Hope you slept well.
Maybe you’re waking up feeling a little hungover this morning. Had a couple too many Hawaiian Punches last night and made some bad decisions. Decided flexing nuts on High Octane Jesus was an intelligent decision. I actually was about to do a whole chunk about your age and inexperience, but I just checked your bio to see exactly how young you actually are.
Holy SHIT, Conor.
The balls on you. Oh, Mike doesn’t have it anymore. He isn’t 2021 Mike. Motherfucker, do you know what I achieved in HOW by the time I was fucking thirty? I’d already been the HOW World Champion eight times. I’d already smashed records you’re not even tall enough to see without tippy toes and a stepladder. Are you kidding me?
Fuck man, I thought you were kid.
I thought all the hubris was just hormones. Delayed onset puberty. Your little nutsack had a few rogue hairs pop up and you decided to step to the king, but it turns out you’re eleven years older than Tyler. All of the sudden, this adorable little nut flexing is a lot less adorable, and a whole lot more disrespectful.
You ungrateful little shit.
It’s destiny that the old lions will be eaten by the young in the end, but you are no young lion, motherfucker. If you were gonna be The Guy around here, you’d already be him. You’re talking about speed and agility and resilience like this is a fucking video game, but you said it yourself, Conor, the games are over. So let’s talk facts. Since you debuted in 2020, I’ve lost four matches.
I’ve had more matches than you. Won more matches than you. Lost over 5x less than you have. I don’t have it anymore? Compared to me, you’ve never had it, motherfucker. If I’m washed up, you’re still drowning in my fuckin’ bath water. You’re standing in front of Mount Rushmore throwing rocks, but I’m a mountain and you’re a molehill. You are a tremendously talented athlete, Conor. You can do things in the ring that I can’t do and have never been able to do. You’re fast. You’re agile. I’m not taking any of those things away from you.
But I am a GOD, Conor.
That is barely an exaggeration.
I am the one. Once in a lifetime. Never been one like me, never will be again. That you feel so comfortable outright disrespecting me and speaking to me like we’re equals isn’t a failure on your part, though. It’s a failure on mine. And it’s a failure that I’m going to correct at 97Red, with extreme prejudice.
It’s going to be Biblical, Conor.
Old Testament shit.
You shouldn’t be able to look me in the eyes and believe a word you’ve said since you took that controller off your stupid little trunks. You shouldn’t have the audacity, but you do. And now it’s my job to strip that audacity away, piece by piece, and teach you how to behave in the presence of a higher fucking power. And I don’t care what it takes, Conor. You be as fast as you want. You be as agile as you want. You get up as many times as you want, because I am going to meet you with a persistence and a brutality that is going to change the makeup of your fucking DNA. I am going to change you on a molecular and a metaphysical level. You will not be the same after our match at 97Red, Conor.
I will make you humble.
I will make you respect me.
Since you think this is easy mode, come find out. Step into the cage and tell me how easy it is. Tell me how safe it feels. Tell me that I’m lazy, when I smash your face against the bars until that smart mouth of yours looks like a broken toy box full of mismatched pieces. Tell me I’m not as good as I used to be, while I permanently change the shape and structure of your jaw with a series of strikes that are just as fucking powerful as they were in 2021.
Come find out, Conor.
You wanna talk my talk and play my game, then be my guest. But you’re gonna earn it the same way I did. Because I earned the right to talk my shit.
I bleed 97 Red.
Let’s see what color you bleed.