Holy shit that was fuckin’ AWKWARD.
You wanna go on a little fishing trip? Little boys weekend out to Uncle Dave’s cabin? Roast a couple marshmallows around the fire and talk about our dreams? Wanna run a three legged race and go have a beer afterward to reflect on our shared experiences? You want a couple of matching friendship bracelets to remember each other when we’re apart?
The fuck are you thinking, Brian?
Of course you respect me, dickhead– I’m the greatest of all time. You think it’s some big secret that an average motherfucker wants to grow up to be like the Starmaker? I know I’m your celebrity crush, dummy, I just didn’t expect you to be dogfuck thirsty enough to clasp your little hands together and tell the whole world that you were sweet on me. The fuck did you think was gonna happen? That I was gonna turn around and tell you that I respect you? That I was gonna wish you luck, and talk about some “let’s tear the house down, buddy”? FUCK YOU.
I don’t respect you, and even if I did, I could show you a big fat fucking goose egg that represents how much I value respect in this business.
Stop talking to me like we’re equals.
We aren’t, we never have been, barring an accident that costs me my arms, legs, and sense of self worth, we never will be. If I somehow gave you the impression that I feel anything for you but disdain, I sincerely apologize. You are the blister on the taint of a body buried in my backyard, and I only think about you when I pull the shovel out of the fuckin’ shed. You are fuckin’ target practice, bud. You are mittens on a cold fuckin’ winter morning, and all I’m gonna do is use you to warm up for Rumble at the Rock.
Pick a fucking lane, homie.
Am I a big gay bastard who sucks off my tag team partner? Am I the guy you’re gonna literally murder and fuck up a whole PPV main event? Am I your role model and personal hero? Maybe your rabbit ears are on the fritz, cause I’m catching some mixed fucking signals– or maybe you’re just throwing LITERALLY ANYTHING YOU CAN AGAINST THE WALL, and hoping that something sticks.
Because you’re in panic mode now.
Because you jumped into the deep end without a life jacket, and you’re just now realizing that you aren’t a strong enough doggy paddler to swim with a shark. This match is now an oncoming train, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. You’re glued to the tracks, and there isn’t enough time to get out of the way. No amount of talking, pivoting, rationalizing, or negotiating is going to change the outcome at Refueled– what shall be shall be, and we’re stepping into a cage no matter how many cocks you think I suck. No matter how much murder you think you’ll do. No matter how much you respect me for being the GOAT.
A cage match on an aircraft carrier.
And it’s an important cage to me, buddy. Not just because I’m the greatest HOFC Champion in history. Not just because it’s my favorite match. Not just because it’s what helped make me a star in HOW. This match is important, Brian, because I want this division to come back. I want HOFC to fucking live again. I need as many asses in as many seats as humanly possible. I need reactions to this motherfucker to go through the roof. I need this match to be a success, because I need this to not be the last HOFC match on record. That means no going to decision. That means no bullshit ground game. That means no game of “cagefighting chess”.
It means I need to knock you the fuck out, Hollywood.
I am going to stalk you around the cage, wear you down, and then put your fucking lights out. I am a fucking animal in that cage– I am fast, I am thorough, and I am predatory, and you are not ready for it. You aren’t prepared. No match you’ve ever had against me compares to this. No amount of training will get you ready. You are in for a very different Michael Lee Best on Saturday night, and am no longer just posturing when I say this:
You are going to be unconscious.
Respect that, dickhead.