I’m not really gonna respond to all of that, Stevens.
No, this isn’t pre-written. It’s 12:19 CST on Memorial Day. I could go point by point and address the bingo halls and the fact that you don’t know who Jack Kevorkian is. I could talk about the list of nicknames you dropped, since after ten years you still don’t know the difference between stats and content. But I no longer have the energy, Stevens. I’m tired. Exhausted.
For four promos, you’ve been bragging that it hurt my knuckles when you ran full steam into my fist. I’m beating the shit out of you and you don’t even know it. It’s not really even that fun, to be honest— I was looking forward to this match, but it’s just excruciating with you. You have literally never gotten better. Do you realize that? You think it’s some big inside joke that keeps you out of the Hall of Fame, but it isn’t. It’s simple, man— you’re not very good. You’re cringey. Your shit was dated ten years ago. You never change or evolve in any way, just Super Stoovins pretending to be a badass, nonplussed that the entire universe seems to disagree.
You’re right. It would be humiliating to lose to you.
Spot on. First smart thing you said in four promos. It would be utterly embarrassing. I deserve to be shamed if I lose this match. I deserve to be retired. Because you’re fucking garbage, man. And I know that’s not smart to say. It’s bad business to bury a guy— you think I don’t know that? I should be putting you over. I should be building you up. But it just isn’t believable, Scott. There isn’t a human being alive outside of you that thinks this match will even be competitive, much less a match you can win. I am the single best to ever do this. Haven’t lost at it in over ten years now. You’re fucking trash, dude. It’s embarrassing, sincerely. I know you’re already thinking up a rebuttal, twiddling your fingers like Mr. Burns, but it’s not a trash talk quip, Stevens.
You can’t beat me.
Five promos to three. I don’t really care about the fourth wall anymore. Penalize me. It’s whatever at this point. You beat me one time in ten years, five promos to three, because I couldn’t be bothered to max out. You’ve been coasting on that win for years, and that’s fucking sad, man. What an actual bummer. I barely remember the greatest day of your life. It was just another fucking day. Jesus, man, I feel like I’m bullying a kid in a wheelchair. Why isn’t this more fun? I get to dunk on you and then retire you. Why, after five promos, does that not spark any joy for me?
Maybe it’s because this is just a free title defense.
Maybe I’m bored of being the king of a division that everyone is afraid to compete in. It’s not that much fun to kick guys like you and Hollywood around anymore, Scott. You never get better. You never take constructive criticism. You’ve both been desperately crying about redemption for years, but you’re both too arrogant to hit rock bottom. I pitched both of you guys a stint at FiveTime that could have revitalized you, and you both scoffed and pissed away the opportunity because you thought it would make you look weak. Well guess what, Stevens?
A few days ago, Dad called me to tell me I wasn’t allowed to literally murder you at War Games. It wasn’t because he was worried about me, or because he thought you were worth keeping around. It’s because we can’t have a murder before the main event. Your life isn’t even being saved by pity, Stevens, it’s being saved because of show structure. He told me that I wasn’t allowed to kill you, and then we started talking about whether or not Lindsay Troy should get the first title shot after War Games.
Not a joke.
Not a one-liner.
Just the sad truth.
I don’t know, whatever man. Wear that smug little smirk and tell me about the rabbits again. Call Joel Hortega a Beaner one last time. Your career is over, so just say whatever the fuck you want, take the knee the same way everyone else does, and get the fuck out of HOW.
There’s your clever end line, Stevens.
Get the fuck out of HOW.