I get the gimmick. Maybe the whole crowd can chant “OLE” during your matches, or you could wear a little sombrero and a big fake moustache to the ring like that guy from Peacemaker did. How do you say originality in Spanish? Want me to google it for you?
This is just… this is the saddest thing. My son Tyler keeps texting me about cultural appropriation. Joel Hortega is so upset that he downloaded DuoLingo to tell me how badly he wants you to die in a car accident. I’m a fucking God, you insufferably delusional fuck. I’m the greatest wrestler in the history of HOW. I do shit bored on a Sunday that you couldn’t handle if you trained your entire life for it, so miss me with the off-brand me bullshit. Did you seriously just try to 8 Mile me? Did you seriously just try to make rules about what I can or can’t say to you? I’ll talk about my knees like your grandfather twenty minutes before it rains, you little shit, you don’t dictate a fucking thing about the words that come out of my mouth.
THIRTEEN UNDEFEATED YEARS.
They’re called Greatest Hits for a reason, dickhead. I still listen to Sgt. Pepper, too, because the album still fucking slaps. I’ll stop talking my shit when it stops being true, and you’re just a different flavor of the same mindless mind games everyone tries to play with me. Eat my cock and lick my balls. Tickle my fucking taint, douchebag, you’re a fucking nobody. You’re every other mid Mexican restaurant in town— I’ll eat your fucking lunch every day but I’ll never remember your name, amigo. I’ve forgotten more about what makes a great wrestler than you’ll ever know, and you treat me with this kind of disrespect?
See, that’s why the fuck I came back.
Cause y’all have gotten too comfortable.
There used to be a level of respect around here for guys like me. A level of fear. I look around the locker room today and I see motherfuckers who have done a fraction of what I’ve done for this business, talking out the sides of their mouths and complaining about every little thing. Developing this unearned confidence when they haven’t contributed shit to the legacy of HOW. Who the fuck is Conor Fuse? Who the fuck is Clay Byrd? Honestly, Blanco, who the fuck are you?
Fucking 8 Mile bullshit.
That was the big swing? You’re gonna HOFC battle me and try to predict the shit I’m gonna talk about? Motherfucker, I know 750 ways just to call you a bitch and only thirteen of them are racist. And you’re goddamned right I’m a house of cards. I’m royalty. I’m the King of HOFC. I’m the Ace of HOW. I Jack motherfuckers up, and YAS QUEEN, I’ll straight flush you down the toilet.
You’re not suited for this.
You’ll never be in the club, Blanco. You’re just another half-hearted, fly by night piece of junk coal claiming to be a diamond in the rough. I killed Chris Kostoff with a spade, motherfucker, do you really think we’re two of a kind? Do you really want this action? If you’re really gonna go all-in on me, you’d better not do it blind, because I’ll call your fucking bluff and make sure that you limp out just as hard as you’re limping in.
BARS ABOUT POKER, ESTUPIDO.
I’ll give you one thing, though. You’re right. I’ve never done a goddamned thing with the LSD Championship. It is my Achilles heel. It is the weakest point of my career, which is otherwise so picture perfect that you could jerk off to its Polaroids. But this ain’t 1955, Marty— I’m not looking to change the past, I’m looking to get back to the future. I’m looking at a match between the greatest wrestler in history and a pretender in a mask, and an opportunity to correct the single black mark on my entire career. You might not want to hear about knees, Mr. Blanco, but you’re one fucking knee from helping me cement the only part of my legacy that has ever come with an asterisk. Fuck Jace, fuck Max Kael, fuck Silent Witness. Fuck you, and fuck everybody, I’m about to be known as the greatest LSD Champion in the history of the sport.
Viva EL ES Deez Nutz, dickhead.
And that’s if I let you viva at all.