When Charles Darwin coined the mechanism of natural selection, his theory was sound. 

Those that are more fit for their environment survive to reproduce and pass their traits to their offspring; selective mutations that over the course of thousands of years allow creatures to adapt to their particular surroundings to the point of becoming specialists. 

And yet, the species of humanity seems to challenge this theory on occasion.

Take for example yourself, Stupid One. Out of everyone I scouted in Wrestle Heroes, you perhaps fascinated me more than the rest. However, it was not for any matter of size, cunning, or origin; and certainly not for your performance on the night.

The only attribute you seem to possess is ineptitude.

Unfit in both body and spirit. Lacking any capability to be a hunter… or even a mere gatherer. As much of a stain to the world around you as the ones that discolor your shirt and that bag you call a mask. 

And yet, you persist.

Is it that foul odor that marks your presence, like the common Striped Skunk? Does your inane fretting and flailing like a Bird of Paradise while you attempt the most basic of tasks serve as deterrence? Perhaps intelligent life immediately senses the lack of substance you contain both in nutrition and satisfaction as prey, like the Mola Mola that tolls the ocean with much more bones than edible meat and even less of a mind. 

To the civilized world, you’re an enigma; failing upwards in the face of all logic and reason. Valued by none and tolerated only by a few that find the faintest amusement in your pathetic efforts.

In my world, you’re an abomination. An insult to natural order.

Stupid One, your head is not fit to rest on my mantle. Dispatching you will be no trophy hunt, rather a service performed when an invasive species threatens to pollute an ecosystem. There is no place for a jester in the deep jungle. There’s only the predator and its next meal… but even that is too much credit for your ilk.

You don’t even qualify as a snack.

Our encounter will serve to whet my appetite for the true prize that awaits me.

The Good Doctor.

Doc, you might have your own concerns ahead as you step into the arena facing a Matador’s cloak and dagger, but we both already know your observations will continue. Taking your notes like when conducting one of your sick experiments. Believing that I am something that can be quantified and dissected on your operating table.

What the Stupid One will suffer is merely the fulfillment of my quota to the Temple, but when I get to you, Vinell…

That’s when the hunt begins.