Alright, let’s just do a little weekend primer, shall we? I can’t so much as breathe without my DMs combusting. Like, who knew so many people were invested in my life? Apparently, none of you you can survive without my take on the absolute fever dream that’s been these last two weeks. And yes, I see you, lurking with your “spill the tea sis!” gifs.
Subtle, babes. Look, it’s not like I was doing anything remotely interesting, unless you count debating the merits of oat milk vs. almond milk on my Finsta, so here I am. Serving you the tea, piping hot, with a side of sheer confidence. Because that’s been the mood, as of late.
Honestly (being me is like starring in a reality show that’s way too meta for E!) Sometimes I scroll through my feed and think, “Wow, did I really wear that?”
Anyway, grab your matcha, silence your group chat, and settle in. I’m about to give you the rundown you’ve been thirsting for.
A quick recap for those of you with short attention spans: I had a bit of a “Miley What’s Good” on Stampede. I delivered a knee to Azure’s thick skull with precision so sharp, she should honestly invoice me for the personality reboot. Apple’s Genius Bar could never. Her whole operating system collapsed mid-match, and the idea of her googling “Can you superglue neurons back together?” brings me so much euphoria.
Her search history is about to be messier than any of my Notes app apologies over the years.
And I keep hearing these little whispers about “losses.” It’s so cute. It’s giving, public school math. You can’t quantify someone like me with a simple win/loss column. That’s for the girls in the mid-card. I’m an anomaly. My value isn’t in a statistic; it’s in my DNA. As for poor Azure, they say a mind is a terrible thing to waste, but hers is basically a shattered porcelain vase at a swap meet or whatever. I hope she kept the receipt.
But listen, the story doesn’t end there. I plan on finishing the Kintsugi project I started on her face. (And if you don’t know what that is, look it up, Google is your friend.) Maybe then her mentor, Giselle, will finally log off from her spiritual retreat in Ibiza, or wherever it is she’s pretending to find herself, and come back to babysit her little charity case. Honestly, I kind of am relishing the thought of meeting her one day, if only to confirm she’s exactly as tragically on-brand as I imagine. At least she understands the concept of being a worthy adversary means.
And Azure, bestie, that spark of relevance I gave you? My time is billed at a rate your entire life couldn’t afford. Before my intervention, you were getting absolutely cleared by Rory. Truthfully, if that had been me (she wouldn’t have lasted long enough for my Fenty gloss to lose its shine.) There’s no running from me. There’s no hiding. My presence is an inevitability.
Now, let’s talk about the craft, because I know my haters love to dissect what they don’t possess. My move-set is luxury at its finest. A single German Suplex from me isn’t just a move; it’s an experience—Azure would know, first hand. It’s iconic. But the real gag is Quantum Shift 2, sees the return of Great Stampede: Eight wrestlers, all vying for a shot at the Openweight title. For everyone else, it’s a career-defining opportunity. For me? it’s just Monday—capital “M,” lowercase “meaningful”.
And the big reveal? I had the pleasure of finding out via Twitter. They name-dropped me in a tweet like I’m some casual retweet. Not a call from my agent, not a personalized email. A tweet. I had to see my name in the same 280 characters as the rest of you peasants. Which is honestly insulting—my name should come with its own trending tab. I was the first name on that tweet. Really, it should’ve been bold, all caps, crowned with a diamond emoji. But whatever. If UNW wants to farm engagement, I’ll give them clicks they’re desperate for. You’re welcome for my service.
For the uninitiated, the Great Stampede is pure chaos at its finest—eight bodies thrown into the same ring with zero breaks, zero reprieve, and it all ends the second someone gets pinned or taps out. It’s basically designed for the desperate, the thirsty, the ones praying for their fifteen minutes under the spotlight. My strategy? C’est si simple. I’ll let them burn themselves out like a trend that should’ve never caught on, and then I’ll strike. And Azure, babe, don’t even start fantasizing about survival. You’re my opening act on Monday—nothing more, nothing less. I want you stumbling, mascara streaked, questioning every single life decision that led you to this moment. Like, “Wait, did I actually just get bodied by the girl who turned #BeltGoals into a trend?” Your peak? won’t be winning a belt. It’ll be the second I pin you. Blink and you’ll miss it, but don’t stress— the internet’s undefeated, and it’ll never forget it
And then, when the dust settles—weeks from now—when I’m holding that belt, it won’t just be some championship. It’s an accessory, a headline, a literal culture reset. I won’t even have to physically wear it or carry it around; I’ll just give it context. I’ll make it something worth talking about. Like, honestly, when I walk out with that title eventually, the whole game changes.
We LeCavalier’s are just born to be great. We don’t struggle; we trend, we make history. But don’t mistake a life of luxury for a life of ease. We understand the art of the kill. We know when to get our hands dirty. This match is no different. I’ll walk in wearing next season’s collection, I’ll take the bumps, and I will walk out with my hand raised. It’s just how the family business works.
Let’s be crystal. I don’t need this for clout. My brand is already a blue-chip stock. I walked Fendi at seventeen, sweetums. I was sitting front row at other fashion events, with people whose posters are on your wall. This isn’t new to me, it’s just my life.
Sure, I’ve had a few little stumbles here. It was a beta test. They didn’t even scuff the brand. But this is the official launch. This is where I remind you that the future of Stampede isn’t coming. It’s already here, and she’s bored of waiting for you all to acknowledge her. Who else truly wins this match? Azure—the emotional support wrestler? The rest of The Sinister Six? None of them really have what it takes—not against me, anyway...
I took one look at this company and knew what it needed. It needs a standard. A savior. A champion you can obsess over.
It needs me.
And normally, I wouldn’t waste a perfectly good Friday, psychoanalyzing people who aren’t even in my tax bracket, but what the hell? Consider this a little gift. Let’s break down who is actually in this match? God knows most of them are still trying to figure that out for themselves.
Jason Atonga – “The Westside Killer” Oh my God, Jason, the branding writes itself. Like, congrats on sounding like a rejected Netflix true crime doc. From what I can tell, your whole personality is…choking people out? Remotely interesting. Beyond that, the vibe is just…unseasoned, pasture-raised chicken breast. Something my nutritionist would approve of, but that I would never, ever actually eat. Yes, you’re big. So is my Hermès quota (and trust me, neither one is an obstacle). If anything, you’re going to gas out faster than my driver when he’s stuck in traffic. And if you don’t, Bodhi will. Next.
Bodhi Voss – Who are you, Bodhi? No, seriously. I had my assistant look into you. Nothing. Literally next.
Rey Atlava Jr. – “The King of the Sea” A Luchador…calling yourself the ‘King of the Sea’. I’m sorry, Rey, is this a wrestling match or a Disney cruise? We’re really out here pretending that a guy dressed like a pirate is going to arm-drag me into oblivion? No. Absolutely not. Respect to Lucha Libre as an art form (it’s charming, it’s cultural, we love that) but you? You don’t do it for me. And if you come to the ring with a parrot? Babe, I’m personally shoving it down your throat, now reign over that sea princess.
Máscara Satsujin – Another Luchador. Groundbreaking. Well, at least you’re not out here cosplaying Captain Jack Sparrow with a tragic-sexy origin story. So, you know, points for not being entirely predictable? The bar’s basically sunken into the linoleum, but credit where it’s due; you managed to clear it. There’s something almost genuine in what you’re doing, I’ll give you that. This whole “Lucha Libre as spiritual awakening” thing you’re working on? It’s kind of pure, in the way first-year art students try to channel Basquiat and end up with splatter paint on their thrifted Comme des Garçons. I respect commitment, especially if you’re sweating through that much satin. Not everyone can pull off a look that says “I’m late for both the lucha run and my therapist.”
If we’re being honest, Máscara, your aesthetic is more “Whimpered into Spirit Halloween at 5:45 p.m.” than “Critically Acclaimed Luchador.” It’s giving me Dalton flashbacks, honestly. He was this guy I met at a party once, who swore he was some tortured firestarter. He’d snuk his mom’s Cartier lighter to scorch the edges of his poetry at the party, thinking he was basically Baudelaire in Balenciaga. Please. We all knew his family summered in Nantucket.
And the acrobatics! All the flips, the twists; seriously, Máscara, is this Cirque du Soleil? I spent half my childhood perfecting a full-twisting layout just to avoid morning conversations with my parents, so forgive me if a cartwheel doesn’t exactly send me. You’re not impressing me with a back handspring, babe, trust.
Still, for a split second, I felt it. The temptation. My thumb hovered over the follow button. Maybe you had me for a moment—a real, actual moment. But then, nah. Almost doesn’t count.
TESTAMENT – Right, Testament, so…horror-core. This feels like an A24 film in the works. I mean, I’m more of a Dior-and-champagne-at-the-Chateau-Marmont girl than a ‘let’s watch people get tortured in a basement’ girl. And if you think you’re dragging me anywhere, you’re delusional. All that heavy, asthmatic breathing? Are you trying to be scary or are you just anemic? You don’t need a championship; you need a B-12 shot and a membership to Equinox. Maybe try a green juice cleanse and a hot stone massage in Tulum. And if you need a hookup there, I’ve got more wellness retreat contacts than I do exes. Call me. Or, you know, DM.
The Bloom – Then there’s you, Ayesha Erotica. “The Bloom”? Sounds like a failed YA fantasy novel. Actually—wait—I think Delilah S. Dawson wrote that book called ‘Bloom’, right? Where the protagonist basically gets swallowed up by toxic vines and codependency? Babe, that’s so on brand for you. Because clearly, you and “The Vine” are, like, entangled in ways HR would definitely not approve of. And honestly? Ew. Choking kinks and photosynthesis roleplay? Disgusting. Get a new hobby, queen. Like winning a match (which, you won’t be doing, Monday night).
AZURE – Alright. Let’s be radically honest for a sec. We’ve barely been in each other’s space for a month, and frankly, I’m having a full-body allergic reaction to your entire vibe. It’s mostly the sheer, unadulterated audacity of you, thinking you’re some… prodigy. A ‘great’ in the making. The truth is, you’ve been breathing Giselle’s rarefied air like a sad little stan, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out what’s the point.
You know, that knee I knocked you delulu with last week? That wasn’t just a highlight for me. That was both like, cathartic and clarifying. Like the first sip of a perfectly chilled Sancerre after a day of dealing with idiots. It felt deserved, for having to listen to you talk in your promos. And for a second there—and I hate to admit this, it feels so pedestrian—it gave me a moment of pure, unadulterated insight. And no, not in the way you think. This isn’t your “she got what she deserved” pop-psychology moment. This is bigger.
See, I finally understand. You’re not a person; you’re a industry plant. A carefully brand managed idea Giselle sold to the powers that be, that stared as a joke at a private dinner. It’s Networking 101, really. The underdog with the powerful mentor. The meteoric rise. I could literally map out your entire trajectory on a whiteboard if we’d never met. A few strategic wins, a cover story for oulets, maybe a sponsorship or two for the criminally online, and poof—you’re holding the Openweight Championship, convinced you manifested it all by yourself by the grace of god or whomever you believe in.
The problem, babe, is your ego has been writing checks your talent can’t cash. You’re a sponsored guppy swimming in my infinity pool, thinking you’re a great white. And now you’re standing in front of me, all doe-eyed ambition, as if you’re actually going to do something. Honey, if you could do anything, you would’ve seen that knee coming. Some people might call it a blindside. I call it returning a deeply annoying energy to its sender. It’s just good karma.
But what really, truly makes my skin crawl? That Giselle, put her entire social capital on the line for you. She co-signed your entire existence. You were her passion project, her back up plan she just had to see through until the end. And now, you are about to make her meticulously crafted brand equity implode like a badly timed investment. Do you have any idea what happens to her reputation, her sense of taste in the eyes of others; when you inevitably, spectacularly, fail on Stampede? You are about to make Giselle—Giselle!—look like a woman who can’t choose a worthy successor confidently. That, my dear, is a social death far worse than any pinfall. When you flop, and you will flop, you’re not just going down. You’re taking her impeccable legacy down with you.
So when that bell rings and you’re clinging to the ropes, the bright lights making you look washed out and desperate, you’ll feel it. The silence from her afterward will continue to be as deafening, as her radio silence is now. It’ll be followed, a day or two later, by the soft unfollow. And that little voice in your head, the one you usually silence with a shopping spree or doing whatever it is that you do, will just be screaming: You were never enough.
That’s my gift to you, Azure. Not a loss. Not a few bruises. I’m giving you an entire narrative pivot.
And I, for one, will be seated for the eventual meltdown.
Eight people. One match. And when it’s over, only one name matters—mine. This isn’t luck. This isn’t by chance. This is about taking what I want—not like anyone here can stop me. Not Azure. Not The Sinister Six. Not only am I winning, I'm ending careers, killing egos, and ripping the fantasy out of every single one of you.
And Monday night, the world finds out the truth—Ryan LeCavalier doesn’t just compete.