Did you eat the red or blue deviled egg Jiles?
It doesn’t fucking matter, cause this is no glitch in the Matrix… but we sure as fuck are going to repeat some history this week. A decade in the making here since you last tried to beat me in an HOFC match. You and Hollywood and Kostoff. Three of you fuckers trying to dethrone the man that would go on to be the longest reigning HOFC champion in fucking history.
And you failed.
Fucking failed because as always, you spoiled and went rotten in mere weeks every time you step foot in HOW. I literally handed you Tag Team gold in HOW and you couldn’t even help me keep it for two weeks. Two more reigns with The Bandits… two weeks and two weeks! You defeated Cecilworth fucking Farthington for the LSD title and then manage to hibernate with the title for forty-nine days before dropping it to an imprisoned pikey fuck stick!
Now you think that this so called bad egg version of Jiles is going to beat a thoroughly pissed off as fuck Hardcore Artist? I failed to bring the only woman that has ever mattered to me back… and lost to a G4 joystick jackoff on back to back big boy shows. So believe me when I say that I ain’t got much left to lose to go all in on proving that despite what a true cancer here in HOW has to say, I am the greatest HOFC champion that there has ever been!
In fact, Capricorn Jiles, which is a much better fitting name for someone whose purpose would be better served scrapping the shit off my feet, instead of wasting anyone’s time stepping into that ring again with me so I can prove what everyone already knows. But hey, a quick trip down memory road is fun every once in a while I guess. We can laugh at a few jokes… like the fact you still have the dumbest tattoo across your stomach in 2021.
Like seriously, even I realized that a stomach tat in 2018 looked dumb as shit and I still have hair that makes McDonald fucking jealous. You’re so fucking stale and old that salmonella wouldn’t even touch you. More dried up than any woman who would ever dream of fucking a man with a tattoo that is only Screamin’ I need to Hawk my plasma to pay for a sad handy Jay.
Again, that comes from a man who has the same amount of lip piercings as you have title reigns here in HOW. I’m no fucking beauty king… but then again I don’t think I’m fucking COOL. Maybe back in the late nineties… MAYBE… but I’m here now in the present to tear flesh from bodies… not self tug it until I spill my yolk all over my wrestling tights. Fuck… maybe I’ll actually do you a favor and grate that fucking tat off your stomach with the HOFC cage.
Superman, Booby, Wannabe Cable Guy, DIIIIIICK and certainly not Scottywood can help you out here. It’s sink and sink fast all on your own time as I get ready for my HOFC breakfast and then move on to a real fucking meal. Plus with all the talk about burnt toast in the locker room these days, I highly doubt your eggs are coming out of this match any better. Just like you will, they’ll be tossed down the drain where the garbage like yourself belongs.
From day one with me Jiles you were BARELY a better replacement than Frankie the fucking Cameraman as a tag team partner. You were a warm body requirement as I carried those Tag Team titles myself… and like I said, you managed to even fuck that even up! You were never truly funny, but were always a fucking joke.
So let’s go Jiles, take your shot. Please try to crack my skull back open so I can hopefully lose the part of my brain that ever made me think that teaming up with you was a smart fucking idea! That is unless you don’t crack under the pressure first. Crack and head out through your fucking revolving HOW door while I continue to stand as the foundation of HOW for the past twelve years. I don’t need to twist this reality Jiles… I just need to sit back and watch it repeat.