Alright, onward to Scott Numero Dos.
Have you two ever considered a tag team called Scott Tissue? Only seems fair, since I have been constantly wiping my ass with the both of you now for years. I ought to start coming down to that cage with a newspaper and a can of fucking Febreze. But hey, enough about me.
How are you, Scotty?
You feeling good? Thinking this might finally be your year? It’s a strange thing between you and I, man. See, Stevens pisses me off. Always know what you’re gonna get with Stevens, and it’s always gonna fucking make me angry. But not you. You’re different. You don’t piss me off, Scotty. You don’t make me want to burst through the fourth wall like a frenzied, crazed Kool-Aid man. And as I go through my War Games stages of grief, accepting exactly what I’ve gotten myself into, I reach the place I always reach with you, Scott. And it’s not anger.
At a certain point, I was able to just give up on the prospect that Scott Stevens was ever going to make it. It took me a couple of years, but eventually I just… gave up. But again, not you, Scotty.
That’s why you disappoint me. You could have been me, man. I mean, a less handsome, less witty, marginally less talented me, but a me nonetheless. So many times, I’ve seen you on the cusp of greatness. On the cusp of breaking the glass ceiling. On the cusp of finding your potential. And it’s disappointing, because it isn’t that you haven’t had the opportunity. It isn’t that you don’t have the talent..
You just never gave a fuck.
Sure, you’ve paid lip service to giving a fuck. I’ve heard you get fired up. Seen those glimmers of effort. But you have never truly had the dedication to HOW, or yourself, that would have been required to succeed here. The truth is that you’re a lazy, unreliable drunk who has zero follow through and it’s fucking disappointing. I achieved more in my first two years in HOW than you have achieved in ANY OF THE SUBSEQUENT YEARS COMBINED.
How? How is that possible, Scotty?
How are you still coming in the bottom five at every War Games? How have you managed to remain stagnant all these years? These are rhetorical questions, of course. The answer is fucking simple: You’d rather talk about fucking beer and hockey and NGW than focus on anything related to your HOW career, and it’s been that way since I got here. I’ve heard you cry crocodile tears about being left out, or not having a fair shake, or getting fucked over. But goddamnit Scotty, no one in HOW has wanted to see you succeed more than Lee Best and I. NO ONE. And that’s why you get chance after chance after chance. But this is it, Scotty.
This is the last one.
I didn’t draft you to my War Games team. I drafted the man I think that you can be. I drafted you on a hope and a fucking prayer, Scotty, because I want you to win War Games so fucking bad that I can taste it. And I know that even after all these years, nothing will get you up for that task like stepping into the cage with me and doing everything in your power to tear my fucking head off my shoulders.
So here’s what I want you to do:
And I mean this. No bullshit. No mind games. I want you to admit to me that you’ve been a useless, lazy fuck for years. I want you to promise me that you’re going to do better. I want you to tell me that I didn’t waste a pick on you. And then I want you to cut the most fire fucking promo that you’ve ever cut. No whining. No crying. No nonsense. Rip me in half like a phone book, and then let’s have a match that will go down in fucking history.
Do it, Scott.
Be the first motherfucker in ten years.
Because if you don’t, I will make this your final humiliation. I will bury you. I will immolate you. I’ll make what I did to Stevens look like a blowjob on your fucking birthday. I remain the patron saint of Fuck Around and Find Out, and against Stevens?
I fucked around.
Now, we let’s find out.