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I’ve been thinkin’ a bit ‘bout my own mortality lately. Ya know, the usual morbid shit before ya go inta an octagon with the intent of beatin’ ‘nother feller’s skull in, but knowin’ that feller prolly is fixin’ ta have the same intentions. I’m gettin’ old like ya say Hudson, I prolly have seen some better days, father time does make my body sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies when I wake up in the mornin’. There ain’t no stoppin’ that. Sure, I need a cup of coffee ta really get myself movin’, but plenty of twenty year olds need one a them. It hurts a bit more after workin’ out, after preparin’ it seems ta linger a little bit more.
But see Hudson, I still do all that shit.
This ain’t two hundred and ninety five pounds of flab yer goin’ up against, this is an actual fuckin’ athlete. I’ve trained my body fer decades ta make myself stronger, ta make myself more explosive, with the explicit purpose of makin’ sure lil bags of actual human shit like yerself ain’t gonna be the one ta take me out. See Hudson, I’m thirty eight, but I’d still beat yer ass at forty eight, fifty eight, sixty eight, I’m pretty sure if they dug up my corpse and reanimated me like fuckin’ Frankenstein I’d still beat the cold dog shit out of you.
It’s just the way it is bud.
Some people were born ta do what ya do, they have a gift, bein’ able ta run off at the mouth for hours on end. Shittin’ and pissin’ themselves instead of gettin’ out of a chair, because that’s their job. Thats the skillset the man upstairs gave them, and ya make the most of it. The big man made me a physical fuckin’ monster, he put me in a position ta train my entire life so that I could impose my will on men like ya.
He gave me a breadth of knowledge and experience in combat situations, from my father, ta his father, we’ve been stompin’ holes in people like yerself fer fuckin’ decades. Ya think yer the first idiot that had this idea? Steppin’ out from behind the announce booth ta have yer teeth kicked down yer throat? Ya surely ain’t the first, and ya surely won’t be the last Hudson. Generally speakin’ when men like yerself get involved there’s some bullshit, some shenanigans but really some things started ta dawn on me.
So Hudson, last night I was sittin’ ‘round tryin’ ta figure out what Lee Best’s master fuckin’ plan was fer this matchup. Cause that feller always seems ta have one. So while I was sittin’ in my chair, sippin’ on some bourbon, thinkin’ ‘bout removin’ yer head from yer shoulders it finally dawned on me. The great evil scheme, the machinations of God, it finally came down from the heavens and slapped me in the face. I felt like fuckin’ Moses starin’ inta that burnin’ bush, I could finally see the clear end goal of this bracket. I prolly should of chiseled it out onta some stone tablet or somethin’. But I digress, the point of this entire bracket Hudson is pretty damn clear, ya should of seen it the entire time.
Lee Best Wants You Fucking Dead.
Now we ain’t talkin’ regular dead, this prick wants ya super fuckin’ dead. Not like comic book Marvel character dead, nah, like six feet deep, metal box incased in concrete, dirt mound, fresh flowers, nice grave stone, wife cryin’, memorial boat trip. That’s how fuckin’ dead he wants ya. See Hudson, why else would he of set ya up with myself, a behemoth of a human being, or his personal hired hitman Sektor? And if by some stunnin’ absurd luck ya managed ta make it past whichever one of us advanced, the son of God would be there ta rip yer fuckin’ throat out.
Yes Hudson, the man does indeed want ya super fuckin’ dead.
So I ain’t gonna be takin’ it easy in there Hudson, fer me this is my last chance, my last chance ta make somethin’ of myself. I already smashed a hall of famer in this tournament, knocked him clean the fuck out of his shoes, so now I have ta hurt ya. I ain’t got a choice, unlike yerself with the day job, with the wife, this is the only thing I do. I hurt people like you.
See Ya Soon,
Clay