- Event: Chaos 029
God I fucking hate you.
Like, so so much.
For just a second I thought we were off to a good start— solid Grammerly jab, decent fourth wall politicking that I should lose points for using the same slam dunk on you that I used on Azumba. I was impressed. But OH WAIT NOPE THERE GOES STEVENS BEATING HIS OWN JOKE TO DEATH IMMEDIATELY.
How do you still not get it?
I’ve beaten you half to death so many times that fractions don’t even make sense anymore, and you still talk shit like you were raised by the Amish. You’re so, so bad. It’s not even fun to reply to you. I should just do 750 words of trash talk tutorial. Underlined shoot names? Dan Ryan plagiarism jokes? You aren’t just bad, Stevens. You are literally the single worst HOFC opponent that I have ever had.
The actual worst.
You have never said a single funny thing in the entire time you’ve been in HOW. Not once. Not a chuckle. Not a smile. Not a single punchline has ever landed. I just called Lee Best and asked him if there’s anything in the world more exhausting than radiation treatments, and he told me that it’s watching you try to construct a sentence. I’m not even going to respond to all that nonsense about PRIME and Farthington and Lindsay Troy— it’s all just liquid diarrhoea falling out of your stupid face hole while you try desperately not to drown in it. Throwing everything you can think of against the wall and hoping that it sticks. You have never come within a country mile of beating me in HOFC, and I drafted you to my War Games team because Lee Best asked me to.
Because he ALWAYS asks us to.
Or forces us too.
Because you’re so fucking bad at all of this that literally no one would ever put you in the War Games match if he didn’t make a special phone call to make that happen for you. You’re the world’s oldest Make A Wish kid, except that WE are the ones dying from whatever the fuck is wrong with you. What is this at? Fuck, like 360 words. I’m not even half done with this and I’m already sick of finding new ways to tell you that you fucking suck.
Vous sucez.
Nǐ hǎo làn.
No third example. You don’t even get rule of three for comedy. My dick is not even remotely hard for this match, it’s just an obstacle on the way to the fun I get to have shitting on better opponents over the next couple of weeks. You have made my favorite thing on planet earth feel like a chore. It’s almost impressive. You’re so terrible at trash talk that I’d almost believe that it was some kind of 5D chess. Like maybe you’re so good at it that you’ve managed to figure out how to make me miserable and that’s your whole HOFC gimmick. But then I remember that you are an abject moron and the whole thing goes up in smoke.
Fuck.
FUCK.
You’re… you’re just gonna get kneed in the face again, Stevens. That’s how this ends. It isn’t even the main event. My first match back in HOW in ages, and it’s like… the opener. People won’t even be entirely seated yet. That’s how fucking predictable the outcome of this match is. I’m pretty sure that Nostradamus wrote about this match. They found cave drawings in Egypt predicting me caving your skull in like a Chilean mine. And yet here you are, talking about beating my ass like anyone believes for a SECOND that you have my number.
Bitch, you barely have my cell phone number.
I gave you a Google Voice burner so that when you text me at 3am saying “U up Daddy?” I don’t have to see it on my lock screen. You are a human genital wart. The physical embodiment of disappointment. You look like Solid Snake, which is also an accurate description of the coil of shit leaving a puckered anus that was your first attempt at a trash talk promo. Go play in traffic. Siphon the gas out of my car and forget to spit. Do literally anything else in the world but write another trash talk promo. I am BEGGING you.
Please, Stevens.
Just stop.
sOrRy, Am I bReAkInG dA fOuRtH wAlL?