- Event: Refueled LXIV
There’s so much projection here, I must’ve walked into a movie theater.
Getcha popcorn ready.
Do you know what I think is fun and wild and a big ol’ hoot, Mike? That you called me the Queen of France but you’re not too far off from that throne yourself, are you? And I’m not talking about that two month fling we had which you – predictably – bailed on, since:
One, you change your mind more than you change your best friends, and
Two, you couldn’t handle being with someone who has their actual shit together.
Y’know, as opposed to the alternative: living your best bachelor life as an emotionally stunted, anxiety-riddled, narcissistic adult toddler who lies through his teeth, forgets he has a wife …. and also forgets about being broke.
Remember that story? How long did that last, a week?
What about “Katy?” A month? Two?
What a trip.
Speaking of best friends, have you figured out yet how you’re gonna trick Cecilworth into trusting you long enough to get him to turn his back so you can jab a dagger between his shoulder blades? Maybe you’ll go with the trusty ballpoint to the eye, or think you’re slick with the ol’ poison in a coffee cup trick.
So many choices, whatever will you choose?
Either way, everything will be fine afterward won’t it?
AS LONG AS YOU WIN.
Really looking forward to seeing it on a show banner, though. It benefits you, so it’ll get done quickly.
What must it be like to be you, Mike, to have everything and nothing? You should still be world champion, but you phoned it in at ICONIC with three milquetoast blog posts and knew if you lost you could still brag about not being pinned even in defeat. Jiles didn’t “give you nothing,” you just didn’t want it bad enough. Now you’re out here wailing and beating your chest about how nobody wants to fight you in HOFC, but you’re the captain of a division that features Sad Hollywood Promos while the rest of us are living our Best lives away from you.
You’re a therapist’s and a rehab center’s wet dream with all that baggage you cart around. You’re physically unable to be alone because – unlike how you painted me as bouncing from stable to stable here in HOW – you’re the actual master of it. Group of Death. The eMpire, in two companies, no less. Project Ego. The Machine in Ye Olde UTAH. How is it that HOW’s Greatest Wrestler has the uncanny ability to use his so-called “friends” as shields because he’d rather team up with them instead of face them?
It’s because you’re still an addict. You’re addicted to winning because this is all you have. You’re so afraid to lose that every person you felt remotely threatened by or that you wanted to avoid facing at different points in time, you aligned with instead.
Jace. Tara. Sektor. Cecilworth. Max. Dan. Me.
And I’m the biggest threat of them all, aren’t I?
That’s why you went after me the hardest this week. And why you feigned taking the high road in your “Best Bets” piece, only to out and out lie by the end of it. And why I had you beat in last year’s LBI, but since your ego wouldn’t let you take a pin like a man you had to finagle your way around it and your loss ended up feeling more like a win.
I gave you my absolute best and you couldn’t handle losing to your better. And then, because you are nothing if not predictable, you tried to justify it with another shitty blog post to absolve yourself of your transgressions before your literal deathmatch against Max at Rumble at the Rock.
Guess what, asshole: I don’t forgive you. I never have. I hold grudges for time eternal, and I’m gonna knee you to death and paint the octagon 97red with your blood Saturday night. I throw knees just as well as you do, SON, and I’ll tie you up and twist you until your ribs snap and sing the Executioner’s Song just to add insult to injury.
The only ringer the Best Alliance should’ve brought with them this week is a shitty little War Games T-shirt.
I’m getting my moment of triumph that I should’ve had a year and a half ago, Mike, and you and Lee can die mad about it.
How’s that for a promo, dickhead.