I love when people take credit for shit that they had no fucking hand in.
The shows sold out night after night? That wasn’t because of you, dickhead, that was in spite of you. And I was content on my couch but the Best Family called me. I didn’t call them. And you know what I did? I won War Games in my second match back after they called me. While you lost. Again. Because when the Best Family needs a real patriot, they call Christopher America, not Steve Solex.
And me? Shut the fuck up? You must not watch the show or know your HOW history. I don’t do that. Ever.
What I do is take the dumb shit people say and show them just how fucking stupid they really are.
You still talk about me not serving as if that makes one fucking bit of difference in wrestling.
ITS FUCKING WRESTLING DICKHEAD!
Get over your military service. Get over the fact that wrestlers don’t need to serve to be great. And wrestlers don’t need to serve to be World Champions. So, right now, I’m not just A man, I’m THE man.
And you’ll forgive me if I don’t lend a word of credence to a man who walks and talks like a Proud Boy manifesto that he’s been scribbling down in his basement because he’s upset that “the black man” was president in 2009.
Let me guess, January 6th was a peaceful protest and the “orange man” is still your president.
Do me a favor. Since Roe was overturned, do the legal thing: take a coat hanger, shove it in your ear, drive it into your brain, and abort any notion in your head that you’re going to beat me.
For lackluster shitheads that peaked in high school, like yourself, of course this is the culmination. It’s the first great thing that’s happened to you since the time the gym teacher gave you that “physical” before you began your baseball career. But don’t get it twisted, you didn’t earn this shot. I gave it to you. You wanted me to thank you for your service, bitch, thank me for this title shot.
I’m going to enjoy dissecting you in front of the entire world. I’m going to pick you apart piece by piece and expose you as nothing more than one of many in a line of HOW wrestlers who thought they could hang with me. From Mike Best to Max Kael, from Kostoff to Joe Bergman, I’ve beaten them all.
Don’t talk to me about 2002 insults when you perpetually live in the 1950s because it’s the last place where you feel comfortable. While some snowflakes need a safe space, you need a safe fucking decade.
As for calling you a toxic male, you called yourself that. Or don’t you fucking remember? All those shitty Leave It To Stever segments are just a blur at this point, aren’t they? You embraced that moniker and now you want to turn it on me as if I’m suddenly calling you that. What a coward. You aren’t a real man. You just fucking identify as one. All in the hopes that it makes up for all the other shortcomings in your sad, miserable existence. Your pronouns should be sad/shit.
As for my fashion sense, what does that get you in HOW? You dressed as a MERCDAD, got pinned. Wear a vest to protect you from barbed wire, still get pinned. Wear a mask, you stare at the lights. I could dress up like Scooby Doo, still beat you, bury you like a bone, shit on your grave, and solve the mystery of why Steve Solex never amounted to anything. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t because of Old Man Jenkins.
You seem to forget that this is about skill and ability. I tap into an endless supply of talent. You’re lucky if you can hit a chunk in a depleted mine. That’s why I can win War Games in my second match back in HOW while you struggle to maintain relevance and struggle to earn a win.
It must be hard for you now that I’m back, since you can’t be the patriotic American on the roster. And now it’s a bigger shame Stevens came back for War Games, that means you can’t steal the moniker of Lonesome Loser. After I beat you, you should go back to the fucking drawing board, since I’m going to erase any credibility you have left.
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