Didn’t I already kill you once?
Deja vu, bro. Pretty vivid memories of removing your head from that nonexistent fucking neck of yours, so I’m just gonna assume you’re just too stupid to realize you’ve been dead for four years. I give you the world’s shortest haircut, you don’t stay down. Farthington snaps your arm like he’s trying to get a Slim Jim deal, you don’t stay down. Like a forty year old Burger King manager, you don’t know when the fuck to quit, and like a forty year old Burger King manager, it’s time for you to shut the fuck up, kneel before the King, and make him a fucking sandwich.
No tomatoes, dickhead.
Can’t imagine a better kickoff to the DeNucci Cup than to honor Rob Michaels with the Holyoke sacrifice of Chris Kostoff’s recently transplanted head on yet another silver platter. If you’ll spare me the formality of talking about what a big, impressive, scary goon you are, I think I’ve spent enough years keeping my dad’s mancrush complacent by sucking your dick good and proper. Sold you so many times that some day I’m gonna owe your dogs reparation money, so let’s just skip it this time and break down why I’m fucking BORED of you.
“I’m gonna hurt you, boy.”
Yeah, we know.
“Kostoff’s gonna kill youuuuu…”
Yeah, heard that one on VH1 a couple of days ago.
“Something something your Daddy something something manpleaser.”
Same old Kostoff.
You claim you have more money than God, but it’s clearly all in dollars cause you don’t have a lick of cents. I killed you with a shovel. With a shovel, Chris. With an actual shovel. You literally can’t bury a person harder than that– I’ve tried. But here you are popping the same old shit, and I realize you aren’t just groaning for brains because you’re a zombie, it’s because you’re actually the dumbest motherfucker in history. This isn’t a match with Lee Best. This isn’t Speshul Hulk versus a skinny wrestling promoter with no depth perception. You’re not fighting the guy with the talking squirrel who thinks he’s Jesus, you fucking quarter of a halfwit– things have changed.
I KILL PEOPLE NOW.
THAT’S A THING I DO.
I KILL PEOPLE.
I STARTED WITH YOU.
PEOPLE WERE SAD, PROBABLY.
Your dumbass might get up and shamble to the ring every time Pantera plays like a white trash Weekend at Bernie’s, but I’m the man who ended Max Kael. I’m the David that slew Murder Goliath at ICONIC. I’m the wrestler of the year, the champion of a lifetime, and the single greatest HOFC fighter of all motherfucking time. This match isn’t about you, dipshit. This match isn’t about whether or not I can beat the almighty Kostoff.
It’s about whether or not you can beat ME.
This is your mountain to climb now, bud. The ghosts that wander these halls howling “I’m gonna hurt you boy” don’t scare me, no matter how hard they rattle those chains. I am the monster under HOW’s bed. I am the fucking boogeyman around here, and I don’t care if you’re doing this for fun, for profit, or to get a new kidney for little Billy who ain’t gonna make it to Christmas without it. Keep calling me Baby Best, too– that’s what Mrs. Kostoff calls me when I’m hanging off her big fake tits with a bottle of Hershey’s syrup in one hand and a half dozen Plan B in the other.
You big, dumb fucking troll.
You goony Great Value Sons of Anarchy tattoo having goblin. You racist-dog having confederate flag of a human that we only keep around because he’s part of our heritage. I’m gonna dropkick your dick to the moon and then put a flag in your ass claiming you as my personal property. I’m going to KNEE! you so hard that you can’t come back to HOW until you bring me a shrubbery. I’m gonna kickfuck you all the way down to the Sprint store, because when I permanently retire you from wrestling you’re gonna need something to do with your free nights and weekends.
Now go ahead and string enough syllables together to tell me you’re gonna grind my bones to make your bread and Fee Fi Go Fuck Yourself so that these people can listen to me speak again. I’m not even gonna kill you with my A+ material, homie.
I’m just gonna drown you at C level.