Punch Line

Your tone seems very pointed to me.

So I should stop the bullying because it won’t get me anywhere, so says Pyrzqxgl. Just a few breaths after telling me I don’t have the heart or the motivation to do anything. A few before telling me he can run circles around me, mentally and physically. 

What do you expect from some dude who ate a bunch of Scrabble tiles, shat them out on the floor, read the sequence, and said ‘That’ll do, pig’?

Seriously, though. Stop with the name dropping. I don’t care who you’ve beaten, I don’t care who’s beaten you, I don’t care if you’re undefeated or sitting in the cellar or have your nose lodged squarely up Eros’ asshole. We’re gonna fight, one of us is going to win, one of us is going to lose, and life goes on. 

Even winning four HOFC fights, you prove that you can be a winner and still be a rambling, shambling bore. Nobody’s going to watch this fight, if for no other reason than by the time they figure out what your name is, the fight will be over. 

They say I’m delusional, but I’m delusional in a fun way. You’re here in a wrestling promotion at the bottom of the rankings with your only selling point apparently being punching. You’re not interesting enough to get your name on the marquee. 

Just be glad you’re on the bill at all, because I’m sure your mom wouldn’t be able to fake enthusiasm for yet another ‘plus one other match’ ad. 

Let me be you for a minute and drop a name. Sean Stevens. I hit him once and he went down. And here’s the fun part, I’ve done some research. He actually mattered in this sport once upon a time. All your name dropping, all your puffing yourself up, and what it all comes down to is a very little person jumping up and down while the giants of the company walk around you, completely oblivious to your existence. 

No wonder you’ve found success in the HOFC – the only time anyone pays any attention to you is if you’re literally hitting them. “You, all right? I learned it by watching you!” you no doubt yell at your father every time you step into an HOFC fight. This isn’t how you earn Daddy’s love, and someone should be brave enough to say so.

I might be delusional, but I have to admit it – I stand in awe of the world you’ve built around yourself with how out of touch with reality you are. I have no motivation. I have no purpose. I have a brick wall for a brain, and since this is my first foray into the cage, I’m at the bottom of the rankings, have lost the same number of matches as you’ve won fights, which you clearly dragged out to prove how out of depth I am.

And… you think this fight will put everyone on notice? 

It’s an emotional halloween costume you put on to convince yourself that you matter, when at the end of the day nobody will remember your name. 

They can’t even spell it!

So where’s that leave us? I’ma walk in, handle my business, and walk out. Maybe you’ll win, maybe you’ll lose. Maybe I’ll win. 

I kinda hope you win. 

I can’t wait to see you get your hand raised, walk out of the cage with your chest puffed out and your balls finally dropped, shouting out that you’ve finally arrived in High Octane, to the thunderous sounds of apathy. That would actually be more fun for me than the existential crisis you’ll clearly go through when I unload the twelve gauge on your head and hand you your first HOFC loss. 

I win, it is what it is. I lose, who cares? Everyone expects it by now. 

But it beats working for a living.