Good Ol’ Number-One

So, is this match still happening? Is it still a fight?

I’m so far out of the loop with all of this shit, but I can’t imagine that you’re going to show up on Saturday. Are you? I fuckin’ hope so. I can’t imagine that you would deprive the world of seeing you get absolutely decimated by the Dad-Soldier.

If Mike can call himself a God-King, I can be a Dad-Soldier; eat a dick.

But back to the task at hand; Black Mamba. Rumor has it that you call yourself the Black Mamba because the late, great Kobe Bryant allowed you to use the name. Imagine that bullshit. A professional fucking wrestler asking a basketball player to use a nickname. A man who is supposed to be able to fight and win against other men asking a fuckin’ basketball player for permission. That is un-fuckin-real. That’s not what wrestlers do. That’s not what a fuckin’ man does, Mamba. I would have taken the name and made Kobe beg for it back. Of course, he’d have never even had the balls to ask. And frankly, I wouldn’t have given him a fuckin’ thing, anyway. But that’s just how I roll, Mamba. That’s how real men roll. We don’t ask for permission, we just take what we want and we don’t ask any questions. This is probably way over your head, Mamba. That’s alpha-shit that I just don’t expect a guy like you to understand; you beta-bitch. You can take notes though, I won’t stop you from that. At some point in every boy’s life he must become a man and if taking notes from good ol’ number-one is going to get you there someday, then by all means get that shit done. And if one day, you need some advice…I’ll be glad to give it to you. In fact, I’ll give you some right now: Don’t show up. That is the best advice you’ll ever get in your sad existence, Mamba.

Black Mamba. Pshhh. The best thing about that name died in a helicopter crash, and there is absolutely no coming back from that. If only it was you; you fuckin’ imposter. You phony. You fake.

Or are you named after that blonde chick in that Tarantino flick? You know, the one where she snatches that whistling bitches lone eye out of her head and feeds her to that fuckin’ Black Mamba? Nah, that can’t be it…not at all. That chick could fight, you can’t. She had a purpose. Her purpose was to Kill Bill. But Mamba, what’s yours?

What’s your purpose?

It sure as hell isn’t to get a win over me, cause that shit will never fuckin’ happen. The only purpose that you are serving is as placeholder first round opponent in the DeNucci Cup for Steve fuckin’ Solex. That’s what your motherfuckin’ purpose is, son.

But you do you, Mamba. Keep comin’ at me with that old man shit and find out what happens when these old knuckles crush that fucked up lookin’ thing that sits six inches above your narrow ass shoulders. You won’t have to wait to find out, I’ll bring that shit right to your front door like UPS and deliver you the biggest beat down you’ve ever experienced. When this old man strangles the life out of our sorry ass, remember this moment. When your lips go numb and just before it goes dark…remember this moment. I want you to remember the moment in time that I warned you: Please, don’t show up.

But when you do show up, because of course you will. Don’t be mad with me. Don’t cry to me. Like a Dad that watches his son touch the hot stove; I know you have a lesson you need to learn.