There once was a boy named Fuse,
Whose trash talk has failed to amuse.
If he steps to Mike Best,
He’ll get kicked in his chest,
He came this far only to lose.
His first try at talking some shit,
Was predictably lacking in wit,
He thinks that he’s whacky,
But he’s ungodly hacky,
But the dumbfuck’s too stupid to quit.
So then he tried making a list,
And he thought that I’d likely get pissed,
But at most? Disappointed,
It was sad and disjointed,
The mark that he aimed for was missed.
The third one though? That’s the real turd.
From a petulant, sad little nerd.
Just mindless conversing,
About how much I’m cursing;
It was Dogshit, to sum up in a word.
So now, here I sit, and I’m bored.
Cause I know he’s already been floored,
My first two were killers,
So this one’s just filler,
But these limericks are striking a chord.
Conor, you did so much cryin’,
About cursing and knees and Dan Ryan,
You thought it was cash,
But it was talk that was trash,
Not trash talk, it was bad, no denyin’.
You tried to step up to the King,
But forgot about one fucking thing,
His chances were zero,
Because I KNEED A HERO,
And his ass got knocked out in the ring.
HAVE I MADE MY POINT SUFFICIENTLY CLEAR YET, CONOR?
This is my fucking niche.
This is the thing I do best.
I have been undefeated for over a year, doing the thing that I am SECOND BEST at. I haven’t lost a HOFC fight since 2010. 2010, Conor. 20fucking10. Two console generations ago, since you’re so one note that I could play you on a guitar with four broken strings. It has been eleven years, Conor… that’s a long fucking time, and there’s a reason for that. There’s a reason that Lee Best has let this division collect dust for so long. There is a reason that I fought so hard to bring it back. There is a REASON that the unprepared should stay out of the fucking deep end, Conor, because HOFC is my favorite thing in the universe.
More than titles.
More than dunking on simpletons.
More than beating people at their own game.
I like to get into cages and knock grown men unconscious. I like to shorten careers with my limbs. I like to talk shit and back it up, Conor, and no Konami Code is going to bring you back from where I’ll send you.
Put that on your list.
“Rips off lines from Hook.”
The next list you write with my name on it had better be a Last Will and Testament, because it’s time for you to get one notarized and get your fucking affairs in order. Wear the underwear that you want to be buried in. Are you catching my drift?
No? Still just have jokes?
You know that farm where you Mom sends all the dogs you hugged too hard while watching your Saturday morning cartoons? After Refueled, you are GOING TO THAT FUCKING FARM. To play with the sheep and run with the ducks and shit. With all the Nintendos you could ever want, and a Gameboy for every day of the year. Where the wifi is strong, and there is a big shelf full of all of your favorite games, and you never have to bring them back to Blockbuster. You’re not just going to that fucking farm, Conor, you’re buying it on Saturday night. And I don’t think you’ve properly processed that.
I really don’t think you understand the danger that you’re in.
And maybe that’s for the best, Conor. Maybe it’s better you don’t know your fate. Maybe it’s better if you think this is just another ho-hum fucking match for you, and you never have to face your own stunningly idiotic mortality. You can just keep walking through like like Lenny from fucking Of Mice and Men, petting the rabbit you found in your mom’s bedside drawer while I put my knee to the back of your head.