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Climax Control Roleplays / ENDEAVOR LXXII
« on: October 22, 2025, 12:38:33 PM »
Almighty Fire
semana del 19 de 26 de octubre de 2025
They say silence can be deafening. But honestly, I wouldn’t know—I rarely stop talking long enough to hear it. Not when the wrestling world simply needs to hear what the Bombshell Internet Champion has to say. And apparently, that time has come again, because este fin de semana (this weekend), I step into the ring at Climax Control 440 against a woman who has been dying to make my business hers: Zenna Zdunich.
Oh, the irony. They call her “dangerous,” “veteran,” “resilient.” Cute titles—they sound good on paper, like a fancy job description that doesn’t pay the bills. But when you stand across from me, titles don’t matter, querida. Legacy doesn’t matter. What matters is this—when that bell rings, you either prove you belong in my ring, or you prove that your mouth wrote checks your muscles can’t cash.
And come Sunday, I have every intention of depositing Zenna’s ego straight into overdraft.
Let me be clear: I didn’t become Bombshell Internet Champion by accident. I didn’t survive this business—on four different continents, against the very best—just to play nice for the cameras. No, cariño, I earned this. While others were busy building podcasts and cryptic social media posts about mysticism and family drama, I was doing what I always do: winning.
16 championships. 12 years of dominance. A résumé thicker than Zenna’s eyeliner collection. So when people ask me if I’m underestimating her, I have to laugh. Underestimate her? No, no, no. I evaluate her. I see her for what she is—the latest name trying to chase clout off mine. The Zdunich family name carries its own kind of chaos, but when you stand across from me, you aren’t dealing with chaos, mamita. You’re dealing with legacy. Controlled. Calculated. Ruthlessly executed.
In other words, this isn’t a performance; this is a reminder.
Now, we can’t pretend this match exists in a vacuum. There’s… history here, right? It's la telenovela nobody asked for but everyone keeps watching. Like bad reality TV, it just won’t end. The family dinners? Nonexistent. The shade? Eternal.
People love to paint me as the villain of the story. The “lightning rod of controversy.” The diva who walks in heels too high for anyone else to follow. And you know what? They’re not wrong. I am controversial. Because truth itself is controversial when you’re too good for mediocrity.
Let’s be honest—if Zenna wasn’t obsessed with my name, she wouldn’t still be dragging around this tired vendetta like last season’s wardrobe. All this talk about vengeance? About making me pay? She thinks this match means something more than it does. She calls it personal. She’s wrong. It’s professional—and professionalism is where I live and where she fails.
While Zenna is busy plotting her personal crusade, I’ve got actual championship responsibilities. Harper Mason waits for me at High Stakes. No, no, no. Zenna’s a warm-up, sure—but even warm-ups have to hurt.
But before I feast on Harper, I have to deal with Zenna. And that’s where things get interesting.
See, Zenna thinks I’ll be distracted. That I’ll take it easy because it’s a “non-title” match. She believes I’m already looking past her. That would be a rookie mistake—and Mercedes Vargas doesn’t make those. If she wants to make a statement, she can try… but she’ll learn quickly that God may forgive, but I don't.
Pride, vengeance, message? Fine. She wants to send one? I’ll write it for her, stamp it with Vargas gold, and ship it priority overnight.
Every time I step between those ropes, I reinvent the word dominance. Inside that ring, I’m a tactician. I don’t fight wildly like the Zdunichs do; I fight smart. I can knock you down or outthink you into submission—it’s entirely up to my mood that day.
But here’s the thing: when Zenna looks at me, she doesn’t see just another opponent. She sees every headline she will never make, every championship she will never hold, every respect she will never earn. I’m the mirror she avoids because it shows her what could’ve been.
And this Sunday, she’ll look into that mirror again—only to see herself flat on the canvas, one hand raised high above her by her better.
That’s not arrogance, cariño. That’s destiny.
Give Zenna her due—she won her debut match. She’s known for her grit, her endurance, her ability to take pain and keep moving. Admirable. But pain tolerance and victory are not the same thing, no matter how many motivational quotes she posts.
Zenna thrives on chaos; I thrive on control. She’ll come swinging, like the rebellious artist she projects to be. But when passion meets precision, passion gets outclassed. And that’s exactly what will happen this weekend.
Let her try to paint her war. I’ll bring the canvas, the color, and the masterpiece.
Because the truth is, when it comes to wrestling legacy, Zenna Zdunich may be a familiar name—but Mercedes Vargas is the standard. Always has been. Always will be.
The thing about rivals like Zenna is simple: they mistake noise for strength. They think shouting louder makes their point valid. But when that final bell rings, and my music hits, that sound—the sound of silence that follows? It’s priceless. Because that silence is Zenna realizing she gave everything she had, and it still wasn’t enough.
That’s what separates me from everyone else. I don’t wrestle to prove something. I wrestle to remind people who they’re dealing with. Every. Single. Time.
When my hand gets raised and the referee confirms the obvious, the headlines will read, “Mercedes Vargas Survives the Zdunich Storm.”
But I won’t just survive it. I am the storm.
Zenna? She’s a name in the periphery. A headline for a month. A dangling thread in someone else’s story. I don’t just headline—I define eras.
So when she steps through those ropes, she isn’t stepping into a wrestling match. She’s stepping into history. My history. And history doesn’t rewrite itself for the unprepared.
Let’s make one thing clear: I didn’t choose Zenna Zdunich. She chose me. Every time she’s whispered my name, every time she’s mentioned my name, she’s been building this confrontation in her head. But reality always hits harder than fantasy, and this weekend, she’s going to learn that lesson the Vargas way—harsh, direct, and unapologetically fabulous.
To the audience waiting to see whether chaos can overcome class, I’ll save you the suspense. It can’t. Because when that bell rings, Mercedes Vargas doesn’t fight. She orchestrates. She conducts pain like a symphony. And Zenna? She’ll just be one note in my victory song.
Some people step into the ring hoping to win. I step in expecting to dominate. There’s a difference.
Where Zenna comes to exorcise demons, I come to remind her that even demons kneel before queens.
Because the truth, mi amor, is that the Zdunichs have always me to define them. To give them a direction, a purpose, a reason to stay relevant. Without this rivalry, she’d still be out there, trying to convince herself she matters. And deep down, she knows—she’ll never matter more than me.
That’s why she hates me. That’s why she can’t stop talking about me. And that’s why, when the dust settles, she’ll still remember me.
And I’ll remember her the way I remember every other woman who’s tried and failed to take me down: briefly.
As the weekend approaches, I can already feel the energy shifting. The air hums differently when my name is on the card. Ticket sales spike. Social media engagement doubles. People don’t tune in for outcomes—they tune in for moments. And darling, I’m nothing if not a creator of moments.
I don’t hate Zenna. I don’t have to. I just don’t have time to remember people who stop mattering after the bell.
This Sunday, she’ll step into my world. She’ll look around and feel that weight—the lights, the hum, the air thick with expectation.
I know what they’ll say when it’s over. “Mercedes did it again.” “Mercedes proved why she’s untouchable.” And I’ll smile, take a bow, and walk out with my head high and my record clean.
Because this isn’t about vanity. It’s about validation. Fame doesn’t make me. Consistency does. And consistency’s written in my blood.
She wants vengeance? I’ll hand her clarity.
She wants blood? She’ll get humility.
She wants redemption? That’s between her and whatever faith she’s trying to find.
All she’ll get from me is reality.
Real and unrelenting.
Because this isn’t just another night for the highlight reel. This is another chapter in a career full of endings I’ve authored. And Zenna’s story?
It ends on her back, eyes open, staring up at a woman born to rule.
At Climax Control 440, the crowd’s going to feel it before the bell even rings. That hum. That electricity. That awareness. And as I walk out of Climax Control, the only thing she’ll have left to claim is what every opponent eventually finds out—the hard way—you can’t beat someone born to rule.
People always ask me how I balance pride with preparation. It’s simple. La orgullo fuels me; it doesn’t blind me. My heritage, my fire, my intensity—they all combine into something that no one else can replicate. I’m not the loudest just to be heard; I’m the brightest because I earned my shine.
So yes, expect violence. Expect chaos. But remember—those are Zenna’s expectations. Mine? Perfection. Precision. Power.
At Climax Control, I don’t just defend my reputation. I reaffirm it.
Because whether it’s the Zdunichs, the Masons, or whoever’s next, I’ve built my career not on fear—but on inevitability.
And inevitable, querida, is exactly what happens when Mercedes Vargas gets that look in her eyes.
INT. THE FLOATING PENALTY BOX – NIGHT (ON TOMAS’ BOAT)
[A small motorboat at the edge of Dock C, transformed into The Floating Penalty Box—Hugo’s Sports Bar (Tonight Only).
The cabin glows with orange string lights, decorated with pumpkins, fake cobwebs, and scattered sports gear leaning beside carved pumpkins. Rain drizzles outside, with fog creeping over the harbor.
Lights rise on the dock. The faint sound of the sea and rain. Mercedes steps onto the ramp carefully, balancing a carved pumpkin and a thermos.]
MERCEDES:
Are you sure this thing’s seaworthy, Tomás?
[Tomás, wearing a pirate hat, sits at the console.]
TOMÁS
She’s got soul, not speed! Besides, tonight she’s a bar, not a boat.
[Mercedes laughs, stepping into the cabin. Hugo emerges from the galley, referee whistle around his neck, tray of nachos in hand.]
HUGO: Whistle’s ready, fries are hot—and penalties are permanent!
[He blows his whistle making everyone jump.]
[Ricardo, draped in a vampire cape, lounges around the bar.]
RICARDO:
You’re late, Vargas. Ten-minute penalty box infraction.
MERCEDES:
Please—some of us carved real jack-o’-lanterns.
[She lifts her pumpkin proudly and sets it on the counter. Irma enters, breathless, holding a crumpled paper bag.]
IRMA:
Candy skulls for dessert!
[She dumps them across the counter. Hollow clacks echo in the tight cabin.]
TOMÁS (dimming lights):
All right, spirits and sinners! Tonight, no phones, no scoreboards. Just ghosts, drinks, and bad decisions.
[Hugo blows his whistle once. The cabin glows orange. The sound of rain intensifies. Hugo leans against the bar, voice dropping in a low, eerie tone.]
HUGO:
Once upon a penalty… twenty years ago, there was a hockey team called the Dockside Phantoms. Every Halloween game, whoever took a penalty in the third period… had to row back alone.
[Irma straightens, listening. The others go quiet.]
IRMA:
That's cruel.
TOMÁS:
Sounds like your kind of league.
HUGO:
One Halloween, the goalie, Jansen, got tossed for fighting. He took the dinghy out at midnight. He never came back.
RICARDO:
So? He drown?
HUGO:
No one ever found the boat. But some say… he still knocks on hulls during nights like this, asking for someone to serve his penalty.
[A low creak from beneath the deck. Everyone exchanges glances. Mercedes glances at the window, uneasy.]
MERCEDES:
You really know how to kill a good vibe, Hugo.
[Tomás cracks the cabin door open for air. Mist swirls in. A colder wind pushes through, and the laughter dies.]
IRMA:
Wait… do you see that?
[Everyone crowds by the window. Just beyond the stern — a shape in the fog. A small dinghy, motionless. Untethered.]
MERCEDES:
That’s not ours.
TOMÁS:
Nope. I tied everything down before sunset.
HUGO (forcing a laugh):
Okay, who’s staging props for my story?
[Silence. Only the faint water sounds remain. Ricardo grabs his drink and heads for the doorb.]
RICARDO:
If it’s fake, it’s a good one. I’ll check.
[He steps outside, vanishing into the mist. A beat.]
RICARDO:
Well, there’s your ghost boat—
[The boat lurches violently. Glass shatters. Mercedes grabs the counter as the pumpkin nearly topples.]
IRMA:
What was that?!
TOMÁS:
Hold on!
[He secures the railing. Hugo grabs falling bottles.]
HUGO:
Probably driftwood!
[A hollow THUMP beneath the deck interrupts him. Another follows. Everyone freezes.]
MERCEDES (slowly):
That… came from under us.
[Hugo lifts a finger for silence. Another THUMP. Then another. One of the bulbs flickers red, then dies.]
HUGO:
Stay still. No one move.
[Mercedes kneels at the bilge hatch with her flashlight, hands trembling. She signals to Irma.]
MERCEDES:
Hold the light steady.
[She lifts the grate halfway. The beam catches something pale swaying in the dark water — cotton. A torn sleeve, ghostly and pale, just beneath the surface.]
MERCEDES (horrified):
There’s something—someone—under us!
TOMÁS:
That’s it. We’re gone. Now!
[He yanks the mooring line loose. The engine sputters — then dies. The orange light dims to one dull red bulb. The only sound: rain on metal.
HUGO:
Come on, move!
[Everyone scrambles, searching for flashlights and failing.]
RICARDO (quietly):
Guys... hey... where—
[His voice cuts out. Complete silence.
Mercedes looks toward the porthole. A faint handprint smears across the glass from outside. The shape of long, dripping fingers. A moment of stillness. Then Hugo forces a hollow laugh.]
HUGO:
Penalty approved.
[Tomás swallows hard.]
TOMÁS:
Yeah? Drinks on me if that’s just the wind.
[Lights gradually rise as the boat nears the dock. The rain fades. Hugo ties off the line, his hands shaking. Irma lets out a nervous exhale.]
EXT. DOCK – LATER
IRMA:
Next year, we’re watching the game on land.
[The group gather their things quietly. Mercedes pauses at the stern, staring into the dark water. A gentle ripple circles where nothing should move — like an oar dipping. Then, stillness.]
MERCEDES:
Yeah. Land sounds perfect.
[A single whistle blows faintly in the distance as the lights fade to amber, then black.]
[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•]
[Mercedes Vargas stands at the iconic Santa Monica Pier, the endless Pacific stretching behind her, the salty air stirring her hair as the late sun glimmers above the Ferris wheel. Tourists sweep by, but she’s rooted, the Bombshell Internet Championship across her shoulder, eyes sharp on the horizon. On a quiet weekend before the show, she surveys the water and begins her promo with quiet intensity.]
"There’s something about the weekend before a show that never really changes. The city goes quiet, but it feels like the whole world’s holding its breath, waiting for the next chapter that I already know how to write. I’ve done this for so long that it’s like my body knows how to prepare—mind sharp, heart steady, pulse low and confident. People call it calm. It’s not calm. It’s control.
"This Sunday, Climax Control 440. Me and Zenna Zdunich. Non-title, sure—but when Mercedes Vargas is booked, nothing is ever just a match. My name carries gravity. I don’t show up to fill time. I am the clock everyone else runs against. Whether a title’s on the line or not, I bring the kind of gravity that pulls the whole night together. That’s the difference between being on the card and being the card."
[She turns toward the camera, eyes narrowing slightly, voice firm but measured.]
"Everyone keeps asking me what this match means, what I’m fighting for. Why Zenna? Why now? Here’s your answer: challenge isn’t just about gold—it’s about reputation, legacy, a legacy I’ve built one brick at a time across matches, months, years. Every show is a test. Every opponent is another layer. This one is no different, except for who’s standing across from me and how much the world thinks it matters. Every opponent becomes either a stepping stone or a cautionary tale. Zenna has a decision to make."
[Pause. The wind picks up.]
"She’s different, I’ll give her that. She moves like someone who believes in something bigger than herself—like she answers to the moon or the stars or the energy in the room. There’s a beauty to that, even if it’s not a foundation that holds up under pressure. Because when the ring lights hit and the curtain falls away, there’s no universe to rescue you, just your breath, your heartbeat, and me. And I don’t miss."
[She flashes a measured smile, tightening her grip on her championship.]
"I don’t live on illusion. I live on results. That’s why the word inevitable follows me everywhere I go. I don’t have to promise dominance—I prove it. Over, and over, and over again. Some people chase greatness; I made it my baseline. Every accolade, every championship, every headline—I earned because showing up, centered, focused, unflinching, is my formula for greatness.
"Tourists line up for roller coasters here, for fleeting thrills. But I didn’t come for the ride; I came for my next challenge. When Zenna steps up to me, she’ll feel the same pressure, the same expectation. She’s caught eyes, built mystique, danced with perception. But mystique doesn’t last in the spotlight. It evaporates in the heat of competition."
[Her tone softens, sharpening her focus.]
"People always ask if I ever get tired of winning, of proving the same point. No. Because repetition doesn’t dull a champion; it refines one. People mistake my composure for boredom. They think domination gets boring after a while, like maybe I should want something new. With every match, every test, every woman across from me thinking, “Maybe this time.” It never is. I never get tired of reminding everyone. That’s the difference between contenders and constants."
[She walks along the pier now, her boots clacking lightly against the wood. A banner fluttering with Zenna’s image nearby, the wind catching the corners, as she pauses for emphasis.]
"Zenna has presence. I’ll never take that from her. She has a way of drawing in a crowd. Her aesthetic, her vibe, the soft confidence of someone who’s been told she’s unstoppable because mystery feels like momentum. But it’s not. And Sunday, she’s going to learn the difference between performance and permanence.
"The audience will learn, too. Because when you stand here long enough, you start to understand what lasts and what fades."
[She takes a step closer to the camera.]
"I don’t need to outtalk her, outshine her, or outthink her. My value isn’t built on tricks. I remind the women's division that the gap between good and great is measured by the space I've lived in for years. That isn’t arrogance. It's the reality built with every match, every doubt faced, every expectation shattered. My legacy doesn’t need reinvention, just repetition."
[Mercedes looks out toward the ocean, her voice dropping low with conviction.]
"To the fans watching from the pier or from home, you’ll see something you haven’t seen before—not because Zenna brings a new flavor but because I show, again, that constancy is the highest art. Trends change, faces rotate, hype fades. But the standard stays. That’s me. That’s mercy and severity combined—the truth everyone must face when they share the ring."
[She turns back, her expression unreadable.]
"So Sunday night, when Zenna walks into that ring, full of hope, confidence, and stories about alignment, I’ll be waiting in the same place I always am—centered, focused, unflinching. She’ll bring her energy; I’ll bring the end of the conversation. If it feels personal, it isn’t. This is just reality. And I've always been reality’s sharpest voice."
[As dusk sets, Mercedes addresses those watching on the pier and at home.]
"Magic fades. Mastery doesn’t. It never has. And as long as I’m walking into arenas and hearing the lights buzz before my music hits, it never will.
"Zenna, I'll see you at Climax Control. Prepare for the worst. Hope for the best. And may the odds be ever in your favor."
[FADE]
semana del 19 de 26 de octubre de 2025
They say silence can be deafening. But honestly, I wouldn’t know—I rarely stop talking long enough to hear it. Not when the wrestling world simply needs to hear what the Bombshell Internet Champion has to say. And apparently, that time has come again, because este fin de semana (this weekend), I step into the ring at Climax Control 440 against a woman who has been dying to make my business hers: Zenna Zdunich.
Oh, the irony. They call her “dangerous,” “veteran,” “resilient.” Cute titles—they sound good on paper, like a fancy job description that doesn’t pay the bills. But when you stand across from me, titles don’t matter, querida. Legacy doesn’t matter. What matters is this—when that bell rings, you either prove you belong in my ring, or you prove that your mouth wrote checks your muscles can’t cash.
And come Sunday, I have every intention of depositing Zenna’s ego straight into overdraft.
Let me be clear: I didn’t become Bombshell Internet Champion by accident. I didn’t survive this business—on four different continents, against the very best—just to play nice for the cameras. No, cariño, I earned this. While others were busy building podcasts and cryptic social media posts about mysticism and family drama, I was doing what I always do: winning.
16 championships. 12 years of dominance. A résumé thicker than Zenna’s eyeliner collection. So when people ask me if I’m underestimating her, I have to laugh. Underestimate her? No, no, no. I evaluate her. I see her for what she is—the latest name trying to chase clout off mine. The Zdunich family name carries its own kind of chaos, but when you stand across from me, you aren’t dealing with chaos, mamita. You’re dealing with legacy. Controlled. Calculated. Ruthlessly executed.
In other words, this isn’t a performance; this is a reminder.
Now, we can’t pretend this match exists in a vacuum. There’s… history here, right? It's la telenovela nobody asked for but everyone keeps watching. Like bad reality TV, it just won’t end. The family dinners? Nonexistent. The shade? Eternal.
People love to paint me as the villain of the story. The “lightning rod of controversy.” The diva who walks in heels too high for anyone else to follow. And you know what? They’re not wrong. I am controversial. Because truth itself is controversial when you’re too good for mediocrity.
Let’s be honest—if Zenna wasn’t obsessed with my name, she wouldn’t still be dragging around this tired vendetta like last season’s wardrobe. All this talk about vengeance? About making me pay? She thinks this match means something more than it does. She calls it personal. She’s wrong. It’s professional—and professionalism is where I live and where she fails.
While Zenna is busy plotting her personal crusade, I’ve got actual championship responsibilities. Harper Mason waits for me at High Stakes. No, no, no. Zenna’s a warm-up, sure—but even warm-ups have to hurt.
But before I feast on Harper, I have to deal with Zenna. And that’s where things get interesting.
See, Zenna thinks I’ll be distracted. That I’ll take it easy because it’s a “non-title” match. She believes I’m already looking past her. That would be a rookie mistake—and Mercedes Vargas doesn’t make those. If she wants to make a statement, she can try… but she’ll learn quickly that God may forgive, but I don't.
Pride, vengeance, message? Fine. She wants to send one? I’ll write it for her, stamp it with Vargas gold, and ship it priority overnight.
Every time I step between those ropes, I reinvent the word dominance. Inside that ring, I’m a tactician. I don’t fight wildly like the Zdunichs do; I fight smart. I can knock you down or outthink you into submission—it’s entirely up to my mood that day.
But here’s the thing: when Zenna looks at me, she doesn’t see just another opponent. She sees every headline she will never make, every championship she will never hold, every respect she will never earn. I’m the mirror she avoids because it shows her what could’ve been.
And this Sunday, she’ll look into that mirror again—only to see herself flat on the canvas, one hand raised high above her by her better.
That’s not arrogance, cariño. That’s destiny.
Give Zenna her due—she won her debut match. She’s known for her grit, her endurance, her ability to take pain and keep moving. Admirable. But pain tolerance and victory are not the same thing, no matter how many motivational quotes she posts.
Zenna thrives on chaos; I thrive on control. She’ll come swinging, like the rebellious artist she projects to be. But when passion meets precision, passion gets outclassed. And that’s exactly what will happen this weekend.
Let her try to paint her war. I’ll bring the canvas, the color, and the masterpiece.
Because the truth is, when it comes to wrestling legacy, Zenna Zdunich may be a familiar name—but Mercedes Vargas is the standard. Always has been. Always will be.
The thing about rivals like Zenna is simple: they mistake noise for strength. They think shouting louder makes their point valid. But when that final bell rings, and my music hits, that sound—the sound of silence that follows? It’s priceless. Because that silence is Zenna realizing she gave everything she had, and it still wasn’t enough.
That’s what separates me from everyone else. I don’t wrestle to prove something. I wrestle to remind people who they’re dealing with. Every. Single. Time.
When my hand gets raised and the referee confirms the obvious, the headlines will read, “Mercedes Vargas Survives the Zdunich Storm.”
But I won’t just survive it. I am the storm.
Zenna? She’s a name in the periphery. A headline for a month. A dangling thread in someone else’s story. I don’t just headline—I define eras.
So when she steps through those ropes, she isn’t stepping into a wrestling match. She’s stepping into history. My history. And history doesn’t rewrite itself for the unprepared.
Let’s make one thing clear: I didn’t choose Zenna Zdunich. She chose me. Every time she’s whispered my name, every time she’s mentioned my name, she’s been building this confrontation in her head. But reality always hits harder than fantasy, and this weekend, she’s going to learn that lesson the Vargas way—harsh, direct, and unapologetically fabulous.
To the audience waiting to see whether chaos can overcome class, I’ll save you the suspense. It can’t. Because when that bell rings, Mercedes Vargas doesn’t fight. She orchestrates. She conducts pain like a symphony. And Zenna? She’ll just be one note in my victory song.
Some people step into the ring hoping to win. I step in expecting to dominate. There’s a difference.
Where Zenna comes to exorcise demons, I come to remind her that even demons kneel before queens.
Because the truth, mi amor, is that the Zdunichs have always me to define them. To give them a direction, a purpose, a reason to stay relevant. Without this rivalry, she’d still be out there, trying to convince herself she matters. And deep down, she knows—she’ll never matter more than me.
That’s why she hates me. That’s why she can’t stop talking about me. And that’s why, when the dust settles, she’ll still remember me.
And I’ll remember her the way I remember every other woman who’s tried and failed to take me down: briefly.
As the weekend approaches, I can already feel the energy shifting. The air hums differently when my name is on the card. Ticket sales spike. Social media engagement doubles. People don’t tune in for outcomes—they tune in for moments. And darling, I’m nothing if not a creator of moments.
I don’t hate Zenna. I don’t have to. I just don’t have time to remember people who stop mattering after the bell.
This Sunday, she’ll step into my world. She’ll look around and feel that weight—the lights, the hum, the air thick with expectation.
I know what they’ll say when it’s over. “Mercedes did it again.” “Mercedes proved why she’s untouchable.” And I’ll smile, take a bow, and walk out with my head high and my record clean.
Because this isn’t about vanity. It’s about validation. Fame doesn’t make me. Consistency does. And consistency’s written in my blood.
She wants vengeance? I’ll hand her clarity.
She wants blood? She’ll get humility.
She wants redemption? That’s between her and whatever faith she’s trying to find.
All she’ll get from me is reality.
Real and unrelenting.
Because this isn’t just another night for the highlight reel. This is another chapter in a career full of endings I’ve authored. And Zenna’s story?
It ends on her back, eyes open, staring up at a woman born to rule.
At Climax Control 440, the crowd’s going to feel it before the bell even rings. That hum. That electricity. That awareness. And as I walk out of Climax Control, the only thing she’ll have left to claim is what every opponent eventually finds out—the hard way—you can’t beat someone born to rule.
People always ask me how I balance pride with preparation. It’s simple. La orgullo fuels me; it doesn’t blind me. My heritage, my fire, my intensity—they all combine into something that no one else can replicate. I’m not the loudest just to be heard; I’m the brightest because I earned my shine.
So yes, expect violence. Expect chaos. But remember—those are Zenna’s expectations. Mine? Perfection. Precision. Power.
At Climax Control, I don’t just defend my reputation. I reaffirm it.
Because whether it’s the Zdunichs, the Masons, or whoever’s next, I’ve built my career not on fear—but on inevitability.
And inevitable, querida, is exactly what happens when Mercedes Vargas gets that look in her eyes.
~~~
INT. THE FLOATING PENALTY BOX – NIGHT (ON TOMAS’ BOAT)
[A small motorboat at the edge of Dock C, transformed into The Floating Penalty Box—Hugo’s Sports Bar (Tonight Only).
The cabin glows with orange string lights, decorated with pumpkins, fake cobwebs, and scattered sports gear leaning beside carved pumpkins. Rain drizzles outside, with fog creeping over the harbor.
Lights rise on the dock. The faint sound of the sea and rain. Mercedes steps onto the ramp carefully, balancing a carved pumpkin and a thermos.]
MERCEDES:
Are you sure this thing’s seaworthy, Tomás?
[Tomás, wearing a pirate hat, sits at the console.]
TOMÁS
She’s got soul, not speed! Besides, tonight she’s a bar, not a boat.
[Mercedes laughs, stepping into the cabin. Hugo emerges from the galley, referee whistle around his neck, tray of nachos in hand.]
HUGO: Whistle’s ready, fries are hot—and penalties are permanent!
[He blows his whistle making everyone jump.]
[Ricardo, draped in a vampire cape, lounges around the bar.]
RICARDO:
You’re late, Vargas. Ten-minute penalty box infraction.
MERCEDES:
Please—some of us carved real jack-o’-lanterns.
[She lifts her pumpkin proudly and sets it on the counter. Irma enters, breathless, holding a crumpled paper bag.]
IRMA:
Candy skulls for dessert!
[She dumps them across the counter. Hollow clacks echo in the tight cabin.]
TOMÁS (dimming lights):
All right, spirits and sinners! Tonight, no phones, no scoreboards. Just ghosts, drinks, and bad decisions.
[Hugo blows his whistle once. The cabin glows orange. The sound of rain intensifies. Hugo leans against the bar, voice dropping in a low, eerie tone.]
HUGO:
Once upon a penalty… twenty years ago, there was a hockey team called the Dockside Phantoms. Every Halloween game, whoever took a penalty in the third period… had to row back alone.
[Irma straightens, listening. The others go quiet.]
IRMA:
That's cruel.
TOMÁS:
Sounds like your kind of league.
HUGO:
One Halloween, the goalie, Jansen, got tossed for fighting. He took the dinghy out at midnight. He never came back.
RICARDO:
So? He drown?
HUGO:
No one ever found the boat. But some say… he still knocks on hulls during nights like this, asking for someone to serve his penalty.
[A low creak from beneath the deck. Everyone exchanges glances. Mercedes glances at the window, uneasy.]
MERCEDES:
You really know how to kill a good vibe, Hugo.
[Tomás cracks the cabin door open for air. Mist swirls in. A colder wind pushes through, and the laughter dies.]
IRMA:
Wait… do you see that?
[Everyone crowds by the window. Just beyond the stern — a shape in the fog. A small dinghy, motionless. Untethered.]
MERCEDES:
That’s not ours.
TOMÁS:
Nope. I tied everything down before sunset.
HUGO (forcing a laugh):
Okay, who’s staging props for my story?
[Silence. Only the faint water sounds remain. Ricardo grabs his drink and heads for the doorb.]
RICARDO:
If it’s fake, it’s a good one. I’ll check.
[He steps outside, vanishing into the mist. A beat.]
RICARDO:
Well, there’s your ghost boat—
[The boat lurches violently. Glass shatters. Mercedes grabs the counter as the pumpkin nearly topples.]
IRMA:
What was that?!
TOMÁS:
Hold on!
[He secures the railing. Hugo grabs falling bottles.]
HUGO:
Probably driftwood!
[A hollow THUMP beneath the deck interrupts him. Another follows. Everyone freezes.]
MERCEDES (slowly):
That… came from under us.
[Hugo lifts a finger for silence. Another THUMP. Then another. One of the bulbs flickers red, then dies.]
HUGO:
Stay still. No one move.
[Mercedes kneels at the bilge hatch with her flashlight, hands trembling. She signals to Irma.]
MERCEDES:
Hold the light steady.
[She lifts the grate halfway. The beam catches something pale swaying in the dark water — cotton. A torn sleeve, ghostly and pale, just beneath the surface.]
MERCEDES (horrified):
There’s something—someone—under us!
TOMÁS:
That’s it. We’re gone. Now!
[He yanks the mooring line loose. The engine sputters — then dies. The orange light dims to one dull red bulb. The only sound: rain on metal.
HUGO:
Come on, move!
[Everyone scrambles, searching for flashlights and failing.]
RICARDO (quietly):
Guys... hey... where—
[His voice cuts out. Complete silence.
Mercedes looks toward the porthole. A faint handprint smears across the glass from outside. The shape of long, dripping fingers. A moment of stillness. Then Hugo forces a hollow laugh.]
HUGO:
Penalty approved.
[Tomás swallows hard.]
TOMÁS:
Yeah? Drinks on me if that’s just the wind.
[Lights gradually rise as the boat nears the dock. The rain fades. Hugo ties off the line, his hands shaking. Irma lets out a nervous exhale.]
EXT. DOCK – LATER
IRMA:
Next year, we’re watching the game on land.
[The group gather their things quietly. Mercedes pauses at the stern, staring into the dark water. A gentle ripple circles where nothing should move — like an oar dipping. Then, stillness.]
MERCEDES:
Yeah. Land sounds perfect.
[A single whistle blows faintly in the distance as the lights fade to amber, then black.]
[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•]
[Mercedes Vargas stands at the iconic Santa Monica Pier, the endless Pacific stretching behind her, the salty air stirring her hair as the late sun glimmers above the Ferris wheel. Tourists sweep by, but she’s rooted, the Bombshell Internet Championship across her shoulder, eyes sharp on the horizon. On a quiet weekend before the show, she surveys the water and begins her promo with quiet intensity.]
"There’s something about the weekend before a show that never really changes. The city goes quiet, but it feels like the whole world’s holding its breath, waiting for the next chapter that I already know how to write. I’ve done this for so long that it’s like my body knows how to prepare—mind sharp, heart steady, pulse low and confident. People call it calm. It’s not calm. It’s control.
"This Sunday, Climax Control 440. Me and Zenna Zdunich. Non-title, sure—but when Mercedes Vargas is booked, nothing is ever just a match. My name carries gravity. I don’t show up to fill time. I am the clock everyone else runs against. Whether a title’s on the line or not, I bring the kind of gravity that pulls the whole night together. That’s the difference between being on the card and being the card."
[She turns toward the camera, eyes narrowing slightly, voice firm but measured.]
"Everyone keeps asking me what this match means, what I’m fighting for. Why Zenna? Why now? Here’s your answer: challenge isn’t just about gold—it’s about reputation, legacy, a legacy I’ve built one brick at a time across matches, months, years. Every show is a test. Every opponent is another layer. This one is no different, except for who’s standing across from me and how much the world thinks it matters. Every opponent becomes either a stepping stone or a cautionary tale. Zenna has a decision to make."
[Pause. The wind picks up.]
"She’s different, I’ll give her that. She moves like someone who believes in something bigger than herself—like she answers to the moon or the stars or the energy in the room. There’s a beauty to that, even if it’s not a foundation that holds up under pressure. Because when the ring lights hit and the curtain falls away, there’s no universe to rescue you, just your breath, your heartbeat, and me. And I don’t miss."
[She flashes a measured smile, tightening her grip on her championship.]
"I don’t live on illusion. I live on results. That’s why the word inevitable follows me everywhere I go. I don’t have to promise dominance—I prove it. Over, and over, and over again. Some people chase greatness; I made it my baseline. Every accolade, every championship, every headline—I earned because showing up, centered, focused, unflinching, is my formula for greatness.
"Tourists line up for roller coasters here, for fleeting thrills. But I didn’t come for the ride; I came for my next challenge. When Zenna steps up to me, she’ll feel the same pressure, the same expectation. She’s caught eyes, built mystique, danced with perception. But mystique doesn’t last in the spotlight. It evaporates in the heat of competition."
[Her tone softens, sharpening her focus.]
"People always ask if I ever get tired of winning, of proving the same point. No. Because repetition doesn’t dull a champion; it refines one. People mistake my composure for boredom. They think domination gets boring after a while, like maybe I should want something new. With every match, every test, every woman across from me thinking, “Maybe this time.” It never is. I never get tired of reminding everyone. That’s the difference between contenders and constants."
[She walks along the pier now, her boots clacking lightly against the wood. A banner fluttering with Zenna’s image nearby, the wind catching the corners, as she pauses for emphasis.]
"Zenna has presence. I’ll never take that from her. She has a way of drawing in a crowd. Her aesthetic, her vibe, the soft confidence of someone who’s been told she’s unstoppable because mystery feels like momentum. But it’s not. And Sunday, she’s going to learn the difference between performance and permanence.
"The audience will learn, too. Because when you stand here long enough, you start to understand what lasts and what fades."
[She takes a step closer to the camera.]
"I don’t need to outtalk her, outshine her, or outthink her. My value isn’t built on tricks. I remind the women's division that the gap between good and great is measured by the space I've lived in for years. That isn’t arrogance. It's the reality built with every match, every doubt faced, every expectation shattered. My legacy doesn’t need reinvention, just repetition."
[Mercedes looks out toward the ocean, her voice dropping low with conviction.]
"To the fans watching from the pier or from home, you’ll see something you haven’t seen before—not because Zenna brings a new flavor but because I show, again, that constancy is the highest art. Trends change, faces rotate, hype fades. But the standard stays. That’s me. That’s mercy and severity combined—the truth everyone must face when they share the ring."
[She turns back, her expression unreadable.]
"So Sunday night, when Zenna walks into that ring, full of hope, confidence, and stories about alignment, I’ll be waiting in the same place I always am—centered, focused, unflinching. She’ll bring her energy; I’ll bring the end of the conversation. If it feels personal, it isn’t. This is just reality. And I've always been reality’s sharpest voice."
[As dusk sets, Mercedes addresses those watching on the pier and at home.]
"Magic fades. Mastery doesn’t. It never has. And as long as I’m walking into arenas and hearing the lights buzz before my music hits, it never will.
"Zenna, I'll see you at Climax Control. Prepare for the worst. Hope for the best. And may the odds be ever in your favor."
[FADE]