Be careful what you wish for.
Especially when it’s a death wish.
Xander, you REALLY fucked up, bud. I mean you screwed the pooch on a near cosmic level here. You disturbed my slumber. Woke me from the Odinsleep, from an impossibly dark cave where I was napping on a big pile of gold. I was satisfied, Xander. I was full. I’d been eating well for fifteen years and I was content to spend my days withering away behind a desk until they put me in the ground.
Boy, you really, really fucked this one.
I’ve seen a lot of shit in all my years in HOW, Xander. Seen a dude get burned alive and carted around in coffee can. Seen a man get blown by a cow. Watched people die. You know what I’ve never seen? A motherfucker who thinks he’s so good at basketball that instead of proclaiming himself king, he summons Jordan back from the dead just to get dunked on.
What were you thinking?
You did it, Xander. You ran the gauntlet. Walked the unsanctioned path. And you did it all for nothing, all because you had to get your little ouija board out and call out the man who has not been beaten in HOFC in THIRTEEN FUCKING YEARS. The man who has beaten you TWICE in the very division you’re trying to flex nuts in. The man who holds the records for most reigns, longest reigns, and most defenses. I’m starting to feel crazy, quoting my statistics so often. Am I crazy? Is it me?
Or all you just stupid as fuck?
I was fucking gone. HOW was free. The title pictures have been interesting. The shows were different and fresh. It was a new renaissance in the land of Octane. Then this dumb piece of shit is gonna invoke my true name and compel me to burst back through the High Octane wall like a bloodlusted Kool Aid man, making everyone yell “OH NOOOO”.
Well, you wanted it and you got it.
So… now what?
You wanna cut five promos on me while I pretend that it’s gonna be a close contested contest? You want me to sell for you, big dawg? You want me to pass the torch? I don’t know what type of trash talk you dickheads are getting accustomed to since I rode off into the sunset, but ain’t no cornfields or all caps promos here, boss. You’re gonna get fucking murdered. I’d sooner set this whole motherfucker on fire than pass a torch, and if I’m coming back for one more match, it’s not a curtain call.
It’s a fucking crime scene.
See I don’t think you get it. You don’t get me out of bed for a handjob, bitch. I’m coming for that whole ass. I’ll fill you like a primordial jelly donut. I’ll get you fucking pregnant. I’m gonna plant seed in so many of the holes in your face that nine months from now your skull is the Xander Azula Memorial Gardens. Are you following the metaphor here? Because you’re gonna get clowned on like a bearded lady at the bottom of a circus pile. They’re gonna make a Netflix documentary about this.
Fuuuuuck you’re lucky I’m high.
You’re lucky I’m wasting creative energy on re-reading a paragraph four times to determine whether I’m effectively communicating that I’m going to plant enough DNA at ICONIC to win the Mark Fuhrman Award. You’re lucky I’m distracted by all the funny ways to threaten you with violence, and haven’t even made it around to deciding what the best way to break you is. What do you want, buddy?
You want the knee again?
Or is that getting old?
Want me to invent a finisher? Apply an arm bar? Beat you to death with your own severed arms and then use them to pat me on the back for a job well done? I can’t believe I came back for this. You fucking member of the Hall of Fame class of literally never. You didn’t deserve this match and it’s fucking wasted on you. Could have been America. Could have been Jatt. Could have been a literally reconstructed Max Kael operated on marionette strings by a team of puppeteers in the FUCKING RAFTERS. But it’s you. The identity-less graduate from spooky rehab. You get my last match ever. Fucking bow and show some respect. Beg for your life. Beg me for 750 more words, bitch.
HOFSee Deez Nuts.