Well, that happened.
I mean the promo was halfway fire, if you can ignore all the parts where Present Jace calmly makes excuses for Future Jace… it’s not his type of match… he’s already beaten me before… he doesn’t really care about this match.
Blah blah, standard Jace.
If he’s not the King of it, it doesn’t matter. He’s all too busy being the best little LSD Champion he can be, participating in every single company that will let him sniff a fresh pair of panties, and posting pictures of cartoon girls in skimpy clothing to be interested in a lowly little cage fight. The fuck?
It’s not your match type?
So wrestle me, idiot. There’s literally nothing stopping you from wrestling me. Fuck. Let’s skip the cage. Let’s skip the rounds. Let’s add pins. Do you think I give a shit? I’m the anti-excuse machine, so you let me know what special accommodations you need to get your little pecker hard for a match with me. Holy SHIT, this is a soft roster. Stevens is sad that I never call him back. Scotty needs me to thank him. But you?
Man, I was SO EXCITED for you.
I waded through the mud and risked blowing Scott Woodson to get to this match, and you’re AC Slater sitting backward on a chair, talking about hypocrisy and flexing about beating my kid in his like… fourth ever wrestling match. And then trying to bait me into not talking about the past, hoping that I don’t mention that all those “wins” you talked about were what… eight fucking years ago? STEVENS can lay claim to beating me more recently than that.
WHY IS EVERYONE SO FUCKING STUPID?
THIS ISN’T THAT HARD.
Even your HOFC promos are just a Great Value imitation of mine. Of course I’m gonna talk about Twitter, Jace. It’s where you spend 97% of your time playing fake pretend with every other sadboy on the internet. You’ll talk shit to anything with two legs until it’s time to back it up, too, so don’t pretend like you’re just “not that interested”. You dropped a promo on the night the card went up, stupid, you’ve entirely invalidated that point by scurrying to film a promo twenty minutes after I dropped mine.
Diet. Mike. Best.
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde Behind A Keyboard. Settled firmly into dominating the midcard, because he hasn’t done shit more than middle since he came back to HOW to collect his Hall of Fame spot. I’m dead ass serious, Jace. Any rules you want. I’ll slap the shit out of you in any match type your little heart desires. I Quit. Last Man Standing. Ironman. We can make this a “dudes pretending to be chicks pretending to be into you on the internet on a pole” match. We could have a sexual harass-a-thon. A lumberjack match, where every single lumberjack is one of your tag team partners from another company. NAME YOUR FUCKING PRICE, JACE, because it’s been less than two hours and I’m already tired of the excuses.
It’s a cage fight.
A fight in a cage. You’re a fighter, right? You fight for a living? And a cage… that’s a type of match, right? A steel cage match? IS THIS REALLY WHAT YOU DECIDED WAS THE RIGHT WAY TO GO ON OFFENSE? You aren’t gonna tell me what to talk about and what not to talk about. You’re not gonna dictate how this goes. In fact, I’m gonna treat you the way you treat anyone in wrestling unfortunate enough to have a vagina, sweetheart, so why don’t you just lay back and let Daddy take care of you. Show me your tits, bitch. Make me a fucking sandwich. I have defended you for a lot of things for a lot of years, but this?
I can’t defend this.
You’re a shitty coward and I’m gonna fucking clown on you. I’m gonna knee you in that big red clown nose and step on your stupid giant shoes. Fuck man, I got my hair cut for this match. I bought new Jordans. You haven’t disappointed a man this much since your father found out he wasn’t getting a son. I’m so demoralized.
Fuck this, I’m going out for smokes.
See you when the Angels win the pennant.