I’m done. I’m retiring.
This is my last hoo-rah.
My last sha-bang.
I will forever call High Octane Wrestling my home.
I will forever call Lee Best one of my best friends in the world.
Lookin’ at you too, Mike Best.
I love this place.
But now’s the time.
You don’t have to ask me why, it should be painfully fucking obvious.
The people have changed and that means that the sport has changed.
It used to be full of men that were tough as nails. Men who could squeeze an apple with one hand until it exploded into a million pieces. Animals who would drive 10 hours one way to wrestle for $50 just because they fucking loved it. Gladiators who could shake the entire arena with a spinebuster that would cripple any normal man.
Now, it’s full of pussies.
All of you have softened to the point that it makes my fucking stomach turn. You’re all a bunch of soft as fuck bitches who wouldn’t last 10 minutes in the HOW of old. That’s where I belong and if I could turn back time I could. But instead of that, I’m facing Xander Azula in a fucking HOFC match in GOD’s House for some fucking reason.
What the fuck have I devolved to?
I’m not Lebron James, I don’t give a fuck about my bullshit legacy…I care about what’s happening right now. And right now, I’m a little fuckin’ pissed off. I’m so far out of your league, Xander, you’d see the craters on Mars with your naked eye before you ever got a fuckin’ glimpse of me.
I’m like something you’ve never seen in your fucking life.
I’m a motherfuckin’ beast.
I’m the Last Man in Wrestling. The fuckin’ MERCDAD.
Who the fuck are you?
Oh, wait…you’re the “FIGHTER.”
Fuck outta’ here.
You’re a goddman disgrace.
You need to come to grips and face the fact that you’re just not ready for me, Xander.
You never will be.
Stepping into the cage with me is like trying to climb Everest in shorts and a t-shirt. Not only do you lack the necessary tools to get to the top, you are completely unfit for the task and you are drastically underestimating the elements that you’re up against.
Even if you land a couple of shots, you still stand no chance in hell at winning. Just when you think you’ve reached the top, just when you think you’ve done absolutely everything necessary to win, I bounce back. And your left to it was all an illusion.
A false summit.
But that’s just another day at the office for you, ain’t it, tough guy?
Another day. Another loss.
Do you really think that you have a shot at winning?
You have more losses than Kostoff and his son combined. The only thing that’s been beaten up more than you is Lindsay Troy’s pussy. But that was by PRIME guys, so it really doesn’t count.
How many losses does it take to get you to fucking leave? You don’t fucking belong here, you never have…you never will. I’d say I hate to break it to ya’, but that’s not really my style is it?
Nah, I’m the gritty misogynist type that every chick claims to hate but can’t get enough of when their boyfriend’s not in the room. I’m the guy that beta males call “disgusting” when they reference me to the females that friend zoned them years ago…meanwhile, the mere mention of my name makes your chick bite her lip.
I’m the guy to beat, Xander.
You’re just another guy.
I’m going to love every second of every round that you and I are in that cage together. Everytime my fist connects with your bullshit face, my heart will warm. Everytime my shin bone crashes against your thigh and makes hamburger meat out of it, an angel will get its wings.
Your chin’s been tested and it’s flimsier Cecilworth Farthington’s spine.
Just cause you call yourself a fighter, that doesn’t make you one. That’s like me calling myself a fucking Democrat. Catch my drift, fruit cake?
I don’t think I need to explain that one, or do I?
Then again, after all the ass whoopings you’ve taken over the past year, CTE might be tucking you up and I might need to.
But I won’t, cause fuck you.
I’m Everest. You’re a fucking mole hill.
You can’t fucking win.
Quit now or regret it for the rest of your shitty, fucked up, life.