As soon as he made the challenge, I left the room. I didn't turn the television off or bother thinking twice about the drink I'd been in the middle of mixing. I knew she'd take it and I knew that being there if she fell was far more important than a night away from the living hurricane that is my darling, daring wife. If not for her sake, then for that of every living creature in her aggro radius.

She'd left earlier in a taxi, because I was angry and had the car keys. That's been a pretty recent trend, me always carrying the keys - it's sort of a byproduct of her penchant for liquor, and the fact that she's a little easier to deal with when she's half in the bag. If it wasn't for the momentary relief that came alongside that last fact, I'd force her to drive herself around instead of leaving wriggle room to indulge in her favorite passtime.

Insert: Baby's First Blog
Subject: For The Fans
Date: 06/14/08 12:34 PM EST
Posted By: pureaimz666

And now I get to deal with them - the critics. Critics who think I never deserved it in the first place. Morons who think Desade handed me that title.

The worst part is that I could stand on national TV and call them out for that kind of ignorance. I could scream about the worthless, armchair fighters basking in the glow of their screens. I could shout their names one by one, and they wouldn't give a shit. The sad thing is that it's not because they're tough or have any kind of self-esteem - it's because they don't watch me, they don't know when I'm on and they didn't bother looking at what they were so upset about in the first place. The things that make them immune to my taunting are the very same things that make them arrogant, ignorant fuckwits in the first place. They barely watch, they don't contribute and they're just looking for something to throw an opinion at so someone - anyone - will think twice about their existance. How do I retaliate, then? Clearly, I'm not above being the kind of bitch who'll bite your throat for nipping my ankles, but if they're not listening then how the hell am I gonna get heard?

Easy! Hit 'em where it hurts. In this case, inconsequential messageboards.

Congratulations, dicksmacks -- each and every one of you probably just won the award for quickest draw on the 'Reply To This Thread' button.

Hold that trigger finger, though - there's a lot left to read.

By the time I reached the prep area, I knew Amy had lost. Everybody did, and they didn't hesitate to tell me all about it as I stormed through. I was simply there for damage control. It's my role as a husband to make sure she's alright, and my role as a human being to make sure everyone else leaves alright. I'm an Aimz-wrangler by profession. This is why I sometimes consider opening a business cleaning septic tanks with a toothbrush as a relaxing getaway.

I was told that Rhine 'And The Highwaymen' had left for their rooms seconds before I'd arrived. The Dead Man's Hand hadn't reappeared backstage, and it wasn't hard to imagine that Amy was still deciphering what had just happened to her - whatever that was. The arena floor's other occupants hadn't wasted time hightailing it, though. A large Brit nearly mowed me over when he and his friends came through the curtain.

Most married men complain about their wife's meddling friends and how they're just evil little bitches. To a degree, they're probably right. They deserve a pat on the back for putting up with the people their wives choose to surround themselves with.

''Fancy meeting you here, Miss Pierce.''

I deserve an award ceremony followed by fireworks and a monkey trained to ride an elephant waving a 'Man Of The Year' flag with its trunk.

My wife's friend was apparently immune to attack, because she didn't have a scratch on her. It didn't take a genius to figure out that Amy wouldn't be in the same condition.

Pierce shared that smile with me, the one people usually hated so damn much.

''Good evening, Mr. Markson,'' she said; there was a tightness to her voice that my previous encounters with the woman made unfamiliar. ''Your wife will be along presently. Things did not go...''

The Dead Man's Hand followed their Director, in various states of disrepair. There was limping and groaning and many backs being held.

''Things did not go well,'' Pierce said.

And I couldn't help but follow up with exactly what I was thinking.

''If you were out there, I wouldn't have expected them to. Now, if you don't mind,'' I continued, ''You can tell me if she's okay and move along before the urge to knock your teeth out gets any more overwhelming.''

''Your wife is fine, Mr. Markson. Physically, at least. Her mental well-being is not my area of expertise and she has proven recalcitrant to seek psychological redress through the counselor in my employ.''

Christ, it was like this woman chose the most verbose means to say everything and that tendency only got worse when she was irritated - which she clearly was. She shot me a quick nod and turned on her heel to head the other way - apparently not nearly as concerned for her well-being as she should have been. Then again, the woman had at least three people carted behind her.

I watched them leave, because I've made a habit of never turning my back on that lot, and ducked when I felt the curtain push against my back. It was Amy meandering backstage, dizzy from whatever the hell they'd just done to her, and I knew that much. I was smart enough to avoid the punch I knew she'd throw, not knowing who the hell was waiting for her to come through that curtain and certainly not expecting me. The force of the fist she threw sent her spinning.

I stood back up straight, but it was only to catch my redhead when she fell.

And I caught wind of what was dancing on her breath, it was no surprise that she'd just passed out in my arms -- but that was only the first split of that one, last straw.

(To be continued...?)