Hey you old piece of shit, it’s me again!
I don’t even need to wait for you to give me shit to reply to, honestly. Pointing out that you could write a Kostoff promo using only letters cut out of Repetitive Douchebag Magazine has me dangerously close to getting repetitive, though, so let me just keep fucking dunking on you until I get bored and it’s time to fight. I could riff for four hours about your stupid Lord of the Wrestling Rings dwarf face alone, you think I’m having trouble slapping you around like I want your lunch money to buy an extra chocolate milk?
I fucking hate everything about you.
I hate your dopey meatball head. I hate the English muffin-top Dad abs that hang over your stupid skinny jeans. I hate that your chest tattoo looks like a portal to the year 2000. I hate your Warzone Create-A-Character moveset, your trailer trash Florida man attitude, and your so flagrant use of the word “boy” that I sometimes mistake you for a racist football coach in a movie that is definitely going to win an Oscar. I probably hate the bathmats in your fucking shower– I really, really don’t fucking like you.
You blinded my Dad, dickhead.
And I don’t mean at No Remorse, either. I mean twenty fucking years ago, when you convinced him that you knew how to lace up those dollar store work boots you’ve been wrestling in for so long that the Historical Society is gonna fine me if I damage them. Any 300 pound mongoloid could hammer smash his way to a world title back before 9/11, bud– you were fighting guys named BLAZE and BAD BOY PAT and everyone’s theme song was “Down With The Sickness”. But you convinced him that you were the guy, Kostoff. For some reason, despite his hatred for you, Lee Best thinks that you are the single greatest wrestling in human history, and he built a fucking brand around you.
The most generic fucking store brand in town.
Can’t blame you for coming in a plain brown box, Kostoff– I’ve seen the wife. But how the fuck did EVERY GENERIC MOVIE HENCHMAN get a pay-per-view named after him? How the fuck did RANDOM VIKING ACTION FIGURE become the marquee player in HOW? I just realized YESTERDAY that you, Rhys Townsend and Austin Reeves aren’t the same person. You’re as basic as your second grade reading level– you’re the generic preset on a wrestling video game that a thirteen year old didn’t know he could personalize.
You’re not ready, player one.
Fuckin’ steroid dad-bod having, mouth breathing because you like it ass bitch. Since you love your godawful tattoos so much, how about getting some pussy lips on that eerily ageless forehead of yours so the head of my cock can choose it’s own adventure the next time I fuck your stupid face. Lord nose I can’t go near those nostrils with that half-a-cunt carved into the bridge of your schnoz like lesbian lovers’ initials at Makeout Point.
Like I actually wanna make you sad.
I want to see if big men cry too, Chris. I want to hurt the people you care about. I want to make your life genuinely less enjoyable. I want to take a piece of you with me, Kostoff. Something you’ll never be able to get back. And in its place, I want to leave something that you have to stare at every time you look in a mirror for the rest of your life– a little extra to go along with that big scar around your whole swollen, fat kid neck. I don’t want this to be the first round of a HOFC tournament, I want this to be the last match of a career that has overstayed it’s fucking welcome.
No gimmicks. No marquees. No more games. We’re gonna end this, Kostoff, and we’re gonna do it with our own bare hands on a regular weekly fucking Refueled. I am going to dent your skull in like the discount cans of peas you’re gonna buy your fucking children when that “more money than God” dries up on hospital bills. I’m not gonna run. I’m not gonna play games with you. I’m not even gonna cheat– I’m just gonna beat the fuck out of you.
I’m gonna hurt you, boy.
You have tormented my family for 20 years, and it’s time.
Once and for all.