It’s because I’m fucking bored, stupid.
When I’m hungry, I say I’m hungry until someone makes me a fucking sandwich. I’ll stop saying I’m bored when literally anyone in this company poses me a challenge worth working hard for. You are goddamned right I hit a knee and walk off the show. Do you think that’s points against me, you insufferable moron? You’re lucky to get a “does this even matter” speech. You’re lucky I’m even willing to inform you that you haven’t done anything worth being in my vicinity. You’re lucky I let my opponents live for three rounds while I play with my food, because I am a loaded fucking weapon and you’re out of ammo– I only need one round end this duel.
You literally cut this promo already, Clay.
All of it. We get it, man. I’ve had a bunch of easy opponents since I won this title, because the fragile egos of HOW don’t wanna fuck around and find out. Say it AGAIN. Talk about Stevens, and Hollywood, and Scotty AGAIN, while biting their material and calling me a broken record. I didn’t settle for the miscreants, Clay– you’re all the fucking miscreants. Every single opponent I face looks like a chump, because I make them look like chumps. Because I am so phenomenally good at what I do that you all take it for granted now. You call my opponents loser and jobbers, and guess what, Clay? The next time I defend this title, they’ll put you in the same fucking box.
Because you’re really showing your weaknesses, bud.
I know you think you’re doing great, but they’re laughing at you. The same way you jump in my DMs and tell me I’m murdering them– that’s what they’re doing to you right now. Half the fucking roster, Clay. Covering their eyes and peeking through their fingers, because it’s like a car accident. They want to look away, and they can’t. You keep talking about how I need better opponents. Yeah? Who the fuck do you think I’m gonna face? You think you’re magically the ONLY worth a fuck guy on the roster? You call the rest of them losers, but you’re one of them, dude. Your jokes aren’t landing. Your fourth wall swings are landing foul. Your stupid accent is taxing, the material you’re using wasn’t good the FIRST time someone used it, and you’re now literally making the same points over and over again because doing five of these is harder than you expected. So you’re just throwing shit against the wall. Saying anything you can think of, and saying it three times, promo by promo.
You’re trying to bend the facts to suit your narrative, Clay.
But here’s the truth.
Witness didn’t mention me because my winning matches is a given. You wanna talk about an afterthought at War Games? You were the FIRST ONE eliminated. He called you a loser, Clay. You really do have a blind spot for your own shortcomings, while trying to turn my positives into negatives. You really are stupid as fuck, and not just because you’re a hack Texan with a shitty accent that no one from Texas has. Dan Ryan is from Texas, you yee-haw hack, and he talks like a fucking human being. Scott Stevens is from Texas, you walking cartoon 49er, and he talks mostly like a fucking human being. Literally Lee Harvey Oswald is from fucking Texas, and not only did he talk like a normal fucking human being, but when he started shooting, he actually managed to commit a murder.
Boy, I’m gonna fucking enjoy this one.
You’re right, it’s a little ho-hum beating guys who secretly know they don’t have a chance in Hell. I own that. But you? You’re delicious, you sweet fucking Summer child. I can taste your arrogance. I can feel your confidence. You really think you’ve got this one in the bag, and I get to take that from you, Clay. That’s just for me. At the end of our match, when you’re looking up at the lights for the second time, there will be a moment where you and I lock eyes, and I will watch the fucking hope drain from them. The windows to your soul will shatter, and for just one moment, both you and I will know that I am the greatest fighter in the world, and that you’re a pretender.
A red-headed Stetson.