I don’t fancy myself a pit fighter.
A hot shot dueler.
A death dealer.
A Mean Dean the Beautiful Ant Magnifier.
Me? I like to cheat. I like to cut corners. I like to get the referee involved, and on my side. I like distractions, and foreign objects that I can smuggle undetected and under noses. I don’t mind getting my hands dirty, but if I don’t have to then why would I?
Thing of it is, these pit fights, well, I don’t like them very much. They don’t suit me. Sure, the banter is fun. It’s been a good time having a go with the new talent, and suggesting vacation spots to my old friend. But the payoff… well, it’s hard for me to be COOL inside there. It really is. It’s hard to break the rules, or bend them for that matter when there are no rules to break or bend. Sure, my dizzying array of low blows, eye gouges, shin kicks, knee clips, and so on are all in play and fair, but what I lose when I step inside the octagon is the opportunity of surprise.
I’ll explain, since Zeb started a HOFC team and Bobby Dean not being on it could be the biggest insult ever and I’m glad I’m the one who got to point it out.
And I’ll explain because why not? I got some words to burn.
For me, the Count of COOL, I prey on the right moment to strike. I take beatings while laying in wait while waiting for the right moment to strike. Luck, and the octagon don’t really go hand and hand.
Simply put, those types of tactics don’t work inside the Octagon. Inside there you always have to be on your toes. Inside there you can’t run and hide. You can’t bide your time. Sure, you can look aloof, but it doesn’t matter since the other guy’s attention has to stay sharp. He’s not going to fall for it. He’s ready. He can’t allow himself anything else because that’s how he will get knocked the fuck out.
Bobby Dean is fucked. He can’t keep his attention for shit. Matter of fact, the only time he can keep his focus is when taking a shit. I know this to be true since I’ve had hour long talks with him while sitting atop shitters. As soon as he stood up though, all was gone. No one home. Not even a mouse, or whatever he called his penis. Certainly wasn’t Mighty, I can tell you that.
I can still hear Bobby…
“Uh, what were we talking about again? I hope it was Mike, since I love him very much but he always lets me down but it’s okay since I love him very much. Was it Mike? Wait. It’s you, so no, we had to be talking about you. WAIT. Are you facing Mike this week? Is that what we were talking about? I think I have to take another shit. BRB.”
Yes, he would say the letters and not be right back. That wasn’t some sly ploy to keep this thing under par.
But imagine you have to be razor sharp, and your name is Bobby Dean, or it’s green gilled, Cutie Reese?
Like, am I supposed to be worried? Am I supposed to think some fucking crumb from outer space, yes that is a Zeb Martian joke, and B-E-A-U-T-I-F-U-L BOBBY FUCKING DEAN, THE GUY WHO GETS LOST LOOKING INSIDE HIS OWN BELLY BUTTON, are going to be ready for the task ahead of them?
They couldn’t possibly be.
I’m jaded. I’m angry. I’m salty. My fate is sealed. The door back is already shut. I have nothing left to lose now. It’s The Count versus Colinsworth at Bottomline. The winner gets Bob’s boy toy at Rumble at the Rock.
That’s my plate. That’s the meat and potatoes. I get heavy hitter A, and heavier hitter A.
I don’t open shows. I MAIN EVENT THEM. I play for high stakes– usually for gold, or the right to challenge for it. I don’t fuck around. Well, only when dropping triple doubles. I still don’t know why Zeb has his own HOFC team, and I’ve been thinking about it for a couple hours now. I am going to slaughter Bobby Dean, because he is a pig of man and he deserves it.
Not a sly ploy.