Blog: Almighty Firesemana del 23 al 30 de marzo de 2025Blaze 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.]