- Event: #97RED
Hey Conor, me again.
Sorry to be a bother. I know you’re super busy being a tough, shit talking adult who doesn’t even like video games anymore. You’re probably getting fitted for shoes without Velcro and Googling “how to grow a beard”, and the furthest thing from your mind is little old me and the two title opportunities that you’re facing at 97 Red. But see, I just can’t help myself.
You’ve woken the sleeping giant.
The more I think about your astounding hubris, the more it brings something back to life inside of me. Something I haven’t felt in years. See, this little “safe space” that I inhabit? It turns out that most people are smart enough to be afraid of it. My own lonely sandbox, and the only ones who ever wants to come play with me are either morons or they’re unlucky enough to be conscripted by Lee Best himself. But you? Oh, you’re no run of the mill idiot.
You’re a challenge, Conor.
Haven’t had one of those in a long time.
See, you’re right about me being lazy. You’re right about me not giving it my all. You’re right about me being on autopilot, Conor, but you’re wrong about why. You think I’m fighting guys like Zion because I’m coasting, but I’m coasting because I’m fighting guys like Zion. I can roll out of bed and shit out whatever promo comes to mind. I can skip out on the gym, and still pull a third round knockout with relative ease. But not you, Conor.
Not sleeping on you.
I’m wiiiiiide the fuck awake.
For you, I’ll hit the bags. For you, I’ll get my ass out of bed and drag myself to TEN-X. For you, I’ll be in fighting shape. And maybe you’re silently pumping your fist, thinking “yeah, I got him”, but that’s not good news. You don’t want me engaged. You don’t want me at the top of my game. No one does. It’s something you all clamor for when you pop your shit, but the last time I was engaged, I was fighting in an HOFC tournament and successfully defending my World Championship every. Single. Week. No weeks off. No downtime. No rest.
And dominating.
That wasn’t in some wild bygone era, that was three years ago. That’s the me you want? Great news, I’m right the fuck here. I’ve been here. A domesticated predator, bored of eating spoon fed prey out of a bland aluminum can. I need to stretch my legs. I need to run free, Conor. I need to feast on something that ran for its life first, and make absolutely no mistake, you will run. By the final bell at 97 Red, you will run, you will beg, and you will plead with whatever God will hear you. These promos? Shit’s jokes, man. Drop a few Disney bars on a guy because I’m bored, and I run so many circles around motherfuckers that I get motion sick anyway. But the laughing stops when the door of that cage locks behind us, Conor.
I’m gonna fucking hurt you.
Not a joke.
No laughing matter.
Like you weren’t laughing at Chaos 37, when you told me you were going to give me a humbling experience. When you said that you’re in the driver’s seat. That you’re in control. That you were going to bring HOFC back to relevancy.
Motherfucker.
I am HOFC.
I’m not just in the driver’s seat, Conor. I’m the fucking car. I’m the racetrack, I’m the race, and I’m the fucking stadium. You’re gonna take control? You’re gonna humble me? In the match I made famous, ripped from the depths of “trying to be UFC” hell and thrust into the main fucking event? Go FUCK yourself, you ungrateful little shit. I built this fucking house, don’t you tell me what color to carpet the fucking floors. You’re tired of it being about me? Alright, fine, let’s make this one about you, Conor.
Let’s make it about Conor Fuse’s last match.
Let’s make it the cover story on Sports Illustrated and the top post on Reddit. Headlines about the shitty video game kid who put down the controller, stepped into the real world, and figured out real quick that there’s no fucking extra lives. About all the potential he had, and what a tragedy that it was, his career being cut short like that.
How about I sever your fucking spine, Conor.
We’ll see if you survive the experience.