Blog: Almighty Firesemana del 24 al 31 de agosto de 2025You know, for the last two weeks, I haven’t been able to sleep. Not because of jet lag, not because of the schedule, and not because of the city noise. No — every time my head hits the pillow, I replay the same match.
And it always comes back to one question: If I could do it again, would I change anything?
And it’s funny, because it always comes back to the same question: If I could go back in time, what would I have done differently?
The answer is simple — absolutely nothing. Because in Mykonos, I gave Harper Mason exactly what she deserved.
I’ve seen this story before. A fresh face wins a belt, people start whispering about “the future,” about a “changing of the guard.” Everyone rallies around them. The fans whisper about how maybe, just maybe, the veteran has finally had her day, that it’s just about time for the crown to be passed on. I’ve heard it said about me for years, like it was inevitable. All those whispers. All those predictions. And yet I’m still here.
And then the match happens.
Climax Control 433 was Harper Mason’s night, or at least, that’s what she told herself. That’s what everyone told her. She wanted a storybook moment, wanted the crowd to chant her name while the confetti fell. In her head, maybe she even believed it. But just because you believe doesn't mean you can achieve. Belief doesn’t keep you standing when the oxygen leaves your lungs, when your heartbeat is racing but slowing down all at once.
I gave Harper everything she thought she wanted: the stage, the fight, the test. And then I gave her something she didn’t want at all — a hard truth.
La verdad duele, pero no se puede escapar.
The truth hurts, but you can’t escape it.
There isn’t a fairy tale ending here. There’s no coronation for every bright-eyed challenger who thinks gold around their waist will make them somebody. A championship doesn’t create you. It exposes you. If you’re weak, they break you in front of everyone.
I know this because I’ve carried that weight for years. I know it because I survived every challenge, every doubt, every rumor about my own 'demise'. I know it because I’ve walked into the ring with the deck stacked against me, with the locker room already writing me off, and I walked out proving them wrong — proving that Mercedes Vargas is still the standard.
That’s the part none of them ever account for — the years, the scars, the nights when I should’ve stayed down but didn’t. Resilience doesn’t trend on social media, but it wins matches.
Harper Mason thought she was different. She's not. She's definitely not the first to write me off, she's not the first “rising star” with hype around her name. I’ve seen this story before.
Diamond Steele thought she was ready. Roxi Johnson thought I was slowing down once. Keira Fisher thought she’d be the one to finally expose me. And long before them, countless others tried to make their names at my expense.
Where are they now? Some gone, some quiet, some forgotten, some still chasing, but never catching.
The names change, the faces change, the hype changes — but the result stays exactly the same.
I’ve been tested by the supposed “future” for as long as I’ve been in this company. And yet, every year, every show, I prove I'm still the gatekeeper of the Bombshells Division. Not because fate ordained it. Not because I talk the loudest. But because I earned it, bled for it, and refused to let the weight break me when it broke so many others.
Harper? She didn’t just lose; she broke in front of everyone.
Se ahogó bajo la misma presión que juró resistir.
She drowned under the very pressure she swore she could endure.
I didn’t just beat her two weeks ago. I ripped apart the illusion she built.
If you were in the crowd that night, you saw it. You saw the exact moment her eyes changed. Her body gave in. That silence after it was over? That wasn’t just disappointment. That was reality setting in. It was thousands of people realizing in unison that the dream they bought into wasn’t coming true. Not that night. Maybe not ever. A future that isn’t coming. Not yet, not from her. Just Harper, frozen in the middle of the ring, wide-eyed, mouth open, helpless as it sank in — the dream died right there at my feet.
Maybe Harper finds her way back. Maybe she doesn’t. That’s on her. Maybe she scratches and claws and puts herself through hell trying to prove that this loss didn’t define her. But that’s the cruelest part. The one thing she can’t escape, the one no one reading this will ever forget, is that when the biggest night of her career came, Mercedes Vargas turned it into the worst. Because I didn’t just outwrestle her, I embarrassed her.
She wanted a coronation. I gave her an execution.
Así se rompen las ilusiones.
That’s how dreams break.
I took the moment she wanted to build her future on and reduced it to rubble in less than twenty minutes.
Because when that bell sounded, I didn’t just test Harper Mason. I exposed her. I exposed that the hype was hollow. I showed the world what happens when someone steps in believing the championship makes them bigger, when in reality the championship only shines a light on their weakness.
And you don’t come back from that overnight. You don’t laugh it off. It haunts you. It’s in the little moments no one sees — when she’s alone, staring at the ceiling, when nobody is cheering, when she looks in the mirror and hate what stares back at her, when every motivational speech rings hollow because she can still hear the referee’s hand slapping the mat, uno… dos… tres… and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
That kind of loss doesn’t just sting. It festers. It follows you. It doesn’t fade, no matter how many motivational quotes she tattoo on her Twitter feed. It doesn’t go away after one or two feel-good comeback matches.
Because while Harper Mason can change the subject, while she can fight five more matches, twenty more matches, win or lose, as long as Harper Mason continues to breathe in this business, every opponent, every fan, every interviewer will remind her of the same moment: “Remember what Mercedes Vargas did to you?”
That’s her legacy now. That’s her curse.
And it doesn’t end with Harper. Every single person waiting in line should pay close attention at what happened at Climax Control 433. Harper’s fall to me wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t a fluke. It was the inevitable end of anyone who tries to step into my lane thinking they can challenge me.
So the cycle will continue. Another dreamer steps up, thinks they’re different, swears this is their time. And every time, they find out the same way: they’re not.
Just like Lilith Locke. Just like Harper Mason. Just like all the rest before and after her.
Because the story ends the same way it always does: Mercedes Vargas standing tall, the so-called “future” broken on the mat.
Long before they knew, and long after they'll remember.~~~
INT. THE FLOATING PENALTY BOX – AFTERNOON (ON TOMAS’ BOAT)
[The boat rocks gently against the dock. Afternoon light cuts across Hugo, who leans back in a leather swivel chair, scuffed boots resting on the edge of his desk. He polishes a beat-up trophy — not like a prized centerpiece, but like muscle memory, a ritual. Every few passes he pauses, studies the nameplate, then blows air across it like it were holy dust.
Mercedes appears at the doorway, framed by the light. She doesn’t come in fully, just leans into the room with her arms crossed casual, like she’s thinking of leaving just as fast as she entered.]
MERCEDES
Hugo?
[He barely glances up, keeps polishing as though the metal might start talking back to him. Finally, he looks, lazy smile on his face.]
HUGO
What’s up?
MERCEDES
What are you doing?
[Hugo tosses the trophy onto the desk with a clunk. He picks up an apple from the clutter, spins it in his palm. Mercedes presses her fingers against her forehead like she’s trying to conjure an answer.]
MERCEDES
My psychic powers are telling me you’re doing nothing.
[Hugo grins wide, takes a bite of apple like it’s a punchline. He points at her with the apple.]
HUGO
Thumbs up for accuracy. How ‘bout you read my favorite breakfast cereal next?
[Mercedes paces into the room now, circling him like she might chew him out any second.]
MERCEDES
We’re supposed to be building the new fall menu for the NFL season. That’s the job. You sittin’ here polishing last year’s hardware like the past’s gonna write next week’s specials for you.
[Hugo shrugs, takes another bite, unfazed.]
HUGO
They don’t pay me enough for that.
[Mercedes tilts her head, eyes cutting sharp.]
MERCEDES
Do you take anything seriously?
[Hugo finally sets the apple down. He swivels the chair toward her. His smirk fades just a touch, like he’s deciding whether to give her a straight answer.]
HUGO
Thought that was rhetorical.
[Beat. He leans closer, not breaking her gaze.]
HUGO
But if you wanna know? I work myself to the bone. Just don’t always show it the way you want.
[Mercedes exhales, shakes her head. She turns to leave, but Hugo calls after her.]
HUGO
Don’t you got some jungle out there waitin’ on you?
MERCEDES
Nope. Not this time. Next two weeks, all mine.
[The way she says it—sharp, smug—dares him to be jealous.]
HUGO
Cancún? Bermuda Triangle? Hell — Mars?
[Mercedes lets out a low laugh, not looking at him this time. It’s darker, like she’s laughing at the both of them.]
MERCEDES
When you put it that way… Cancún feels like band camp.
[Irma drifts in from the galley with a ledger under her arm, overhearing just enough to sour her expression. She doesn’t slow her stride.]
IRMA
Cancún, yeah? Careful. Last thing we need is our star asset coming back busted up.
[Mercedes snaps her gaze at Irma, sharp, defiant.]
MERCEDES
Hey! I’m a human being. My life’s got value.
[Tomas enters behind Irma, energy buzzing like he’s walked into a storm mid-swing.]
TOMAS
What’s this? Vacations?
[Hugo shrugs, never losing that ease. He lifts the apple again, gestures at Tomas with it.]
HUGO
Don’t sound so offended. Two weeks. That’s nothing.
MERCEDES
Cancún. Me and Crystal Caldwell against Harper Mason and Cassie Wolfe. Sorry, sunscreen and karaoke weren’t in the brochure.
[The room freezes. Hugo nearly drops his apple.]
HUGO
Should’ve known your idea of vacation was suplexes on a beach.
[Ricardo now joins the pack, dropping into a worn chair. He leans back with a knowing grin.]
RICARDO
Still sounds like Cancún to me. Just, you know… with more chairs flying.
TOMAS
Who’s Harper Mason again?
IRMA
The one Mercedes nearly broke in half last year.
HUGO
Yeah. And Cassie Wolfe’s the one who nearly broke Mercedes. Matching set.
RICARDO
Okay, but… who’s Crystal?
[Mercedes smirks, savoring the moment.]
MERCEDES
She’s the reason Harper and Cassie are about to regret booking the return flight.
[The crew reacts, half-laughing, half-impressed.]
MERCEDES
And that’s why Crystal and me are comin’ in to finish the collection.
[The group breaks out laughing, half-rattled, half-impressed. Hugo rocks back in his chair, finally shaking his head with a grin.]
IRMA
As if you wouldn’t trade all that for a comp ticket.
HUGO
Please. Do I look like a walking ATM? She’s Carmen Sandiego over here, Tomas.
RICARDO
Can’t lie. Would’ve loved to come with. Cancun's the kinda place you don't wanna leave.
[Irma looks sideways at him.]
IRMA
You enjoy yourself?
[Ricardo shakes his head.]
RICARDO
Got cut short. Weekend called me home. Work always does.
[Mercedes leans against the desk beside Hugo, watching Ricardo like she’s in on the punchline he doesn’t say.]
MERCEDES
Shame.
[He lifts his eyebrows at Mercedes, but Hugo cuts in before the energy sharpens.]
HUGO
Alright, order in the court. This is a boat of productivity, not some travel agency with emotional baggage checks.
MERCEDES
Big words for a man whose job description is “apple devastator.”
IRMA
And trophy polisher. Don’t forget his specialty services: nostalgia at thirty bucks an hour.
[Hugo mock-bows in the chair, spinning lazily before it squeaks to a stop facing Tomas.]
HUGO
See? Teamwork. Y’all handle the heavy-lifting. I handle morale.
TOMAS
If this is morale, I’d hate to see sabotage.
RICARDO
He sabotaged more apples than menus this year.
[Mercedes laughs, finally breaking her cool posture. Hugo shoots Ricardo a mock glare, then waves Mercedes toward the door like a king dismissing his subject.]
HUGO
Fine. Go. Paradise calls. Live your glamorous, jet-setting life. Just make sure to send us a postcard so Irma can add it to the expense report.
[Irma taps her ledger with a grin.]
IRMA
Try me. I’ll categorize it under “delusions.”
[Laughter stirs through the room. Mercedes shakes her head, but warmth creeps into her expression. She pats Hugo on the shoulder as she straightens up.]
MERCEDES
Don’t worry, champ. While I’m gone, you’ll still have your apple trophies to keep you company.
[On her way out, she snatches the half-eaten apple from his desk. She takes a bold bite and exits. The others watch her go. A beat of silence. Hugo stares at the open space on his desk where the apple used to sit. His voice drops, flat and serious.]
HUGO
That was mine.
[The group bursts out laughing. Hugo leans back in his chair again, smirk creeping back across his face as the boat rocks with the sound.]
[END]
~~~
Present Day ♦ C A N C U N • M E X I C O[REC•][One of the most famous spots in Cancun, Playa Delfines sits on a high overlook facing a stretch of turquoise water and blindingly white sand. Late afternoon sun drapes everything in amber. A handheld camera follows Mercedes as she leans casually against the overlook rail, the turquoise ocean sprawling endlessly behind her. The audio isn’t perfectly mixed — wind rattles the mic, gulls cry out faintly. Nothing fancy. Just raw.
A light breeze pulls at Mercedes’ hair as the crashing waves act as a natural underscore to her promo. She stands, arms folded across her chest with that knowing, perfected smirk.
A stray vendor wanders by behind Mercedes, struggling to push a cart loaded with melting paletas. The scent of salt and coconut drifts faintly in the air. None of it distracts her.]
"Oh, Harper... are we really going to do this again? Every time, it’s the same story with you. The same tired excuse. You lose, and somehow it’s never on you. Always ‘luck.’ Always a fluke. Always somebody else to blame. You’ve been handing out excuses like confetti, and maybe the only thing lucky around here is that they still even book you. Because let’s be honest — anywhere else? You’d be long gone."
[Mercedes breathes in the salty air, chuckles under her breath. There’s no soundtrack, just the waves. It feels more personal, uncomfortably intimate.]
"Maybe you should start a podcast — call it ‘Almost Won.’ You’d have seasons of content by now."
[She pauses. The wind snaps her hair across her face, she doesn’t flinch. Just smirks, pushing it back with one hand.]
"And as for Crystal? Don’t drag her into this like she’s my puppet, because she doesn’t need me to pull the strings. She saw an opportunity — she took it. That’s what winners do, Harper. They don’t waste time blaming the stars or the lighting or the ref. They act. And the truth is, she just has better timing than you — which says plenty about your awareness as a competitor. So don’t take it too personal. Some of us have allies. Some of us… well, we just have excuses."
[She starts walking slowly along the overlook, camera trailing in her orbit, catching her from the side now. The ocean’s roar fills a brief silence before she speaks again.]
"Harper, let’s face it. I’m not your curse, I’m not your bad luck charm — I’m just the reminder that no matter how hard you try, no matter how loud you scream, no matter how many partners you cling to, you will never measure up to me. And what eats you alive isn’t just losing to me — it’s knowing deep down, privately, silently, that I’m the mirror reflecting back your limits. Every time I win, a little piece of your confidence crumbles. And honestly? I can’t get enough of it.
"You call me washed up. Past my prime. A veteran everyone should forget. Sure. Go ahead. Get the words out of your system. But if I’m so expired, if I’m so irrelevant… then explain to me what it means when two weeks ago, I just beat you? How does it feel to lose to someone you swear doesn’t matter anymore? If I’m a ghost clinging to a past that doesn’t exist — then what are you, Harper? The wrestler who
can’t even outrun a ghost.
And the saddest part? You’ll keep circling back to me anyway. I’ll always be the test you can’t pass, the finish line you can’t cross. And you’ll keep breaking yourself against that wall because deep down you can’t stand the truth — that you’ll never be good enough to outgrow me."
[Her laughter cuts through the air like broken glass — light, cruel, dismissive. The camera sways closer, her smile dagger-sharp against the endless horizon. Off in the distance a jet ski races by, its buzzing engine filling another pause before fading back into the sea.]
"And speaking of partners… let’s talk about yours. Cassie Wolfe."
[Mercedes crosses her arms, lips parted in that trademark smug smile. She tilts her head to the side, already dripping in condescension before she even continues.]
"I really do have to hand it to Cassie. Taking not one but
two matches in one night? That’s either courage… or just plain stupidity. And judging from her track record, I think we both know which one it is.”
[She rolls her eyes, clicking her tongue.]
“Now, I’m no doctor — though clearly, I have more common sense than the ones giving her medical clearance — but last time I checked, she still had that little ‘souvenir’ from Ibiza. Yeah, remember that? That bad leg. That lingering injury everyone knows she rushed her recovery from. Oh, but by all means — jump into a tag match and step into a battle royal hours after. I mean, if she wants to paint a bullseye on her leg and gift-wrap herself for me and Crystal, honey, who am I to stop her?”
[Mercedes smirks and plays with her nails, then stares back at the camera.]
“See, injuries are no joke. I know that from experience. But unlike Cassie, I actually learned how to adapt, rebuild, and thrive. Cassie? She's over here auditioning for sympathy points, putting herself at risk, embarrassing herself under bright lights. She's basically said: ‘Mercedes, Crystal, come break me in half.’ And guess what? We will. Twice. Without hesitation. Without apologies. And trust me when I say this, Cassie — when your crying family realizes you made the dumb decision to step up, don’t expect sympathy. Because chica, you brought this on yourself."
[Her smirk widens as her tone grows even more mocking.]
"And Josh? He wasn't attacked, he was exposed. Crystal did him a favor. She showed him who he really was. She reminded him of his ceiling. And it’s not anywhere near the one I’m playing under. See, Josh's isn't the hero in Harper’s story. He's the sidekick — the background noise. But hey, maybe play that role right and people might actually remember he's there. You know, kind of like how he was in his SCW career."
[Mercedes laughs softly, shaking her head with fake pity.]
“Mistakes, Cassie — you’re swimming in them. Mistake number one? Even showing up this Sunday. Mistake number two? Thinking Harper Mason’s going to carry you to anything close to victory. And mistake number three? Walking into a ring against me while you’re already busted up and limping.”
[Her voice drops lower, eyes narrowing with cruel delight.]
“And now, Cassie darling? Now you’re just adding insult to injury."
[Another group of tourists take selfies nearby, laughing loudly before wandering off, not noticing her at all. That’s fine. This moment isn’t about them. It’s about two people in particular. And she knows Harper and Cassie are going to be watching.]
"They call you Young Justice. Cute. Inspirational. Tag-team hope posters. The new blood, the fresh faces in SCW. Wide-eyed and brimming with fight, just waiting for the moment the world finally notices you. I almost admire that. Almost. But the truth is? People like you two don’t walk into moments like this and make history. People like you walk in, full of hope… and walk out a cautionary tale. A lesson. A sacrifice to show why veterans like me and Crystal are still standing tall.
"That’s the difference between us. You’re chasing validation, and we left that behind years ago. Me and Crystal? We’ve already proven everything. You’ve got one of you clinging to excuses, and the other clinging to dreams — and neither of those hold up against experience. Not against two women who’ve been through every storm this business could throw at us. You make promises. We make history. That’s the gulf between us. And it isn’t shrinking anytime soon."
[She paces now, one hand brushing against the stone rail of the overlook, that smirk curving again as the camera tracks her movement. She speaks to Harper and Cassie equally.]
"Crystal and I, we’ve been here, we’ve done this. We don’t just win matches — we end hope. And if Cassie’s pinning her dreams to you, Harper, then she’s already in the wrong corner. Because the truth is — neither of you are ready for women like us. You can’t be. You haven’t lived enough to understand what it takes to
outlast us."
[She scoffs, tilts her head as the camera shifts slightly closer]
"So Harper, Cassie — when Climax Control comes around, you’ll fight hard. You’ll hype each other up, you’ll swear you’re ready. But when it’s over, all anyone is going to remember is that Mercedes and Crystal walked in as the better team — and walked out the same way.
"So go ahead. Blame me. Blame Crystal. Blame fate, the universe, the stars, whatever helps you sleep at night. But it won’t change what everyone already sees: the wins keep piling up for me, and the excuses keep piling up for you. You can keep fighting, keep talking, keep promising the world that this time it’s gonna be different… but when that bell rings? It’s never different.
"History doesn’t care about excuses. It cares about results. And me? I’m still here. Still winning. Still smiling."
[She leans back. Looks off toward the ocean like she’s done proving her point. The camera lingers on her profile, golden light framing her face. The silence stretches too long — unbroken, awkward, deliberate. Finally, the camera wobbles, like the operator lowers it slowly as the screen fades out to black. No music. Just waves.]
[***FADE***]
