John Michael Montcum-in-me Ass Bitch

John Michael Montcum-in-me Ass Bitch

Posted on February 4, 2021 at 7:45 pm by Mike Best

“I KNEW YOU WERE GONNA SAY THAT” 

Congratulations, Miss fucking Cleo. I’d call a dude in a wheelchair a cripple, too, if the orthopedic shoe fit. Don’t talk like a discount Kostoff and I won’t fucking call you one. If you’re so easy to clown that you can predict my suspiciously specific callouts, then maybe don’t be such a fucking clown. Or maybe don’t revert to the most cliche fucking comeback of all time, “predictable”. 

The only thing predictable is the finish to our match, bud. 

You’re right. Every winning streak has to end, but it ain’t gonna be you, Cowboy Troy. You been here long enough to dust two guys who didn’t belong in a HOFC cage, and now you think you’re gonna get yourself famous off the back of a guy who was SO GOOD AT THIS DIVISION THAT THEY RETIRED IT BECAUSE I STARTED KILLING PEOPLE. You do your research on that one, dipshit? Or was that not part of the “look at the last couple of matches to look like I know a fucking thing about the champ” late night college boy cram? Every single person to face me for a year said that the streak had to end sometime. 

All of them, Clay. 

You didn’t think that one up for yourself. That wasn’t college learnin’. It’s the same tired trope they all invoke, thinking it’s gonna shape the hands of fate. All of them failed, too. ALL OF THEM, CLAY. So what the fuck makes you special? You beat John Sektor, fuckin’ good for you, hoss– I got bored of that in 2013, when you were still playing Wax On, Wax Off in your dead daddy’s hay barn on a wrestling ring made of plywood and cornstalks. Your daddy never won any battles against men like me, Clay. 

Because there ARE no men like me. 

I am a freak of fucking nature, and not the kind that the doctor’s threw in the garbage when your sister aunt gave birth to something with four arms and nipples for eyes. I keep talking about my record because it’s my FUCKING RECORD, you stupid fuck– it isn’t bullshit pandering about knocking you out. It isn’t the word YER seventy thousand times followed by some empty threats I can’t back up. It isn’t embellishment, Big & Wretch. It’s EXACTLY WHAT I HAVE DONE for eleven years in HOW. I don’t know what kind of cow barn debate you think we’re having, but it doesn’t matter how many lies you tell the world.

I am going to fuck you up on Saturday night. 

I am going to knock you out. 

You are going to wake up confused. 

And it’s not even personal, Clay. How could it be? You’re barely a person. A talkin’, twangin’ cliche telling me that it’s cliche to say that you’re cliche. You are a walking nothing of a human being, and I’m not gonna make it personal or make you famous just because you want me to. I’m going to wait for the bell to ring, and I’m just gonna beat you. Is that better for you, Clay? If I cut all the zingers and wordplay out of it, and just speak plain fucking English? I’m going to beat you, because I am a better wrestler than you, and no amount of your honky tonk dogshit is going to change that outcome. It’s not fate. It’s not destiny. It’s not the will of Lee Best. It’s what happens when two men step into a cage, and one of them is a superior athlete, a superior talent, and a superior human being. 

This IS your career highlight. 

Making it far enough into the Denucci Cup to lose to the greatest wrestler in the world. No shame in that, but it’s about time you shut the fuck up and stop digging holes for yourself, Clay. It’s about time you realized that the more you talk about that big hurt you’re gonna put on me, the more it’s gonna hurt your ego when I treat you the same way I treat everyone else. 

You aren’t special. 

You aren’t the chosen one. 

You aren’t the game changer. 

You’re Clay fucking Byrd, a corn fed big boy outta the Lone Star state, and at Refueled I’m going to knock you the fuck out. That’s it. Sorry to disappoint you. No final wordplay. No witty final sentence. No big punchline at the end. 

You’re a fucking nobody, and I’m done with you.