings. You think motherhood makes you strong? That somehow juggling a family and a career gives you an edge? Sweetheart, I've been carrying the weight of this entire division on my back. When you were learning to walk, I was running circles around the competition. While you were dreaming, I was making dreams come true."

[Her gaze sharpens, voice dripping with venom.]

"Real talk? Here it is: You're out of your league. You're playing in the big girl's sandbox, but you don't have the claws to survive the fight. While you're busy trying to prove you belong, I'm busy trying to remind the world why I own this division. You're fighting for acceptance; I'm fighting for immortality.

"You want your rematch, Bella? You got it. But remember what happened in Paris. Remember how I broke down every ounce of confidence you had and left you begging for mercy. Remember who walked out with the gold. And get ready, because this Sunday, I’m about to do it all over again—bigger, better, and more dominant than ever before.

"And to Alexandra—keep talking. Keep doubting. Because every time you open your mouth, you just remind everyone why I’m the champion. You’re not just betting against me—you’re betting against history. And history has a way of repeating itself."

[Mercedes turns away, looking out at the lake, the wind catching her hair. She takes a deep breath, then spins back to the camera, her expression fierce.]

"Bella, you’re chasing a dream. I’m living your nightmare."

[She paces along the water’s edge, the championship belt glinting in the sunlight. She stops, turning to face the camera, her eyes locked on the lens. Mercedes locks eyes with the camera, her voice low and intense.]

"You want to know what’s coming for you, Bella? Pain. Humiliation. And another trip to the back of the line. I don’t just beat my opponents—I break them. And at Climax Control, you’re about to learn that lesson all over again. The way I see it, I'm glad this match is happening. At Into the Void, you didn't just lose your title, you lost your place in this company. This time, after I win, I'll never have to see your face again. You'll be a cautionary tale. A warning to every girl who thinks she can step up and take what belongs to me.

"Paris remembered that night, Bella. Not that you walked in as champion, but that you walked out empty-handed. Because you walked into a storm, and the storm swallowed you whole. Because you stood across from greatness and you realized you were never ready for this level."

[She slaps the championship belt against her shoulder, the sound sharp and clear. She takes a step toward the camera, her eyes locked on the viewer.]

“So when the lights go out, when the crowd falls silent and you're left staring up at the ceiling - again - remember this feeling. Remember the taste of defeat. Because it's the taste of reality. And reality is spelled M-E-R-C-E-D-E-S.

"This Sunday at Climax Control, I’m not just defending my title—I’m making it clear: this is my era. And Bella, you’re just living in it. Long before you knew. And long after you'll remember."

[Mercedes leans back, a satisfied smirk on her face. She pats her championship belt and winks at the camera. The screen fades to black, leaving only the echoes of her words and the anticipation for Sunday’s showdown.]

[***Fade***]

[The city is a blur of motion-cars streak by, neon glints off wet pavement, and distant sirens wail. Under the flickering light of a battered bus shelter, Mercedes Vargas sits alone at the far end of a cold metal bench. Her hands, rough and steady, reach for a pair of glasses resting atop a folded newspaper. She puts them on with a practiced motion, her gaze settling on a crossword puzzle.

A beat. She murmurs, voice low, almost lost in the city’s din.]

MERCEDES:
A seven-letter word that uses all five vowels?

[She’s dressed for utility, not attention-a Reba Wool cowboy hat pulled low, faded blue jeans, and a tank top that shows the faint bruises and scars of her trade. She tips her hat, a wry smile flickering as she fills in the answer: Sequoia.

Her pen taps the paper, restless. Crosswords are her antidote-rules, answers, order. Everything life refuses to give her, wrapped up in seven little squares. As she ponders her next clue, Mercedes glances up to watch the world go by-a man in a suit checks his watch with increasing agitation, a mother scolds her child near the curb, and the air is thick with the mingled scents of exhaust and springtime.]

MERCEDES:
Nine across... An association. Accord. Rapport...

[There’s only so much time you can spend staring at the bus schedule or the faded advertisements before you crave a little human connection.

A young girl slides onto the bench beside her. Francine Chandler, ten, hair in pigtails, Girl Scout uniform a size too big, plops down, watching Mercedes with open curiosity.]

FRANCINE:
You look like you’re thinking real hard. You trying to solve world peace, or just that puzzle?

[Mercedes lets out a laugh-short, genuine, surprised.]

MERCEDES:
Honestly? Both. And I think the puzzle might be easier.

[Francine swings her legs, grinning.]

FRANCINE:
My mom says if you wait too long, you’ll turn into part of the bench.

MERCEDES:
That explains why my back hurts.

[They share a quick laugh. Mercedes looks up at the cloudy sky.

[Francine fumbles in her bag, producing a battered notepad, thrusting it at Mercedes with the eager boldness only kids have.]

FRANCINE:
You want to sign this? Or do you only sign autographs for people who don’t think you eat babies?

MERCEDES:
I sign for everyone. Even conspiracy theorists.

[They laugh again, just as the bus rumbles into view, brakes squealing as it pulls to the curb. Mercedes stands, nods to Francine, boards the bus. As the doors close, Francine waves-a small gesture, but it lingers with Mercedes as the city blurs past.

And just when you think the bus is never coming, there it is. Not always on time, not always the one you wanted, but it’s moving-and sometimes that’s enough.]

EXT. CITY STREET - EVENING

[The city looks different through the bus window as dusk settles in. Streetlights cast long shadows, and the pulse of the city feels less chaotic now, more focused. Mercedes steps off the bus in a neighborhood that smells faintly of industry and determination. This isn’t the glitz of the arena; it’s a place built on raw effort.]

INT. GRIZZLY’S GYM – EVENING

[Inside Grizzly’s Gym, the air buzzes with energy. Irma pounds away on a treadmill, her movements steady and strong, occasionally glancing down at a magazine. Tomas struggles with the bench press, his form a little off but his determination clear. Mercedes drops her bag with a satisfying thud.

The gym feels alive with motion. Ricardo shadowboxes in a corner, his punches sharp and precise, embodying both grace and power.

Tomas approaches Mercedes, phone in hand, a hopeful grin plastered over his nerves.]

IRMA:
Hey, look who finally untangled herself from the bus route of doom. Took you long enough.

[Mercedes forces a smile, but her eyes are tired. She shrugs off her jacket, revealing bruises-some fresh, some faded.]

MERCEDES:
If you think the city’s confusing, you should try my life. At least the bus route’s predictable.

TOMAS:
Made you a playlist. Steely Dan and 80s montage jams. Motivation, right?

[Mercedes takes the phone, scrolling through the tracks. She lets out a short, genuine laugh-the first real one of the day.]

MERCEDES:
Perfect. Nothing says “victory” like jazz fusion and Mr. T.

[Irma steps off the treadmill, tossing Mercedes a water bottle with a practiced flick.]

Irma:
Ready to get twisted up in training?

MERCEDES:
Always.

[Training blurs into a montage: Mercedes dodges Irma’s playful jabs, Tomas trips over a jump rope, Ricardo lands perfect punches and takedowns, Grizzly, the gym owner, watches from the sidelines, arms crossed over his chest. He pretends not to smile at their progress, but there’s a glint of pride in his eyes.

The sounds of the gym fade for a moment as Mercedes leans against the ropes, catching her breath. Sweat beads on her brow, but there’s a small, satisfied smile on her face. Irma tosses her a towel, Tomas grins through his exhaustion, and Ricardo nods in quiet approval. Grizzly, arms still crossed, gives the faintest of nods-respect earned, not given.]

IRMA
So, Paris, huh? Big city, big dreams. You really going through with it?

[Tomas looks up.]

TOMAS
Yeah, Mercedes. You’ve been talking about this forever.

IRMA
Just don’t forget us little people when you’re sipping wine and winning championships over there.

MERCEDES
Never. You’re my friends. Wherever I go, you’re coming with me-in spirit, at least.

[Mercedes shrugs, a small smile playing on her lips.]

RICARDO
Well, if you need a hype man for the Eiffel Tower, I’m your guy.

[The laughter fades into comfortable silence. Mercedes breathes deeply, the weight on her shoulders feeling lighter for the first time in days. Around her, the gym hums softly-a sanctuary of sweat, struggle, and solidarity.]


Almighty Fire
semana del 11 de 18 de mayo de 2025

Into the Void is about to get legendary. Why? Because yours truly is coming for Bella Madison and her precious Bombshell Internet Championship.

Now, let’s talk about Bella for a second. She’s good. Cute, even. She’s got heart, hustle, and a shiny belt that’s been keeping her warm at night. But honey, championships aren’t about comfort-they’re about legacy. And if there’s one thing I know, it’s how to make history.

Let’s talk about history, shall we? Because if there’s one thing I don’t shy away from, it’s the truth-even when it isn’t dripping in gold and confetti.

I know the numbers. I know the whispers. Mercedes Vargas, the Hall of Famer, the record-setter, the woman with more accolades than most can dream of-yet when it comes to Bella Madison in SCW, the scoreboard reads 0-2-4. That’s right. Six times we’ve stood across from each other, and not once have I had my hand raised over hers. Some call it a curse. Others say it’s a mountain I just can’t climb.

But here’s the thing about legends, darling: we don’t run from our history-we rewrite it.

Every draw, every loss, every single time I’ve come up short against Bella, it’s only fueled my fire. It’s made me sharper, smarter, and hungrier than ever. Bella, you’ve had my number, but numbers don’t lie-and neither do streaks. And every streak? It has an expiration date. May 25th at Into the Void? That’s looking like the perfect night for a rewrite.

But let’s not stop there. Let’s talk about what this match means-not just for you, not just for me, but for everyone watching. For every young girl sitting in the crowd, dreaming of one day stepping into this ring. For every aspiring wrestler who looks up to us and believes that anything is possible. For every fan who has followed our journeys, who has cheered us on, who has lived and died with every win and loss.

This match is bigger than just a title. It’s bigger than just a rivalry. It’s about inspiration. It’s about hope. It’s about proving that no matter how many times you fall, you can always rise again. That no matter how high the mountain, you can always climb it. That no matter how tough the odds, you can always overcome them.

That’s the message I want to send. That’s the legacy I want to leave.

So, Bella, when we step into that ring, know that we’re not just fighting for ourselves. We’re fighting for everyone who has ever dared to dream. We’re fighting for everyone who has ever faced adversity and refused to back down. We’re fighting for everyone who believes that greatness is within reach.

And that’s why I’m going to give everything I have. That’s why I’m going to leave it all in the ring. That’s why I’m going to fight with every ounce of my being.

Because that’s what legends do.

People love to talk about “underdogs” and “fairy tales.” But in this business, fairy tales end the moment the queen arrives. And trust me, I don’t just wear the crown-I own the kingdom. And let’s not pretend, Bella, that you haven’t been watching me. You know the deal. When Mercedes Vargas is on the card, the whole world tunes in. That’s not hype, mamita-that’s history. I’m the headline, the main event, the reason the lights shine just a little brighter on May 25th.

Clutch that Bombshell Internet Championship as tight as you want, Bella. Because when you step in the ring with me, you’re diving into the deep end-and I don’t just swim, I make tidal waves. I’ve been breaking records, breaking hearts, and breaking the mold since day one. Legends don’t chase titles, Bella. Titles chase legends.

So go ahead-shine up that belt, take your selfies, post your hashtags. Because when the bell rings, it’s not about who’s trending-it’s about who’s standing. Spoiler alert, sweetheart: it’s going to be me, hand raised, championship high, with the world chanting my name..

And to every Bombshell who thinks they can step up and take my place? Think again. To everyone who’s ever doubted me-watch closely. To every critic who keeps my name on their lips, keep talking. And to everyone who’s ever believed in me? Get ready to celebrate. Because at Into the Void, I’m not just taking the title-I’m taking over.

So, Bella, I hope you’re ready. I hope you’ve been training, dreaming, and maybe even praying. Because when that bell rings, it’s not just your title on the line-it’s your reputation. And everyone knows, when Mercedes Vargas walks down that ramp, the spotlight follows. The crowd rises. The moment gets bigger.

And the outcome? Let’s just say I have a habit of making sure history remembers my name.

Bella, after Into the Void, you’ll know exactly what it means to share the ring with greatness. You’ll know what it means to be outclassed, outshined, and outwrestled by the one and only Mercedes Vargas.

So polish that belt, darling. It’s about to have a real champion’s reflection.

See you at Into the Void, Bella. Bring your best. You’ll need it.


INT. THE FLOATING PENALTY BOX – NIGHT (ON TOMAS’ BOAT)

[The crew gathers on Tomas’ boat, which tonight doubles as The Floating Penalty Box-Hugo’s sports bar, but with a twist: every surface is draped in colorful “Happy Mother’s Day” banners, and the walls are plastered with wrestling posters featuring formidable women-some real, some invented, all larger than life.

Hugo balances precariously on a barstool, stretching to hang a glittery sign above the entrance. His King Jaguarito costume, a luchador character who’s half jaguar, half caveman, is only half on, the jaguar mask dangling from his elbow as he tries to tie the banner’s last knot.

HUGO:
Tonight’s match is for my mamá. She’s the fiercest woman I know. King Jaguarito fights with her spirit!

[The mask slips from his arm and bounces off the counter, but Hugo catches it with a flourish, grinning at the others.

Mercedes stands nearby, referee’s whistle already around her neck, phone clutched in one hand as she texts furiously.

MERCEDES:
I’m juggling this match and my mom’s 3 p.m. call. If I miss it, I’m grounded for a week.

[She looks up, surveying the chaos with a mixture of affection and exasperation.

At the far end of the bar, Irma sets up her latest masterpiece: a merch table overflowing with “Mom-inspired” wrestling pins, t-shirts, and even a few hand-painted luchador masks with floral patterns. She arranges the items with an artist’s eye, pausing to admire her “Matriarchal Mayhem” collection.]

IRMA:
Nothing says love like a wrestling mom pin.

[Ricardo sits at a small table, laptop open, fingers flying across the keyboard as he works on his latest promo.]

RICARDO:
I’m working on a promo so heartfelt it’ll make the crowd cry.

[His focus breaks repeatedly as his phone buzzes.]

RICARDO:
Hello, Mom! Yes, I’m rehearsing. No, I’m not hungry. Yes, I’ll wear a sweater.

[He rolls his eyes good-naturedly at the others but smiles.]

RICARDO:
She’s got great advice, but she’s also distracting.

[Behind the bar, Tomas pours drinks and keeps a wary eye on the proceedings.]

TOMAS:
If this event doesn’t bring in business, nothing will. Just… no flooding this time, please.

[The boat rocks gently beneath their feet, the air buzzing with anticipation and the unmistakable feeling that, whatever happens next, it will be a Mother’s Day to remember.]

INT. SPORTS BAR – LATER

 The crowd fills the boat’s limited space, laughter and chatter blending with the clinking of glasses. Hugo steps into the ring, his costume slightly askew. He takes a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. He struggles to keep his composure

HUGO:
For my mother… the strongest woman…

[Suddenly, his mask slips off, tumbling to the floor. A ripple of laughter spreads through the crowd. Hugo blinks, then grins sheepishly.

HUGO:
Uh… she’s strong AND funny!

[From the corner, Tomas rushes out carrying a tray of food. His foot catches on a loose cable, and the tray tips, sending soggy nachos flying across the floor.

TOMAS:
Oops! Catering mix-up! Who ordered soggy nachos?

[Mercedes is refereeing, but keeps glancing at her phone, answering texts. She glances at it, sighing.]

MERCEDES:
Yes, Mom, I’m watching the match. No, I don’t need to call Aunt Rosa yet.

[At Irma’s merch booth, two families awkwardly reunite, arguing over who gets the last “Mom Power” pin.]

IRMA:
Art is conflict, people. Buy a pin and make peace!

[Ricardo stands on a chair, ready to deliver his promo, but Tomas suddenly grabs the mic.

TOMAS:
Before we continue, who wants to karaoke “Mama Said Knock You Out”?

[The crowd cheers; Ricardo sighs but smiles.]

INT. SPORTS BAR – LATER

[Hugo stands in the center of the ring, exhausted, but beaming with pride. He raises his arms.]

HUGO:
This one’s for all the moms who fight every day-on and off the mat!

 [Mercedes steps forward, holding the mic.]

MERCEDES:
Moms are the real champions. They call the shots, keep us grounded, and yes, they referee our lives better than I do in this ring.

[The crew gathers around a table piled high with takeout food. Tomas raises his glass in a toast.]

TOMAS:
To moms-and to surviving their calls during wrestling matches.

IRMA:
And to merch that celebrates them!

RICARDO:
And to promos that maybe next time won’t get drowned out by karaoke.

[Mercedes lifts her soda with a smile.]

MERCEDES:
In wrestling and in life, moms always call the shots.

[They all laugh and clink glasses as the camera pulls back, revealing the boat gently rocking under the warm glow of string lights, capturing a moment of camaraderie and celebration.]

END.


Present Day ♦ S A N T A M O N I C A, C A L I F O R N I A

[REC•]

[The camera opens on Mercedes Vargas standing alone on a windswept Santa Monica pier, the ocean breeze tugging at her hair. She stares intensely into the lens, determination burning in her eyes.]

"So, Bella Madison-the self-proclaimed standard-bearer of the Bombshells Internet Championship division. Since you've held the title, I've been hearing your little speeches, and I have to admit, it’s cute. Really, it is. You talk about responsibility, about proving yourself, about daring others to step up. Well, congratulations-you’ve got my attention. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

[Mercedes shifts her weight, her eyes narrowing with confidence. She takes a slow, deliberate breath, letting the ocean air fill her lungs.]

“You see, Bella, you’re clinging to that title like it’s your life raft, but you’ve forgotten one crucial thing: championships don’t make the wrestler. Wrestlers make the championship. While you’re starving to keep that gold, I’m out here feasting on legacy. You’re fighting to prove you’re not a transitional champion? Sweetheart, I’ve already proven I’m a permanent fixture in this business.”

[She leans in, her voice sharpening, the smirk never leaving her face.]

“You say you respect me? That’s nice. But respect doesn’t win matches. Respect doesn’t stop me from walking into Into the Void and reminding you-and everyone else-why my name is etched into SCW history. You call yourself the standard? Honey, I set the standard long before you even laced up your boots.”

[Mercedes lifts a hand, palm out, as if to halt any rebuttal before it starts. She lets her hand linger, a silent signal to the world that she’s not here for backtalk.]

“Do I know what it’s like to lose something as fast as I gained it? Sure. But do you know what it feels like to hold onto something so long it becomes synonymous with your name? That’s the difference between us, Bella. You’re fighting not to lose. I fight because winning is second nature. I don’t just chase greatness-I define it."

[She steps forward, her gaze icy, voice dropping to a cold, measured tone. The wind whips her hair across her face, but she doesn’t flinch.]

“You think you’re dangerous because you’re hungry? Let me tell you something: hunger fades. But experience? Experience stays with you forever. And at Into the Void, all your fire and determination won’t mean a damn thing when you’re staring across the ring at me-the woman who’s been there, done that, and still has plenty left in the tank. You see, I’ve faced the best. I’ve beaten the best. I’ve been in matches that have defined careers, ended reigns, and built legacies. And through it all, I’ve never lost sight of who I am or what I stand for.”

[Mercedes tilts her head, her smirk widening, confidence radiating from her every word. The sunlight catches her eyes, making them gleam with challenge.]

“You want to know what separates the best from the rest? What it really takes to be a legend in this business?”

[She pauses, letting the question hang in the air before continuing, her voice gaining strength. The camera zooms in, focusing on the intensity in her eyes.]

"You know what? Let’s peel back the curtain a little more. Let’s talk about what it really means to be a champion in this business. Because it’s not just about the matches, the wins, or the gold-it’s about the journey. It’s about the sacrifices, the late nights, the early mornings, the pain, the sweat, the tears. It’s about walking through fire, time and time again, and coming out stronger on the other side."

[Mercedes paces slowly, her gaze unwavering, her voice steady and commanding. She glances out at the horizon, as if drawing strength from the endless ocean.]

"Bella, you’ve had a hell of a journey. I respect that. I respect anyone who can step into this ring and hold their own. But there’s a difference between holding your own and holding the standard. And that’s where I come in. I am the standard. I am the measuring stick. When people talk about greatness in this business, they talk about Mercedes Vargas. Not because I demand it, but because I’ve earned it. Every accolade, every record, every headline-it’s not just a testament to my talent, it’s a testament to my will. I’ve been the underdog, the favorite, the champion, the challenger. I’ve been counted out, written off, and underestimated. And every single time, I’ve proven the doubters wrong."

[She jabs a finger toward the lens for emphasis, her expression fierce.]

"You see, Bella, there are champions, and then there are legends. Champions come and go. They win a title, they bask in the glory, and then they fade away. But legends? Legends are eternal. Legends are the ones who set the bar so high, others spend their entire careers trying to reach it. Legends are the ones who make you believe in the impossible. Legends are the ones who, even in defeat, command respect. And that’s what I am. That’s what I’ve always been."

[Mercedes steps closer to the camera, her intensity growing.]

"And that’s what separates us, Bella. You’re the champion. I’m the legend. But let’s not get it twisted-I didn’t wake up one day and decide to be a legend. I earned it. I fought for it. I bled for it. I sacrificed for it. I’ve been knocked down more times than I can count, but every single time, I got back up. Stronger. Smarter. Hungrier. I’ve survived eras, outlasted rivals, and adapted to every new threat that’s come my way. You’re just the latest in a long line of challengers who think they’re ready to take me down."

[She clenches her fist, recalling the battles fought and won. The wind howls, but her voice cuts through it like a knife.]

"You see, Bella, every time you’ve beaten me, every time you’ve walked away with your hand raised, I’ve gone back to the drawing board. I’ve studied the tapes. I’ve analyzed every move, every mistake, every missed opportunity. I’ve turned every loss into a lesson, every setback into a setup for a comeback. That’s how legends are made-not by avoiding failure, but by embracing it, learning from it, and coming back stronger every single time."

[Mercedes pauses, taking a deep breath, her eyes narrowing with focus.]

"And that’s why this time is different. This time, I’m not just coming for your title-I’m coming for redemption. I’m coming to prove, not just to the world, but to myself, that Mercedes Vargas is still the best in the business. That Mercedes Vargas is still the woman to beat. That Mercedes Vargas is still the name that makes opponents tremble and fans rise to their feet. I’m coming to remind everyone that legacies aren’t built on luck-they’re forged in the fires of competition, in the crucible of adversity, and in the heart of every battle."

[She raises her chin, pride and determination radiating from her stance.]

"Because at the end of the day, that’s what this is all about-legacy. When the lights go down, when the crowd goes home, when the belts are locked away in their cases, what’s left? Your legacy. Your impact. The mark you leave on this business. And my mark? It’s indelible. It’s unforgettable. It’s legendary. I’ve inspired generations, broken records, and redefined what it means to be the best. And I’m not done yet-not by a long shot."

[Mercedes slowly removes her sunglasses, staring directly into the camera. Her eyes are cold, but her passion is unmistakable.]

"So, Bella, when you step into the ring with me at Into the Void, you’re not just defending a title-you’re defending your legacy. You’re defending your place in history. And let me tell you, that’s a heavy burden to bear.The pressure will be suffocating. The spotlight will be blinding. Every eye in the arena will be watching, waiting to see if you can live up to your own hype. But don’t worry, darling. I’ve carried that weight for years. I know what it’s like to have the world watching, waiting, expecting you to fail. I know what it’s like to have the critics circling, ready to pounce on any sign of weakness. I know what it’s like to have the pressure of greatness on your shoulders. But don’t worry, darling. I’ve carried that weight for years. I know what it’s like to have the world watching, waiting, expecting you to fail. I know what it’s like to have the critics circling, ready to pounce on any sign of weakness. I know what it’s like to have the pressure of greatness on your shoulders."

[She smirks, confidence oozing from her every word.]

"And you know what? I thrive under that pressure. I live for it. It’s what separates the good from the great, the champions from the legends. So, Bella, bring your best. Bring your heart, your hustle, your fire. Because you’re going to need every ounce of it. You’re going to need every trick in the book, every ounce of strength, every shred of determination. Because when you step into the ring with me, you’re stepping into the lion’s den. And trust me, I’m hungry."

[Mercedes’s voice grows sharper, her intensity peaking.]

"I’m hungry for victory. I’m hungry for redemption. I’m hungry for that Bombshell Internet Championship. But more than anything, I’m hungry to remind the world exactly who Mercedes Vargas is. I’m hungry to prove that legends never die-they just get stronger, smarter, and more dangerous with time. I’m hungry to show that no matter how many times you try to write me off, I always come back better than ever."

[She points to the camera, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone.]

"Because let’s be honest, Bella-there’s a reason why, after all these years, I’m still here. There’s a reason why my name is still at the top of the marquee. There’s a reason why, no matter how many times I get knocked down, I always get back up. It’s because I’m relentless. I’m unstoppable. I’m inevitable. And on May 25th, at Into the Void, in Paris , France, I’m going to prove it-one more time."

[She gestures emphatically, her expression fierce. The wind picks up, whipping her hair around her face, but her focus never wavers.]

"So, Bella, enjoy your reign while it lasts. Enjoy the spotlight. Enjoy the adulation. Because when the dust settles, when the smoke clears, when the final bell rings, there will be only one woman standing tall. Only one woman holding that championship high. Only one woman whose name will echo through the annals of history. And that woman is Mercedes Vargas."

[She steps back, a sly smile curling on her lips. She turns slightly, looking out over the ocean, the waves crashing against the pier below.]

"So, to all the fans, to all the doubters, to all the believers-get ready. Because history is about to be made. A new chapter is about to be written. And at the center of it all? Yours truly. Because when it’s all said and done-when the dust settles and reality hits-you’ll realize that stepping up was the easy part. Staying up? That’s where legends like me thrive."

[Mercedes turns back to the camera, her voice softer but no less intense.]

"You see, Bella, the truth is, this business isn’t just about titles or accolades. It’s about moments. It’s about the times you get knocked down and the times you rise again. It’s about the legacy you leave behind and the stories people tell when your career is over. I’ve made a career out of silencing doubters, overcoming obstacles, and making history. And at Into the Void, I plan to do it all over again."

[She lets the words hang in the air, the challenge clear and unmistakable.]

"So bring your fight, Bella. Bring your heart, your willpower, your desperation to prove yourself. Because when you step into the ring with Mercedes Vargas, you’re not just facing an opponent-you’re facing a force of nature. You’re facing destiny. You’re facing greatness. And when the final bell rings, and the dust settles, you’ll know exactly why they call me a legend."

[Mercedes lowers her head for a moment, then looks up, her eyes blazing with determination.]

"I hope you’re ready, Bella. Because I was born ready. I was made for moments like this. I was made for history. And on May 25th, at Into the Void, I’m going to show the world-one more time-why Mercedes Vargas is the name that will never be forgotten."

[***Fade***]

Blog: Almighty Fire
semana del 23 al 30 de marzo de 2025

Blaze of Glory is just around the corner, and so is the Elimination Chamber—the most unforgiving structure in wrestling. Six competitors will enter, but only one will emerge victorious. They think they can take me down, that they can outlast me in the unforgiving confines of that steel cage. But let's be real—most of them can't even outlast their own hype. My opponents? Let’s just say they’re nothing more than pretenders to the throne, clinging to the hope that somehow, someway, they’ll manage to outmaneuver the greatest of all time

Andrea Hernandez has been riding high with that title, but I bet she never expected her first defense to be quite like this. She may hold the gold now, but after Blaze of Glory, she’ll be lucky if she even remembers what it felt like to be champion. Because she won’t just lose the title—she'll lose the illusion that she ever belonged in my ring.

Necra Octavian Kane, the supposed dark force of this match. Her theatrics might scare some people, but I don’t flinch at shadows. Because when you strip away the mystique, she’s just another competitor who will fall to me like the last two times we met for the Bombshell Roulette Championship all those years ago.

Kayla Richards wants to avenge her loss to Andrea so bad, she can taste it. But I have a feeling she's still going to be searching for her first pay-per-view win this year. When they scrape what's left of her off the Chamber floor, they'll find just three things: her teeth, her pride, and my boot prints. The first two will be shattered and the last one? That's her new reality from now until retirement day.

Cassie Wolfe is looking to defy the odds, when the odds weren't with her in the first place. She calls herself, the ‘Rebel Princess’? More like the Sacrificial Lamb of this Chamber. She talks about being ‘hungry’? Hunger fades eventually. And when that cage locks, you’ll realize too late that your fairy-tale rebellion ends with me playing the Big Bad Wolf… and you? You’re just dinner. A cautionary tale.

Candy seems more concerned with being everyone’s favorite sweetheart than actually winning matches. Guess nobody told her that Charm doesn’t win championships. If it did, she would be undefeated.

Oh, you want more? You want me to keep going? Fine. Let’s keep this train rolling because, clearly, you just can’t get enough of Mercedes Vargas—and honestly, who could blame you? I’m the reason you tune in. I’m the reason this company thrives. Without me, this place would be nothing more than a revolving door of mediocrity. So sit back and let me educate you on why I’m untouchable, undeniable, and absolutely unstoppable."

You see, people love to throw around words like legend or icon, but those words don’t hold weight unless they’re attached to my name. Let’s be honest—there isn’t a single person on this roster who can match what I’ve done or what I continue to do. They call themselves champions, contenders, trailblazers—but when they step into the ring with me? They’re exposed for what they truly are: overhyped amateurs.

And oh, how they try. They bring their flashy moves, their big talk, and their desperate attempts to make a name for themselves at my expense. But here’s the truth: I don’t just beat them—I break them. I take their hopes and dreams and crush them under my boot like the insignificant specks they are. Because that’s what happens when you challenge Mercedes Vargas—you don’t just lose; you get erased.

But let’s not forget the critics—the ones in their echo chambers typing away about how ‘Mercedes Vargas is too cocky’ or ‘Mercedes Vargas doesn’t deserve her spot anymore.’ Oh, sweethearts, let me make something crystal clear: I didn’t just earn my spot—I built it. Brick by brick, match by match, victory by victory. And if you think your opinions matter to me? Think again. I don’t need your approval or validation. And I certainly don’t need your permission to keep being the absolute best in this business.

While you’re busy criticizing from the sidelines, I’m out here making history—again and again and again. To anyone who thinks they’re ready to take me down? Let me save you the trouble: you’re not ready. You’ll never be ready. Because stepping into the ring with Mercedes Vargas isn’t just a challenge—it’s a career-defining moment. For me? It’s Tuesday. For you? It’s the day you realize that everything you’ve worked for means nothing when you’re standing across from greatness.

So bring it on—bring your best shot, your biggest dreams, every ounce of fight in your body. Because when it’s all over, when the dust settles and the crowd is left in stunned silence, there will only be one woman standing tall: Mercedes Vargas.

And if that bothers you? Good. That means I’m still doing what I do best—being better than everyone else.


[The marina smells of diesel fuel and failed dreams. Hugo stands transfixed before Seas the Day, Tomas' decaying twenty-foot fishing boat, as if beholding the Sistine Chapel of poor decisions. The vessel lists slightly to starboard, its peeling paint job revealing layers of nautical regret.

Hugo breathes, grabbing his friend's shoulders with the intensity of a televangelist.]

HUGO
Tomas… you’ve been sitting on a goldmine.

[Tomas takes a lazy sip of his beer, unfazed.]

TOMAS
It’s a boat.

[Hugo spreads his arms like a cult leader addressing his flock.]

HUGO
No. It’s "The Floating Penalty Box"—the greatest illegal sports bar in harbor history. Five TVs. Local ads. We’ll print money!

[As if to punctuate the declaration, the boat's corroded nameplate clatters onto the dock. Tomas eyes the rusted hull.]

TOMAS
Sounds like work.

HUGO
You’ll be "Head of Vibes."

[A beat. Tomas raises his bottle in salute.]

TOMAS
...I accept.

[A dry voice cuts through their scheming.]

"Please tell me this isn't another fantasy football scheme."

[Mercedes Vargas leans against a piling, her crossed arms straining the sleeves of her hoodie. The morning sun glinted off the championship belt slung over her shoulder like a particularly tacky purse.

Hugo spins toward her with the grace of a used-car salesman spotting a mark.]

HUGO
Mercedes! Perfect timing. You'll be—

MERCEDES
Let me guess: "security."

[His grin widens.]

HUGO
Director of Guest Relations.

[Tomas translated through a mouthful of beer.]

TOMAS
You throw drunks overboard.

[Mercedes sighed—the sound of a woman who'd body-slammed men for twenty years and still hadn't earned this level of nonsense. In one fluid motion, she hooks Hugo into a headlock, her bicep crushing his windpipe with practiced ease.

MERCEDES
Raise your hand if you want a demo.

Hugo flails like an overturned turtle. Tomas raises his beer bottle.

Later, Inside the Boat

[The cabin smells like wet socks and poor life choices. Mercedes pokes a warped floorboard with her toe.]

MERCEDES
This is the dumbest plan since Ricardo tried to open a vineyard in his studio apartment.

INT. RICARDO’S STUDIO APARTMENT – FLASHBACK (NIGHT)

[A MATCH CUT from Mercedes’ wrestling belt to a wine bottle clutched in Ricardo's hand. He stands amid a disaster: A bathtub overflowing with bruised Concord grapes, a stolen "Napa Valley Vineyard" sign hung crookedly above the toilet, secured with duct taped to the wall, and Irma painting protest signs ("This is NOT Sonoma").

He swirls a jelly jar of murky liquid, his silk scarf catching the dim light.

RICARDO
Philistine. This bathtub’s porcelain is older than most French oak barrels.

[He raises the jar like a chalice.]

RICARDO
Behold… Château Ricardo!

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

[Carmen fills the doorway, badge glinting under harsh hallway fluorescents.]

CARMEN
Neighbors called. Again.

[Ricardo’s grip tightens on the jar.]

RICARDO
Terroir is anywhere you dream it! Even...

[He gestures to moldy shower tiles.]

RICARDO
—in a rent-controlled Studio 6B.

[Carmen steps over a pile of stomped grape skins. Her boots leave pulpy evidence. She snatches the jar, sniffs.]

CARMEN
This smells like Robitussin.

RICARDO
Complexity!

Irma silently holds up a new protest sign: "ARREST THIS MAN."

[END OF FLASHBACK]

[Hugo, Tomas and Mercedes surveys the moldy interior of the boat. Hugo, undeterred, gestured to their "amenities": A bench upholstered in what might've been carpet in the 1980s ("VIP section!"), a dented bucket ("Keg cooler!"), her abandoned wrestling belt in a puddle ("Lost & Found slash weapon!")

Mercedes massages her temples. Twelve years in the ring, two torn ACLs, and this was her retirement plan?

Hugo claps her shoulder.]

HUGO
Exactly why it'll work.


Present Day ♦ T U C S O N, A R I Z O N A

[REC•]

[The Cactus Moon Saloon is quiet except for the hum of a dying neon sign. Mercedes Vargas kicks open the doors, her boots scattering dust across framed photos of midget wrestling posters deliberately hung at knee-height. She stops beneath a flickering neon "Lucha Libre Tonight" sign, its pink glow reflecting off the scars on her knuckles as she slams her fist onto a scarred wooden bar table.

"Let me get this straight. Candy wins her SCW in-ring return against Miss Manners—good for her, I guess—and suddenly Christian Underwood hands her a golden ticket straight into the Chamber match? No qualifying match, no struggle, just a free pass? And then we have Necra Octavian Kane pulling off one of her little stunts, getting Underwood to sign a contract that makes her the final entrant. No match, no announcement, just manipulation.

"Meanwhile, the rest of us are out here busting our ass week after week, earning our spots the hard way. But apparently, that doesn’t matter anymore. You don’t need to win matches or even talk to management. You just need to be Candy or Necra Octavian Kane. That doesn’t sound crazy to y’all? Because it sure sounds crazy to me."

[Mercedes grabs a shot glass from the bar, crushes it in her palm, and lets the shards scatter across the table like confetti.]

"Let’s get one thing straight: this match isn’t about proving anything to my opponents. It’s not about silencing the haters or earning your respect. I don’t need your respect—I’ve already got the respect of everyone who matters in this business. This match is about one thing and one thing only: reclaiming my spot at the top of this division. And if that means going through both of you—and anyone else who dares to stand in my way—then so be it.

"You want to talk about pressure? About adversity? Let me tell you something about pressure—it’s what creates diamonds. And I’ve been under pressure my entire career. Every time someone like you called me washed up, every time someone said I didn’t belong anymore, every time someone tried to write me off—I proved them wrong. Time and time again. And Sunday night will be no different."

[Mercedes takes a step forward, her eyes burning with determination.]

"I earned this opportunity. I earned every goddamn right of being in this match. I wanted to be in this match. I deserve to be in this match. There is no one alive on this roster than can say that I don’t have what it takes to become world champion. If you want to talk about dedication, if you want to find one of the pillars of the women’s division, you don’t have to go very far. Whether I was featured in the pre-show, the opening match, the mid-card or main eventing, there was a good chance my name was on the card and a very good chance you would see me in the ring. Just like you'll see me in the ring at Blaze of Glory.

"And when it’s all over—when I’m standing tall with the Bombshell Championship in my hands—you’ll finally understand why they call me ‘The Dynasty.’ Because no matter how many times people like you try to count me out… I always find a way to win."

[Mercedes pauses, letting her words sink in.]

"But back to Candy. Sweet, sugary, pointless Candy. You walk around here like winning a popularity contest means you deserve a title shot. Well guess what? The Chamber isn’t a pageant. There’s no judges, no scoring, no second chances. Just pain. And when you’re locked in there with me? You’re gonna realize that being liked doesn’t make you dangerous. Let me break this down for you, cupcake. That bubbly personality? Those cutesy winks to the crowd? They won't save you when I'm stomping your ribs through the steel grating. The Elimination Chamber doesn't care how many kids wear your merch—it only cares how much pain you can endure. And judging by how you tapped out to a basic armbar last month? You'll be screaming before the first pod opens. Tell me, Candy—when you're curled up in that corner, makeup running, begging the ref to stop the match... will you still be smiling then? Or will you finally understand what happens when a real woman takes your dollhouse and burns it down?

"You're not an athlete—you're a mascot. A living, breathing participation trophy who thinks smiling through losses makes you 'resilient.' Newsflash: Real champions don't get applauded for failing pretty. They get remembered for making their opponents bleed. And honey? When I'm done with you, they'll need to peel your glittery façade off that cage floor with a spatula.

"So go ahead, Candy—smile for the cameras. Wave to your little fans. Because when that pod door opens, the only thing sweet about you will be the sound of you crying when I’m done with you.

"Sprinkle, sprinkle."

[The camera catches Mercedes crushing a handful of candy sprinkles in her fist, letting the colored dust fall onto a nearby flyer for "Tiny Athletes, Big Fun!" at ZONA 520. She grinds the glitter into the wood with her boot heel as t takes a moment to collect herself before addressing Cassie Wolfe.]

"And Cassie… I know this is probably overwhelming for you. Being thrown into a match like this with so much on the line—it’s a lot for anyone, let alone someone as new as you.

"Now you’re standing across the ring from me, and let me make one thing perfectly clear: this isn’t about teamwork anymore. This is about survival. And when it comes to survival in this business, there’s no one better than me."

"You’re young, Cassie. Hungry. Full of potential. I see it; everyone sees it. But potential doesn’t win matches—experience does. And while you’re still figuring out who you are in this ring, I’ve already carved my name into the history books. You may call yourself ‘The Rebel Princess,’ but in this match, rebellion won’t save you. Your high-flying antics and youthful energy may dazzle the crowd, but they won’t be enough to overcome the decades of knowledge and skill I bring to that ring. You're so eager to prove yourself that you don’t even see how out of your depth you are. You’re like a puppy chasing cars, clueless about what to do when you actually catch one."

[Mercedes smirks coldly.]

"You might think this is your moment to prove yourself, Cassie. To show the world that you belong in the same conversation as the greats. But let me warn you now: stepping into the ring with me isn’t an opportunity—it’s a lesson. A lesson in what it takes to truly succeed in this business. A lesson in why legends like me endure while rookies like you struggle to find their footing.

"And don’t think for a second that I’ve forgotten how quick you were to dismiss me when we were partners. You didn’t trust me then, and now? Now you’ll learn exactly why underestimating Mercedes Vargas is the biggest mistake anyone can make."

You wanted to prove yourself on Sunday? Well, congratulations—you’re about to get your chance. Just don’t be surprised when it ends with you looking up at the lights while my hand is raised in victory."

[Mercedes pulls out a Cassie Wolfe "Rebel Princess" bandana from her pocket—stained with what looks like blood—and uses it to polish her knee pad.]

"Andrea, right now you tell yourself you're number one, and the only way to prove it is by being number one, and holding the Bombshell World Championship makes you number one. But let me tell you something: you could be a challenger, a contender, or even a champion—but when you’re standing across from me, you title means nothing. Because when the bell rings and it’s just you and me in that ring, that's when reality hits harder than my knee to your pretty little face. So enjoy your little Cinderella story while it lasts, princesa. Because when the clock strikes midnight at Blaze of Glory, you'll wake up bruised, broken, and beltless - wondering how you ever thought you could hang with the elite. And that's not a prediction. That's your immediate future."

[Mercedes flips open a Tucson sports newspaper - Andrea's face circled in red with "THE PHOENIX" scrawled across it - before setting it ablaze with a Zippo. She watches the flames consume the page in a rusted barrel marked "SCW Trash".]

"Kayla Richards, you think this is your redemption story? You think this is your time where you get the guy, the gold, and the glory? Two out of three ain’t bad—but the gold will be with me. Let me paint the real picture for you. When that chamber door closes and there’s nowhere left to run, no excuses left to make, and no more words left to say—you’ll realize that you’re not stepping into the ring with just another opponent. You’re stepping into the ring with a legend. A survivor. A champion. Sunday won't be your redemption story, When the Chamber locks, you’ll realize: this isn’t your moment. It’s just another chapter in mine.

Your little ‘bad girl’ act doesn't intimidate me. I’ve faced women tougher, smarter, and far more dangerous than you could ever dream of being. You don't think I belong in the main event, and that's fine. But ask yourself: what’s worse—having to face Mercedes Vargas in that Chamber... or having to explain to the world how badly I broke you on the way out.

"Hug Finn tight tonight, mamita. After Sunday, you’ll need a shoulder to cry on."

[Mercedes snatches a "Kayla 4 Champ" sign from the wall, tearing it in half with before throwing the pieces at the camera.]

"Necra... oh, Necra. You never could leave well enough, could you? You could have been livint a simple, happy life in retirement, but we all know the reason you retired was because you couldn’t hack it. The Chamber’s gonna remind you why.

"You slink around in your little black leather and your face paint, pretending you’re some kind of monster under the bed. But let me tell you something—monsters don’t need costumes. Monsters don’t pretend. And when the Chamber locks behind us? You’ll realize the only thing scary about you is how badly I’m going to expose you.

"You want to play mind games? Fine. But here’s the thing about mind games—they don’t work on someone who’s already five steps ahead. You think your little theatrics intimidate me? Please. I’ve broken tougher women before breakfast. You’re not a nightmare, Necra—you’re a joke. A cheap haunted house attraction where the only thing screaming will be YOU when I put you through the damn Chamber floor."

[Mercedes kicks over a chair, sending it clattering into a wall of lucha libre masks—one resembling Necra’s painted face cracks down the middle. She stomps on the fragments, grinding them under her boot heel.]

"So here’s my advice to anyone who thinks they’ve got what it takes to step up to me: bring everything you’ve got—your talent, your ambition, your desperation—because trust me, you’re going to need it. But even then? It won’t be enough.

*You see, the difference between me and the rest of you is simple: I don’t just talk about being great—I am great. My name is etched in SCW history, not because I begged for opportunities or whined about being overlooked, but because I took everything this business threw at me and turned it into gold. Andrea, Kayla, Candy, Cassie, Necra—you’re all walking into the Elimination Chamber hoping for a miracle. Me? I’m walking in knowing I’m the inevitable.

"This match isn’t about who’s the nicest or who has the best sob story—it’s about survival. It’s about who can endure the pain, the punishment, and the brutality that comes with stepping into that chamber. And let me tell you something: none of you have what it takes to survive me. I’ve been through wars in that ring, I’ve faced legends and broken records, and I’ve done it all with a smile on my face because I thrive where others crumble.

"Blaze of Glory XIII will be no different. When that chamber door locks and there’s nowhere to run, no one to save you, and no excuses left to make, you’ll all realize exactly who you’re dealing with. I’m not just another competitor—I’m Mercedes Vargas, the standard-bearer of this division, the measuring stick by which all of you are judged. And spoiler alert: none of you measure up.

"So pray to whatever god you believe in that you don’t end up in my pod. Because when that door opens? I won’t just eliminate you—I’ll erase you. And years from now, when people talk about Blaze of Glory, they won’t remember your names. They’ll only remember how I turned all five of you into footnotes on my path to immortality.

You wanted a war? Congratulations. You’re cannon fodder. See you in hell, ladies."

[Mercedes exits into the desert night, but not before she carves "DYNÁSTYA" into the table with a switchblade. The camera lingers as distant coyotes howl.]