This is called a “headstart”.
It’s what you give to a crippled kid in a footrace, to keep it fun and competitive. Since this match is going to look a lot like that Faces of Death video where those three Russian teenagers murder a hobo with a screwdriver, I thought I’d go ahead and drop a second promo on you ahead of time. Lee hates this, by the way– he likes the promo battles to go back and forth. Which means this is actually gonna hurt me a little bit, which is fine.
Because it’s gonna hurt you a hell of a lot more.
How about a wager, Stevens? Those work out for you. Let’s try something sensible this time– if you win, I’ll give you a million dollars, cut off my dick and have it bronzed for you, subscribe to your LonelyFans, and legally change my name to Cumfart Johnson. If I beat you, though, I want you to give me your dog and I want you to eat a whole jar of mayonnaise during your retirement speech, where you will walk-of-shame with a Mike Best t-shirt and no pants like Winnie the fucking Pooh. Do we have a bet? Are you feeling lucky? Wanna dance with the Devil in the pale moonlight?
Or maybe we can go bigger.
Maybe we can make this an actual deathmatch, so you can go to Heaven and give Max Kael a chronological breakdown of every wrestler who has ever died in HOW, with absolutely zero idea how to use that information to cut a halfway decent promo. You are the most embarrassing thing ever to happen to a company that used to make it’s employees sometimes suck a small cow’s dick. I’m already in talks with Dyson for a Scott Stevens Memorial Vacuum Cleaner, because literally nothing in the world sucks harder than you do. Once I ship you off to the glue factory like the dead horse you are, maybe you can put all that free time to good use– in the aftermath of COVID, small businesses everywhere are in desperate need of employees, and everyone in HOW knows that Scott Stevens does jobs better than anyone.
You fucking mutant Walmart Greeter.
I could drop all five of these promos without a single word from you and still have to cut content– it’s physically difficult to pare down what kind of a fucking loser you are into only 3,750 words. You fucking tampon munching, excuse making, no redemption story having weeble that never wobbles, it just falls down. You fucking wet fart blown through soggy spandex. You six foot six bag of missed opportunities and tribal tattoos inked by A Tribe Called Questionable. Your fucking frown looks like a used up pussy flapping in the breeze– I oughta staple a fucking clit to your right dimple so that something about your stupid face can be stimulating for a change.
I’ll stuff a fucking butt plug in your nose too, you dirty little slut.
This is fucking it, Stevens. Literally the final showdown. The last time that Mike Best and Scott Stevens will ever do battle, and we do it on my fucking turf in my fucking cage. This is basically masturbation, Scott. One last hurrah, so I can jizz all over the canvas and tell everyone how great that I am for putting you out of High Octane Wrestling forever. I’m not gonna waste a bunch of fake hype putting you over, because it’s a waste of time. No one is going to believe it. My whole schtick in a wrestling ring is to build a guy up and make him look like a threat, but it would be so fucking condescending to even bother with you. You are a joke, Stevens. An afterthought. Nothing you have said or done in years has made a difference to literally anyone, and no one will remember you once you’ve gone. It’s over, Stevens. No more titles. No more opportunities. No Hall of Fame, no redemption.
The war is over, Scott.
You are Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and when me and my big American knee drop into the side of that skull at War Games, I’m going to wipe you off the face of the Earth, install a fucking puppet government into the Stevens family, and teach your fucking children how to manufacture VCRs.
I’m going fucking nuclear.
The half-life on your career is up.