You’re telling me that Xander Azula is a real fucking person?
Like, for real? Eyes, nose, ears, mouth…brain?
Get the fuck outta’ here with that bullshit.
And he’s beaten more than one person in this tournament?
Seriously, get the fuck outta’ here.
What fuckin’ planet am I on?
What happened to motherfuckin’ reality?
I’ve beaten the brakes off of Black Mamba, kicked the dog piss right out of Jason fuckin’ Cashe but now…but now I’m fighting a fictional fuckin’ character? Boy, I’ll tell ya’…shit in HOW is starting to get interesting. I might as well bring an inflatable doll to the cage as a fuckin’ valet, if this cartoon character is actually thinking he can go fisticuffs with me this Saturday.
I have no idea who this shitbag is, but I do have an idea for him:
Keep my motherfuckin’ name out your motherfuckin’ mouth, bitch!
You’re not worthy to say my name, not one fuckin’ bit. And while we’re on the topic of names, what’s with this “Steven” bullshit? See, this is what happens when a motherfucker gets stuck and wants to try and enunciate and say my full name like he’s my goddamned Mom or some shit. People always seem to go this route, like saying my full name is supposed to make them feel ten feet tall. And then, of course you invoked the good ol’ “Steve-O.” Way to stay on note with the rest of the shitbags that came before you. Give it the fuck up, dude. It’s been tried, it’s failed, and it’s long run its course, Xander. So leave that bullshit at home, and come back when you’re spittin’ for real. This is the third fuckin’ round, bitch. I’ve got no time for weak sauce like that.
I saw your little knockout and I heard what you said motherfucker. Not one single second of it was entertaining, to say the least…and I’d like to think I’m being nice here, but what the fuck are you event talking about? Goddess this and goddess that…again I ask: What the fuck are you even talking about? You’re like the weird kid on the who takes the swing on the end of the swingset and cries into his hoodie cause he’s got no fuckin’ friends, so he’s forced to invent his own…and now it hits me. She’s your fuckin’ imaginary friend? My son had an imaginary friend…when he was three fuckin’ years old, bitch. But to each his own, I guess. If you want to play these imaginary fuck-fuck games, do it on your time and leave that shit out of the ring.
Just like your boy – I assume he’s your boy; I have no real fuckin’ idea because until these last few weeks, neither of you have ever been on my fuckin’ radar…not once. So, just like your boy Jason Cashe, you’re gonna try and drag my name through the dirt like you have any idea what the fuck you are even talking about. You went from calling me the hottest thing on TV to the worst member of the Best Alliance in one fuckin’ breath, and you expect me to take anything you say with more than a grain of salt? I don’t fuckin’ think so, Xander. You’ve got to bring the heat if you want to make it into the final four and as it stands right now, you just don’t have what it takes to get passed ol’ Number One himself.
You guys from the outside have no idea the gift you’ve been given of being relatively anonymous. You get to go through the archives of HOW and study every little moment of whatever the fuck you want to, while the rest of us are left in the dark as to exactly who you are. Studying HOW has to be scary for people like you though, Xander. Coming to the realization that ANYBODY in HOW could be the champion in ANY other wrestling company in the world has to be intimidating for a newcomer like you.
Try and minimize my last 12 months in HOW all you want, but before I got involved with Joe Bergman, the Number One Dad was ranked #1 in HOW. But like CNN, you skipped the good stuff and spun your own narrative to make the story more palatable for yourself. I get it though, that’s what pussies do…and here you are. So, here we go.