I get to retire Scott Stevens.
Scott Stevens. I get to retire Scott Stevens. I’m sorry, I know these things are on a word count, but holy fuck, guys. I get to retire Scott Stevens. I have been telling this motherfucker to quit the business for like eight years, and now I literally get to sign his pink slip with a concussion for a severance package.
This is the single greatest moment of my career, and I’ve done literally everything.
I feel sorry for everyone who doesn’t get to feel the “seven orgasms on your birthday and your birthday is also Christmas” feeling that is getting to tell Scott Stevens to get the fuck out and never come back. I’m gonna permanently downsize him. Give that can of shit the shitcan. He’s getting eighty-sixed. Sacked. Bounced out. Given old heave-ho.
Scoot fucking Stoovins, what is UP, bitch?
Holy shit, man, you are just ratfucked. Do you even remember the last time you faced me? You probably don’t, because I rang your fucking bell like a Jehovah’s Witness and personally introduced you to Kneesus Christ. I changed your whole life. You don’t even celebrate Christmas or accept blood transfusions anymore. So let me remind you how that match went down:
I broke your nose with a headbutt, put you on the ground, and you refused to stay down. Then I kicked you in the head, put you on the ground, and you refused to stay down. Then, I kneed a dent into your goddamned skull, and you fucking stayed down, Stevens. And did I pin you right then and there, and end the match? No, Scott. I didn’t– I stood up out of a fucking two count, I pulled your stupid face in close, and I said words that have been burned into your brain ever since.
“I’m going to take your child from you, Scott.”
Elbow, smash. Elbow, smash. Elbow, smash. Watch it back, Scott– watch Joe Hoffman literally beg for your life. Watch Matt Boettcher desperately ring the bell, trying to save you from permanent fucking brain damage. Watch security rush down the ramp, trying to pull me off of you before the ring became a crime scene. Watch me walk away laughing, knowing that for all of your losses, and all of your heartbreak, I wasn’t content with just handing you another L, Stevens.
I took your fucking kid.
I literally have possession of your child. Scott Stevens Junior is eating a Lunchable over at my place right now, hanging out with Uncle Sutler and playing fucking Playstation. I couldn’t have emasculated you harder with a sharp blade and an estrogen prescription. Lee doesn’t even like it when I talk about Baby Stoovins, because he’s worried it will be triggering for all the parents in HOW— that’s how fucking mentally scarring it is to have your child ripped away from you. I cut a branch off your fucking family tree.
You fucking Peter Pansy.
I hope that fucking kid is your happy thought this week, because I went full fucking Captain Hook and DRESSED HIM UP LIKE ME, and you didn’t even try and stop me, Smee. You’ve forgotten how to fly, and it’s fitting, because the only place you’re ever beating me is Never Never Land. RUN HOME, JACK– the fans stopped believing in you a long time ago, and no amount of clapping will bring you back from where I’ll send you.
Spoiler: It’s the unemployment line.
Retired, Stevens. I took your dignity, I took your kid, and now I’m coming for your career. This match is the single greatest gift that Lee Best has ever given me, and he once presented me with an ice sculpture of my own face but the ice was actually cocaine. I’ve been dunking on you for almost a decade, and now it’s time for me to shatter the backboard. They’re gonna change the rules of HOFC forever after I’m done with you, to protect future generations of wrestlers. They’re gonna make a documentary about this, Scott. And I swear to fuck, I’m gonna put your kid in the front row and send him home with you as a consolation prize, because I only Stevens’ DNA I want in my apartment is on the front of my knee pad.
I lost to you in 2015 because I wrote a poem.
Let’s tempt fate one more time:
I Kneed A Zero.
And then I retired him.
There’s a haiku, bitch.