Ya know, from a feller who sat ‘round the first two weeks of this tournament twiddlin’ his thumbs and impregnatin’ the shower drain I expected a lot more. What ya do is talk shit, it’s yer actual job. I thought ya young fellers were all full of piss and vinegar, but apparently I ain’t worth the effort. And that’s fine, it’s all well and good. I just thought I was gonna get somethin’ else, a witty retort, a response, ya know… somethin’ outta ya. Instead it’s just been radio silence, did yer plane crash? Did ya fuckin’ die? Ya were gonna kick my old ass just like father time, ya were gonna be doin’ yer best Billy Blanks impersonation out there, gettin’ yer jab, cross, hook, uppercut on. Showin’ me how all them 90’s soccer moms really learned ta fight.
I was waitin’ fer more, sittin’ back, practically beggin’ fer it Hudson. Instead what I got was silence. I thought when I beat the livin’ hell out of ya, left ya barely hangin’ on ta life ya could go out there and be my advocate. In my head ya’d be out there with half a mouth of teeth, a black eye, yer arm in a sling, and ya could be testifyin’ ta exactly what steppin’ in an octagon with Clay Byrd is like, as a warning. Ya could be my lil apostle, I send ya out there on missions ta save the rest of High Octane Wrasslin’ from my reckonin’. But instead Hudson, you’ve shown ya ain’t got many redeemable traits, yer talents ain’t really talents at all. Yer a grandstander, a bag of wind Hudson, even with what yer good at.
Instead, ya got yer own reckonin’. See, ya wrote a check ya couldn’t cash Hudson, and nobody expected ya ta come out here and be able ta stand in an octagon and go toe to toe with anyone. What they did expect out of ya though, was the show. They expected the flashin’ lights and the fancy talk, the song and dance, the pomp and circumstance.
Instead, ya left ‘em disappointed. I guess they know what yer wife feels like every time she rolls over and sees yer pathetic self starin’ back at her.
I wanted the show, I wanted the spotlight, just like I said ta Sektor. Hudson, I am here ta make a name fer myself, ta show the world I can compete on this stage, that I can actually take that step and go ta war with the best. Maybe ya weren’t gonna be the best fighter, but this was supposed ta be fireworks, I was gonna be tradin’ barbs with some fuckin’ legend. Instead, I gotta come up with ‘nother way ta make a show out of this. Just like at the colosseum in ancient Rome, the people demand blood, they demand the show, they demand violence.
So Imma give it ta ‘em. They’ll get that wild animal versus a fuckin’ moron that they desire. I’ll prolly have ta prod ya a bit ta get ya ta talk. I wonder if they’ll let me bring a stick inta the octagon, I can give ya a few jabs ta get ya ta perform. Treat ya like the stubborn circus animal ya are.
This was all a joke fer ya, I saw it on the twitter machine.
“LOOK HUDSON HUGHES WRESTLES!”
It was all fun and games, ya’d walk in and figure out how ta run and hide, have a few laughs. I’d chase ya ‘round and eventually I’d get my hands on ya. It’d be a regular episode of Tom and fuckin’ Jerry. If ya have ever watched High Octane wrasslin, I think ya’d have figured out that here, in this place, sometimes the cat gets the mouse. Ya over estimated yerself and the danger of yer situation, I get it Hudson.
We all make mistakes. However, I don’t think I’d be out there actively tryin’ ta make one that could cost me my life. I guess that Gigabrain of yers couldn’t really comprehend actually steppin’ in the octagon and goin’ toe to toe. I don’t even think yer really tryin’ ta figure a way out of this pickle. I think ya resigned yerself ta fate awhile ago, like yer high school gym teacher I’m not gonna accept that effort from ya. I won’t let ya curl up and hide from me Hudson.
That cage is gonna lock, and I’m gonna fuckin’ kill ya.