Y’know something, I can just see it now…Simon Loveless, sat there with a pen and notepad, furiously scribbling notes on a subject he finds himself fascinated by.
I’m actually a little surprised by your curiosity, Simon…I had no idea you actually wanted to learn anything about your opponents. Or is it just because I’m not a HOW regular you can scroll back through historical archives to find dirt on?
I don’t blame you, Simon…after all, you barely have much more of a history in this place than I do. A lot of my research in this situation has been relying on the two, maybe three, matches you seem to have had.
But I don’t feel like dredging those up for this conversation we’re supposedly having, nor do I want to entertain your possible fetish for me by answering your questions…so let’s talk about you.
After all, isn’t that truly your favorite subject?
Since this tournament started you have looked for every possible way to make this all about you. You beat Bobby Dean, good on ya…doesn’t change the fact you’ve done squat all before then does it?
For all your jokes about what I believe in, and who I associate myself with, you drag your little girlfriend around on these hypothetical journeys through time and space, expecting her to always root for you and cheer you up with lord only knows what after you’re done in the ring.
If it was anyone else, this would be the time where I come up with some witty one-liner about offering to be more of a man to her than you can ever be…but I’m above such petty insults.
I’ll leave those up to you.
All these college locker room jokes and quips, occasionally waxing philosophical like you weren’t the jock who fell asleep during that class…is that what this is about, Simon? Do you recognize that I’m the student who did my due diligence and actually paid attention in class?
Holy shit, Simon, I think I cracked the code.
I don’t know why you would be, but I can hear it in every word you say…you’re upset that I can string together a few sentences without making stupid innuendo and boring rhetoric. You have stooped to the lowest common denominator at every opportunity in the hopes that people will get a good laugh and mistake that for talent.
If you were really that talented, you’d be coming into this tournament a former champion, or at least having done something of worth. I know the same can be said of me, but that’s where the similarites end…I’m new here, what’s your excuse?
The records for this year show we both have a win under our belt, but a little digging reveals that you’ve been here before, and did precisely dick. We are not on the same level, and you know it.
It’s like I’ve been saying this whole time, Simon, I am here to make the most out of my opportunity. I will slap you around as long as I feel is necessary, and I will put you away, and I will move on and laugh as you throw a hissy fit in front of the crowd at the Best Arena and everyone watching at home.
And when I’m done, you’ll go home and let Missy do whatever the hell it is she does for you in between your stints of pretending to be relevant.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve taken away from all the shit you’ve talked the past few weeks, it’s that you’d rather be anywhere else than here…so please, allow me to send you home early.
Go give yourself that much-desired vacation for another six months or so, maybe someone will care about you by the time you return again.
Because I sure as hell won’t.
I’ll be too busy proving my worth in the next round and beyond, looking to win the DeNucci Cup and the HOFC title. Wouldn’t that be a sight to behold, someone not officially on this roster holding an HOW championship. Lord knows someone other than Mike Best needs to hold a title around here.
Even if I don’t, I’ll know that I did my absolute best…but I sure as hell won’t let my journey end with you. You’ve managed to piss me off just enough to motivate me, Simon…thanks for that, buddy.
See you in the cage.