It's not you. That's for sure.

You know what?


I’ve been thinking.


After getting StevensLeaked…


After having to sit through the weirdest rendition of The Farmer and O’Dell…


After David decided to steal my thunder, yet again…




I’m liking the idea of this more and more.


I mean…


No Mount Zion to have to climb.


I’ve never had a thing against consolation prizes.




Just maybe.


I say fuck you Jobu!


I take a prideful step forward.


And not in a Young Hammer meets Old Nail at Crystal Lake type of way.


That’s it!


I’m reneging.


I go back on my word.


I’ve changed my mind.


Instead of plain, I’ll order half-pepperoni while you fucking idiots jump through ICON sized hoops.


Tell Mario.




And fuck you Great Scott, The Dan Ryan Killer.






I don’t get it.


Do I have to show a little more leg?


What else, besides shitting on your plates and pillowcases do I have to do to elicit a WORTHY response?


Here I am, holding a target.


I lost to Zion.


I’m taking my ball and going home.


I’m a nobody.


I lost to Zion.


I’m a neverwas, hack.


And fuck you Max.


I even told most, if not all of you, that you should do the same, cowardly act I was doing and wait for Refueled Three instead of becoming another feast for Mr Ryan, the greatest wrestler ever, ever.


I told you why, in a not so nice way.


I opened all the doors for everyone to walk through…




And in walks Scott “Strictly Facts” Stevens?


Jesus. Fucking. Christ.


Who do I have to kill?










Here’s me sighing.




Fucking Stevens.


In all honesty, Scott, I should be thanking you.


You fucking tampon tick.


You hammered it home, pal. You know my menstrual cycle in High Octane better than I do. How did my jock smell back in 2014? Does it smell the same way now?




Go pound a filing cabinet with your rolodex of meaningful historical analysis, you walking fucking database.


You know what?


That’s your new name.






The One Drawer Filing Cabinet, Data Stevens.


You’re welcome.


You can even start wearing a nice, 97 red, Star Trek Uniform to the ring. The way you spit stats, people think your robot from this world anyway.


Probably made on Venus if I had to guess.




Time for me to turn ghost white for a second.


With your, “You weren’t even a Tag Team Champion! You really suck! You really sucksuck! Yeah, in case you’re wondering I DO know what day it was, if it was raining or not, what the room temperature was, how many fans were there, what color wrestling trunks you had on, how many braids were in Scotty’s hair, if your boots were double knotted, how many days later it was till the Solar Eclipse… OH I CAN KEEP GOING! THEY DON’T CALL ME ENERGIZER STATTY FOR NOTHING!”


Fucking guy.


Here’s a stat you left out, Data.




It’s your chances of winning The ICON Title.


And believe me, it’s not because I’m going to be out there in that ring to make sure of it. No, TRUST ME WHEN I TELL YOU I’ll be in the Bandits locker room, WITH DOOZER and whoever else, poppin champagne when my futures bet on how many times you will be eliminated comes in.


I have the OVER.


So go and make me proud, Data.




I keep selling you short.


Don’t stop at me, Proud Icon Bearer.


Go and make ALL OF HOW proud.


Do what you do best.


Since I won’t be out there to.




And then there’s…


Baywatch O’Dell.


Yep, The Homeless Hero.


The guy who wants to pull down my bathing suit and ride a surfboard up my ass.




COOL joke.


I laughed.


I did.


I thought it was infinitely better than Stevens telling me what the roses smelled like on April 30th, 2012.


That said, John, I didn’t laugh… out loud. No, it was more of a soft, hopefully an anvil falls on my head soon type of chuckle.


You know, or maybe you don’t, John, the kind of chuckle everyone made after watching you frolic in the lake with Christmas Past.


By the way, John, I know HOW is a shark tank full of thirsty sharks just sharking around.


I feed them, you idiot.


I have the scars to prove it.


But then again, you’d have to lift your head up from Mike’s ass to realize that.


So I won’t hold a grudge.






And fuck Murderball.




Did you think Doozer was safe?


Well guess-fucking-what?


He is.




A battle royal.


The winner…


High Octane’s ICON.








I’d like to take this moment to congratulate whoever does win the second richest prize in all of the wrestling lands. You will have my utmost respect after conquering all of those who dared to take your prize.


I’d like you to know, FUTURE ICON CHAMPION, I will also be accepting your good faith gesture since I’m not competing to be the first person you defend the title against.


It was a tough decision.


But you only live once, right?


Don’t worry, I won’t use the stuff I used against Zion…


I’m not trying to end a career.




As a personal aside, because I know it will never happen.


But then again, sometimes you wonder HOW weirder things have happened.


I hope it’s you, Scottian Assange.


I want you to be the next ICON Champion.


Because I want to respect you.


That seems important to you, too. Respect.


You win that rumble, Stevey boy, and I’ll respect you so hard.


You might never walk the same.


Just ask Dooze about that.




Or Shane Reynolds.






Should of sold, sweety.


I’d show you some more love in between the lines..




Or the doll Stevens had sex with at the Airport Hilton, room 235, at 3 PM, because TSA kept searching his bags and finding a bunch of statistics and deemed him terror like in nature, causing him to miss his flight.


The doll’s name is Andrew.


He is thirty-eight years old.




At its finest.


Go Cowboys.

Plan C

The one you don’t fuck with.
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