Congratulations, Xander Azuzu, you’re a rebel and a renegade, constantly proving the experts wrong. I mean, you’re asking me about my chances, which shows me just how selfless and self-sacrificing you are towards your fellow wrestler. Caring is sharing, my good man, and you care more than anyone else I’ve ever known in my three month history in professional wrestling.
And your concern about whether or not I know what I’ve gotten myself into with a match against the Amazing Exxander Aboiliabaise? Bro. Buddy. Pal. Friend. You do care. It fills my cold black heart with happiness to know that. It fills the gigantically gigantic giant frame that you’ll see staring you in the face with glee. I don’t know what I could possibly do to repay all your concern for my well – being, except to tell you the truth about how great you are at this.
You’ve beaten the odds, Chandelier, and you’re living proof that, contrary to popular belief, it is possible to polish a turd.
I’m delusional, Pander? Really? You’re talking about me, aren’t you? And whether or not I’m delusional, you’re talking about me, while nobody in High Octane Wrestling gives a fuck enough about you to learn how to spell your name.
I’ve got something to prove, Bandolier? I’ve won more High Octane Wrestling matches than you, and I’ve lost the same number of HOFC fights as you. Who’s in the better spot, then?
Oh, but I’m sorry – you’re a force of nature. So’s an outbreak of dysentery, you broken rain gutter. I see people in this division be actual tough guys without resorting to the tenth grade emo class journal poetic nonsense. Did the Steves, did Simon and Hannibal bow down before your Discordian worship of Eris? Is that how you beat them?
Too bad they didn’t search google for ‘Surface level attempts at impersonating a deep-thinking warrior poet.’ Unless…
Did they actually take you seriously?
No wonder they ran off. Getting beat in a fight is one thing. Falling victim to the mind games of a forty year old man who’s still trying to fuck the goth chick from his high school is something else entirely, and I’m surprised Steve Solex and Steve Harrison didn’t bugger off to parts unknown too.
Tell me, Xafgdfgn – if the cage is your zone, does that mean I can tame you with a piece of raw meat? When you piss on the floor, can I rub your face in it and smack you in the nose with a newspaper? If you protest at any of these actions, can I loudly call attention to how fucking dumb you sound comparing yourself to an animal?
The fact of the matter is, you could win this fight. You could earn your fifth HOFC victory and you could move up the rankings to get within sniffing distance of Mike Best’s asshole.
You will never, ever, ever.
Ever earn my respect.
You honestly don’t understand what you’re doing. This isn’t some sort of holy quest or divine crusade, Evander. It’s a fight. Two guys in a cage makin’ each other bleed.
The fact that you’re ascribing more to it shows me just how delusional you are. You don’t matter. You will never matter. You could beat Mike Best and Cancer Jiles in back to back matches over the course of fifteen minutes, and you would not ever matter any more than you do right now.
Because you think that these fights will validate you. You think that these fights will cause anyone to pay attention to you. Tell me I’m wrong, Planter. Tell me I’m wrong and I’ll play you back your own video of how desperate you are to seem above me in this company.
You get your hand raised, all you’ve done is defeat a man you’ve already dismissed as delusional and an also-ran. I get my hand raised? Everyone remembers you as the man who talked shit until it literally fell out his mouth, and then got his ass handed to him.
So, in one sense, I’d be doing you a favor by knocking you out.
At least, in that regard, you’d have a hope in hell of someone remembering you were here.