Posted on May 13, 2021 at 2:52 pm by Cecilworth Farthington

Ole Robert seems to be a tad busy concocting some sort of devious plan to bring my complete and total downfall in the wrestling industry, so he hasn’t raised his head above the surface to help build up this bout. It’s disappointing, but I get it.

I made it clear in my return extravaganza that I had returned to HOFC with a clear focus in mind – I wanted Big Money fights. This should be worth a lot of those American dollars I hear everyone talking so much about. This fight should be creating a wad of cash so great that if I were to put it in my front pocket people would think that I was walking around fully erect the entire time.

And that my penis was six foot long.

I mean, sure, we’re fighting on a boat. So… the ticket sales aren’t going to be great but… oh my the eyeballs, the hype, the media circuit. So much potential to generate revenue. It’s really upsetting that through Bobby’s bear-like hibernation we are shooting ourselves in the foot.

Bobby, I know that your focus is more on destroying me at every level but if you uttered a word or two then there’s a chance that it could drive a media frenzy. We might even make it on the late night chat show circuit.

Is David Letterman still around?

Think of all the exclusives we could sell. Me, the man who cost you a career long dream just because I felt like I could do whatever the hell I wanted back then. You, the poor, looked down upon schlub with everything to gain from this battle, including righteous vengeance. The fluff pieces from the online media scum basically write themselves.

Yet, you have decided it best to keep a low profile, hide what it is that you’re actually up to. You’d rather surprise me with your plan of attack than do business together. Maybe in your mind that’s all I deserve.

Sadly for you, Mr. Dean, it’s actually beginning to eat away at me. It’s very bothersome. You’re starting to mess with my bottom line (I mean that in the financial sense, not in the “Lee Best has a pirate fetish” sense… like… he must get off on eyepatches, right? That’s the only explanation)

For those who suffered extreme brain trauma and can’t remember as far back as LAST YEAR, I’ll spell it out.

I denounced my family line.

My father was an absolute piece of garbage and I’m glad that a stray strand of Eric Dane’s dusty jizz went down the wrong tube, choking him to death. I wasn’t keen on trying to inherit his wealth, the estate, anything. A man who didn’t want me around, who cared little about the destiny that I had carved out for myself… no, I didn’t want a handout from that. After all, back then, I was World Champion, I was getting a healthy amount of dough, I was becoming a legend in the industry… my incomings were looking rather healthy indeed. Hell, I hadn’t lost in almost two years, things were looking oh so bright.

Then Jiles managed to surprise me, locked a pin in tight before I couldn’t gather my thoughts.

Then my two best friends tried to LITERALLY MURDER each other and one of them succeeded.

So I took a little break from the industry. Created a bit of breathing space for myself. The problem is, when you take a break from work, you end up with a lot of outgoings and very little in the way of the reverse. Turns out, over time, the money runs out. WHO KNEW? I didn’t know I was expected to be an economist and have to work out how money works. Isn’t calculating money for the poors? I should be above such things!

Yet, surprise, surprise, I am not above such things. I returned to HOW because the HOFC presented the opportunity for me to set up a healthy retirement fund. The buzz around the division since my best friend became God King of it has led to a lot of bets, a lot of funds being pumped in. Sponsors are calling everyone who has a whiff of success about them in the division.

Do you know what trying to win War Games got me? A Lee Best burial promo. At least in HOFC, I can cash in on that shit.

You are costing me money, Robert. Now I must make you pay.