- Event: #97RED
Aww, look at little Conor go.
Engines revved up, ready to burst right out of his adorable little Osh Kosh overalls. Sorry I didn’t have anything prepared, Conor– since this match isn’t the highlight of my entire year, I haven’t spent months thinking about all the cool, try-hard things I was going to say. How many times did you practice in the mirror before you posted it? How proud were you, when you hit send?
I bet you gave yourself a little gold star, too.
Little bitch.
Listen, I’m in the debunking business, so let me just handle the light work: I got into the OCW Hall of Fame this era after running up a 37-0 record. Know why I haven’t done it again? It ain’t cause I don’t have the skills, kid, it’s cause I’m already in the single greatest company in the world, with the highest level talents and the stiffest competition. Same reason you’re here, and not running around in PRIME land with unremarkable midcarders like Jonathan Christopher Hall and Flamberge.
It isn’t interesting to me.
This match was interesting.
It was admittedly more interesting before I realized you were just gonna put on a white t-shirt, dye your hair blonde, and beg me to autograph your little brother’s Starter cap. Spray painting a pair of Nikes gold isn’t the same thing as filling my shoes, little Fuse, but if imitation is the sincerest form of flattery then color me worshipped right now. You can say “how do you like it?” all you want, but a cover band is a cover band, and all you’re doing is playing my greatest hits offkey.
Fuck, you’re playing everyone’s greatest hits.
Oh, Mike can’t go in the ring anymore, so he has to do HOFC. Oh, Mike isn’t what he used to be. Oh, HOFC is Mike’s safe space. I’ll never understand what you dumb fucks think is easier about stepping into a locked cage, where literally anything goes, and fighting until someone stops moving. You understand you can still do your shitty little suplexes, right? The only difference between a traditional wrestling match and HOFC is the sole reason that it’s my favorite thing on planet earth.
It cuts out the bullshit.
It’s the one place where I don’t have to hear about your shitty relationships, or your shitty hopes and dreams, or your played out Elder Scrolls bullshit. I don’t have to learn about your feelings. I don’t have to hear how many ways you can describe a fucking tree. It’s pure trash talk. Pure promo. Pure cagefighting. And every single one of you is afraid of it, because there is not another motherfucker alive that can do what I do. Not a single one. You can call it a safe space. You can call it easy mode. You can make all the excuses you want for why almost none of you are willing to do it, but that’s the truth, Conor.
It’s pure violence.
And I’m the best at it.
Remember what it was like to be the best at something? You’ve had a few minutes here or there where you were the best at something in HOW. Of course, most of those moments ended the second I woke up from a nap and decided that they were over, didn’t they? Every single time we have ever stepped into a ring together, you’ve lost, and that’s what this is all about. You can project as loudly as you like– scream it at the top of your lungs into a gigantic cave, if it helps keep the hurt down deep inside.
HELLOOOOOOLOLOLO!
SAFE SPACESPACESPACESPACE!
Maybe you should have stuck to the video game shit, cause this generic Mike Best clone schtick is gonna work out about as well as it has for every other dummy that’s tried it against me. That’s why no one can beat me, Conor– they all try to do what I do. They all try to do it my way. It’s a cage fight with no rules, but you all choose to play by mine. You write my trash talk without my punchlines. You steal my blogs without my timing. You’re as generic as the fucking trunks you were so proud to unveil, Conor, so if I’m going to knock you the fuck out, at least dance for me a little during the leadup.
You wanna leave the games behind?
Cool.
I’ll make you fucking abandonware.