No more nightmares with wrestling. No more wondering when the next tag-team table match is. Am I the Intercontinental Champion? Who is the Intercontinental Champion?

No more rehabbing the knee injuries suffered at the hands of Chris Benoit's chair shots.

Why is Vince McMahon laughing at me?

Top rope turnbuckle. A monster I defy with deft agility. The Spanish announcers' table is destroyed by the unconscious body of a 400 pound man.

I repeat slowly to myself: It isn't real. It isn't real. It isn't real.

But in my dream, it is. I've been singled out by Degeneration X. Here they come down the aisle with clubs. But whose intro music is that? Maybe I should hire the Acolyte Protection Agency.

A powerbomb and I'm falling, falling, falling... my face burned and scarred just like Kane... but the Undertaker is not my brother.

No one takes my profession seriously.

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