I had a dream about you last night.
Don’t get your little pecker in a bunch, it wasn’t that kjnd of dream. We didn’t go to a ball game together and have a laugh over a couple of hotdogs. We didn’t go on a fishing trip. We weren’t friends. But I did have a dream about you. Wanna hear about it?
Of course you do.
You’re so thirsty for my attention that you’d drink my piss just to get that sandpaper feeling off your tongue. You do these desperate little research deep dives and waste half your promo time trying to nickel and dime meaningless points— something that has literally never worked for you— and still manage to get them wrong. But hey, we’ll come back to that. For now, let’s talk about my dream. It was ICONIC, and it was just you and I. No crowd. No commentary.
Just an empty arena.
Just a fight.
You were exhausted. Gasping for even a single breath, with your head pressed up against the side of a steel cage, and I was just kickfucking the absolute shit out of your skull. I mean really laying into that giant dome of yours. You were crying and blubbering and begging me to stop, but I was just stomping away. Smashing the heel of my boot into the softest part of your Neanderthal head until I broke through to the gooey insides. I couldn’t stop myself. I knew that the match was over, but something inside of me was literally screaming. Begging me to finish the job. Begging me to take you out of the universe.
I woke up and my heart was racing.
I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time.
I felt alive, Xander. Your death made me feel alive. See you have this whole narrative in your mind that you have a legacy to cement and that facing me is gonna prove something. Maybe it’s to you, maybe it’s to everyone else, I don’t really give a fuck— for me, this is about the thrill of the hunt. It’s about the violence. It’s about extinguishing something inside of you, whether it’s hope, or confidence, or human fucking life. I have nothing to prove. I have nothing that I hope to gain, either— I get my reward by taking something away from you.
You asked for this, Xander.
You prayed for it.
You got down on your spooky little knees day after day and begged God for the opportunity to have your oversized skull turned into fucking mashed potatoes. I don’t think you understand the magnitude of your mistake— you’re going to be eating through a fucking straw for the rest of your life. You’re gonna need assistance using the bathroom. Doctors are going to call it a medical miracle if you develop cognitive speech patterns again. And you’re gonna waste the last recognizable words of your life splitting hairs about why HOFC died?
You aren’t the only one who ran out of contenders, Mike!
Yeah? And? That was the point, dickhead— half these soft motherfuckers can’t handle the cage. The list of men who have succeeded in this division is about the same as the list of former champions. Thanks. Thanks for just reiterating the same shit I already said but trying to make it sound like a win for you. The disconnect here is that you seem to think you’re on the list. Why? Because you beat up Brian Hollywood and Scott Stevens?
What a fucking feat.
I am going to obliterate you, Xander. No one is going to remember your name. Not that they hardly do now anyway— you’re more famous for the shitty nicknames I gave you than you are for anything you’ve ever accomplished in HOW. Fuck, even YOU can’t manage to say much more than “I’m improving”. Fucking golf claps, bud. But I’m not your coach. I’m not your mentor. I’m not here to help you get better.
I’m here to beat the shit out of you.
“I’m improving” ain’t gonna cut it.
I literally spotted you the first promo. Isn’t that humiliating for you? That we’re playing to 11 and I spotted you 10? Isn’t that a giant neon warning sign for you that it’s dangerous to continue? I am going to FUCKING SMASH YOU. It is going to be EMBARRASSING. Don’t just improve, Xander.
And this is the last free help you get.
And do it fast.