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GOD I fuckin’ hate you.
Listenin’ ta ya talk ‘bout this fuckin’ HOFC disaster is like listenin’ ta a billionaire cry ‘bout the economy. Ya have all the resources, all the talent, all the clout in the fuckin’ world. And yet here we are.
The verge of the shit pile, Lee talkin’ ‘bout throwin’ the tag straps overboard, instead of this 1977 Chevy Chevette of a division. At least people ask ta have tag matches every now and again, at least they think ‘hey I can go win that one and matter.’ Ya know, kick the tires and decide if it’s right fer them.
Instead we toss people who don’t wanna be here ta the fuckin’ wolves and watch them get ripped apart. It doesn’t matter that they couldn’t fight their way out of a brown paper bag in the middle of the ocean if their life depended on it. Naa fuck ‘em, let’s send em out there ta fuckin’ die.
At first I thought it was fun ya know, it was amusing watchin’ the pathetic excuse of an HOFC fight commence. It was like watchin’ baby gazelles get murdered by lions on National Geographic.
But it was all too easy Mike, and it can’t be like that forever. Eventually all the baby gazelles are gone, eventually all the people who can’t defend themselves have left the fucking building.
And you’re left with me.
This is it Mike, this is the last fight in this division that actually fuckin’ matters. Lindsay Troy ran away, and there’s nobody else willin’ ta step up ta ya but me. Steve Harrison won’t fuckin’ do it, Cancer Jiles won’t fuckin’ do it, Dan Ryan won’t fuckin’ do it, and JPD won’t fuckin’ do it.
It’s just the two of us.
Sure ya could smash Xander’s head in fer the 27th time. Or ya could get a little thing with Solex started. But we all know the outcome of those fights Mike. It would be the easiest money the HOGs ever fuckin’ made.
I’m the only one you’re unsure about. I’m the only one who fucking scares you. And you should be scared Mike, because just like when ya lost ta Jiles yer already startin’ up the excuse caboose. “Oh my arms infected, I’m the one armed man, now’s the time to come fight me.”
That’s yer ego already inventing justifications ta protect itself. That lil fragile bastard has ya by the absolute fuckin’ balls. After we’re done here, and I’m sure we’ll be done soon, I’ll give you enough money ta drive down and buy the cheapest handgun ya can find and a single bullet. I hope ya know what ta fuckin’ do with it.
Because I don’t want to hear the excuses when I’m done eviscerating you. I don’t want to hear the fuckin’ cryin’ that I shit all over your precious fucking division. Because it will be MY fuckin’ division Mike. It will be here to stroke MY ego, I’ll go to sleep every night with the knowledge that I broke Mike Best. That I took his fucking toy and broke it. And I’ll sleep like a fucking baby.
Nobody will fear the little zingers and barbs you throw, the script ta beat Mike Best will be out there. Laid out for the entire fucking world, and your self esteem will be less secure than a copy of Windows 98. You’ll go cry to your shitty little group of death friends, and you’ll think they are gonna have yer back, that they’ll pump up that broken little boy.
But Mike, they are gonna lay it out real nice for ya: Clay Byrd beat Mike Best. And you’ll throw a little shit fit just like everyone else does. Because at your core Mike, at the very base level, you’re just like them. This culture, you fucking breed it. You are what you permit Mike, and as a leader here, you permitted a lot of justifications.
Do you know what a justification is Mike?
An excuse that you fuckin’ believe in. And lately Mike, you’ve been doin’ an awful lot of makin’ and believin’.
Yer a fucking chump, a shell of yourself, and I’m going to put you out of your fucking misery. I know what I’m beating, I know exactly what the thoroughbred horse I’m going to turn into fucking paste was. But ya ain’t that anymore Mike, the king of the mountain is long fucking gone. Instead, what we have is this.