86%

Alright, Conor. 

Okay, fine. You want some sobering honesty, in the midst of all the dick waving and grandstanding? I mean, this is the wrestling business and it’s our whole job to grandstand and dick wave to sell tickets, but yeah, I’ll bring it back to earth here for the last one. 

You’re very good. 

Best HOFC opponent I’ve had this era, bar none. Dan Ryan was close, but you know, asterisks. So it’s all you, Conor. You get the gold star, the blue ribbon, achievement unlocked. I’m actually really excited for this match, because I love HOFC more than anything on the planet, but very few people are any fucking good at it. That’s it… that’s your gas up. But sobering honesty swings both ways. 

Your shit was B+. 

It makes sense for me to drag up all the times I beat you. It makes absolutely no goddamned sense for you to continually and aggressively remind the world that you can’t grab a W from me unless we’re physically not in the same match. Decent execution of a terrible premise. You did have a few real hard hitting lines in a few of your promos, but mostly, it just screamed of a guy wondering “how can I do this differently than the others do it”, but never stopping to consider that different and better aren’t inherently synonyms. It’s all still better than the first time we did this, when you were so clearly out of your element that you didn’t even bother to try. 

So yeah, B+. Like an 86%. 

Now here’s the reality: I am the best in the entire world at this. You will not find a single honest person who disagrees with that sentiment. Even the historical record reflects it, Conor— you don’t stay undefeated at something for thirteen years and not be the unstoppable best at it. Is it possible that we’ll step into that cage at 97Red and you’ll be the anomaly? Sure. Of course it’s possible. You live in HOW’s most rarified air, a solid member of the Any Given Night club. But is it likely?

No, Conor. 

It’s not fucking likely.

None of the rest of that shit matters. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve retired, how insecure I am, who likes me or who doesn’t. It doesn’t matter if I’m a lazy psychopath who gets to make his own schedule. It doesn’t even matter that I haven’t entered War Games in three years, even though I’ve won it twice and never finished outside of the top 3 literally any time I’ve competed (but hey, who’s counting?)

None of it matters. 

What matters is that now, we fight. And either I look like a fucking idiot for sleeping on you and lose my streak, or you look like an absolutely delusional potato for telling the world I’m a lazy, out of shape has-been and then get knocked the fuck out. That’s all that matters now, Conor. People have been gassing you up all week, I’m sure. Begging you to finally give me what I have coming to me. But they aren’t your friends. They aren’t being honest with you. They are incapable of unbiased feedback. 

I’m the best ever. 

I’m the best, Conor. 

That’s why it’s hard to cut promos on me. That’s why it’s hard to find ammo that matters. That’s why people step into the cage with me, brimming with confidence, and then get knocked the fuck out. Yeah man, I talk a lot of shit, I claim I’m gonna knock guys out in 7 seconds, I say ridiculous shit about severing their spinal cords and shit. Only so many ways to talk about a cage fight, man, but end of the day, I don’t give a fuck how many rounds it takes. I don’t care if people get injured, or if they don’t. I care about winning HOFC cage fights, Mr. Fuse. 

And I’m fucking good at it. 

You wanna talk about wrestling matches, then challenge me to one. I’ll say yes. Immediately. But right now, the task at hand is a cage fight, and you are fighting the best cage fighter in history, without argument, without doubt. I’ve never managed a run with this LSD Title before, and I have no intention of having this one cut short by an overconfident kid who thinks that he can Little Engine That Could it over the single highest mountain in HOW. 

Good luck, Conor. 

You’re gonna need it.