Silence

Silence.

Some might say silence is a sign of cowardice. That by refusing to engage, you are showing that you have been broken by an exchange of words, so much so that you couldn’t possibly offer up opinions, feelings or insights of your own. People love to leap into the armchair of pop psychology and cast implied feelings onto their fellow man.

Those people are, of course, particularly thick of skull. I’m going to guess somewhere around the neolithic era if I was to take a random stab in the dark.

Silence can imply confidence.

Silence can imply skullduggery.

It’s hard to ever really truly put your finger of what happens within another man’s skull. To do so is quite lazy. The amount of times I’ve seen value brand trash talkers offer the trite statement of “living rent free” in a head…

I mean, I shouldn’t be too critical, they probably don’t have anything else. They don’t know any better. It’s like your pet dog shitting all over your precious Persian rug. It’s not that lil fellas’ fault that it shat up the joint, that’s all down to the mindless maroon of an owner. Yet, they still yell at the dog like it’s their fault. So, if I start picking apart all of the woeful generic statements that seem to permeate the HOFC division, I would be no better than a man yelling at a dog with a shit crusted anus.

I’ve noticed a trend in these HOFC tête-à-têtes. Endless pathetic mug slinging that only resolves itself in one way, the loser of the bout seeming particularly inept and pathetic. Big promises of destructions, of knockouts, of careers being ended in an instance. Yet, to my knowledge, so far, we haven’t had to fire up the ole backstage incinerator to throw a limp corpse in before the police can arrive for their inquiries.

Over promising, under delivering, that seems to be the name of the game in this division.

All of this to say that Bobby, I don’t view your recent silence as a sign of fear. I know you’re smart, smarter than many people seem to notice. They get so caught up in the image of the lovable chubby funster that they don’t see that neon flashing light that yells to the heavens above:

“THIS IS A TRAP.”

I know you’ve been waiting for this day, if I was in your shoes, I’d have been slashing the days off the calendar too. The opportunity to stand in a cage with the very man who cost you the HOW World Championship and completely humiliate him in what he wants to view as his triumphant return to the company. You have the chance that few have ever had, a complete and utter humbling of Cecilworth M! J. Farthington. The chance to turn an obnoxious victory lap into a complete and total farce. God, I’d be keeping my cards close to my chest too, Robert.

If this was your Zigzag Sephoras or Woodsons of the world, it’s a trick that could have very well worked. Men too caught up in their own egos and pride, men who think they know better when a fucking sentient potato would have more power of analysis than them.

Do you think I start the Refueled era of HOW undefeated for eighteen months, for more than forty HOW shows, by sleeping on my opponents? Boy, people really have started to underestimate me and what I’m capable of. Tragic, when I think about it.

I’m sorry to say Robert, my dear friend, that whatever grand plan you are concocting, whatever extreme training regime that you are currently going under, it may have been successful for mere mortals but… that’s not who will be standing across from you aboard the USS Leecifer Ego Trip. You know that, my gastric banded pal, you know that deep down, whatever feelings of hope, redemption and success you think COULD happen are puffs of imagination. Fleeting clouds in the sky, soon to be evaporated. False confidence. It may feel like the real thing right now but soon you’re really that you’ve been chowing down on an Impossible Burger.

On Saturday, very simply, we are going to enter the cage, the bell shall ring and then I will wrap the Article 50 around the portly protrusion that you call an arm. From there, your future is in your hands. Tap, take the loss, live to fight.

Or don’t tap.

I wouldn’t recommend that one.