Oh my Godddddd hurry up.
You know I’ve got more shit to do this week than just wait around for you to be disappointing, right? I know it’s quality over quantity, but since you have neither, let’s at least start getting some words down on paper. You can do this, Xander. Say anything. Literally anything.
Maybe start with an “I’m sorry.”
Tell me you apologize, and that you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. Tell me that you realize you had a few lucky breaks in the DeNucci Cup, but you’ve only gotten this opportunity because Steve Harrison said a bad word. Tell me that you now realize what a grave mistake you’ve made, and that you’ve accepted what a grim beating you’re going to take at Refueled. Tell me anything you want, Azuckerberg, just don’t tell me that you’re going to be the next HOFC Champion.
Don’t you dare lie to me.
Don’t tell me you give a fuck about a division that you belittled as “all I could handle”. Don’t suddenly turn serious face and pretend you were trying to get in my head. You fucked up, dude. You said something stupid, and now you’re desperately trying to figure out how to backpedal and save face. Trust me, homie, once you run into the single most powerful knee on the planet, ain’t gonna be much face left to save.
It isn’t fair, Xander.
It isn’t fair that I can do more with your silence than you can do with my words, is it? I’ve given you two promos chock full of material to work with. You should be embarrassed. You’re in your head now. Knowing full well that whatever you say, I’m gonna dismantle in ten fucking minutes. Overthinking every single word, because if it isn’t JUST PERFECT, I’m gonna bend you over a barrel and use them against you like a phonetic strap on. Worse yet, the longer you wait, the more pressure there is, right? The more time and effort you put into your work, the higher the expectation. No one but me knows that you’re staring at a blank page, desperately hoping that someone gives you the answers.
But they can’t, and they won’t.
There is not a single member of the HOW roster who can do what I do. No one who can bend words the way I bend them. No one who can utterly humiliate and demoralize like I can. There is no one to ask for help, because there is no one who knows how. It’s really just time to post something, Xander, because I’m not racing you to 11:59 on Thursday and I WILL just keep shaming you until I hit five. You think it’s hard to put together 750 words with me breathing down your neck?
Try doing it to abject silence.
Try doing it the way I’m doing it, Xander. See how “distracted” I am right now, still punting that spooky cunt of yours over and over, with literally nothing to work with but one sloppy ill-conceived promo that felt like a good idea at 5:25AM. Don’t wait for me to max out, Xanderson Azilva— you’ll snap that leg trying to attack me four times unanswered once I’ve moved on with my week.
Boy, you really are a shitty coward.
I am going to hurt you bad. Last time, I played with my food before I ate it, but the disdain you seem to have for this division is making me want to send a message. I’m tired of people walking into my backyard and shitting on my grass, so maybe it’s time I hung someone from the ol’ oak tree out front as a reminder of what exactly I do around here. Underneath the dad jokes, and the wordplay, and the puns… I’m a fucking killer, Xander. Using nothing but mean words and knees, I end HOW careers.
Andy Murray quit after I made Perfection describe his shirts all the way back to DEFIANCE. Eric Dane quit over Twitter seconds after being booked against me in a HOFC match. Chris Kostoff somehow survived shovel murder in 2016, but he hasn’t been seen alive since I took his soul in the first round of the DeNucci Cup. Christopher America and Max Kael never survived Alcatraz, spiritually and literally respectively. Work hard on that second promo, but just be aware that it’s already too late.
I am the Grim Reaper of Smiles.
It’s time you lost yours.