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Dear Colinsworth Fartheggton,
Hello, old chap.
It’s chap, right? That’s Irish for acquaintance– so I have been told.
Assuming you’re Irish that is.
Sweeny Todd’s ghost.
ANYWAY.
Thank you for starting our little parlay. I was hoping you’d break the ice, and believe me when I say I was not disappointed when you did. Now, while I find most of your remarks to be utterly deplorable, I will admit you remain forever sharp in your approach; almost TAC like.
JUST.
KIDDING.
DUN-dunDUN-DUN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I think you are in need of a little course correction, old friend. Take a seat, this won’t take but 536 words, a left align, and normal text.
I’ve always wondered what you, NOW known as the Little C to my Big C, would look like, sound like, read like, what have you, with your foot firmly placed inside of your mouth.
Now I know.
I won’t front, I had guessed a garbled mess before, and it turns out I was wrong. I am big enough to admit so when I am, so I hope you can take the hint. Now, what I should have guessed was an ignorant, self deprecating, unknowing fool. Which is ironic because some might say that is how you are normally. Like how the Hulk is always angry, or how I am always COOL– you walk around with your foot constantly in your mouth.
If the shoe fits.
HA.
I know better, pal. I do.
That doesn’t change the fact I also find it ironic that after this Saturday I’ll know what you look like with my foot placed inside your mouth.
I know. We go back, as you’ve pointed out. Therefore, you might think you don’t deserve this. The tough talk. Well, turns out you do. Might I remind you, Chappinton, of just what I, KING FUCKING COOL, THE MAESTRO, managed to accomplish in the days, months, year after defeating you. I know you know what I did before that, and how I was the Emperor of the Undercard, but Little C put the shinebox away. He became Big C, and managed to do some pretty remarkable things.
For starters, in the very next match I competed in, I won. Not only that, but in that same match which just so happened to be on PPV, I carried La Loozer to a tag team championship. ON PPV. If you think beating Mike was hard, try doing that one, buddy boy.
I dare you.
Oh, wait. Sorry. My bad. You wouldn’t know the comparison. No matter, let the continuing of the many things Cancer Jiles has done and will do since beating Cecilworth Farthington, continue.
Then, after watching my cohorts in yolk crime fumble away my double champion status, sadly I lost the only singles championship I’ve ever held. Your LSD Championship. You know the one– it’s the one it took me five seconds to win. Now, if I had rode off into the dark corners of Teabaggy Tavern, wondering right along side of you about if you’re going to have to change your finisher to Article 5.0 if you did make your way back, maybe I could be held accountable for ruining your beloved, lauded, paper mache of a legacy. How. Ever. You fucking crumb– I conquered the WORLD after you. And not only did I do it, but I did it with the grace of Rose Kennedy in a 97red dress.
That’s right. ME. The guy who beat you. I dueled your cruise mate not once, not twice, but three fucking times and when it mattered most and it was my CAREER that was on the line, you insolent Mongoloid, I did what you could not.
And you think it was I who tarnished your gleam?
Worm.
Oh, and not for nothing, I also won the tag team titles two more times making it three times in total, and solidified myself as the greatest Tag Team Competitor High Octane Wrestling has ever seen.
Oh, and I captained this past fucking WAR GAMES for the Best Alliance, Cecil. Imagine that. Me, Lee, rolling around in bed, drying off all the tears with the ascot I took as a souvenir for making you my starting point.
And if that wasn’t enough, I even shattered the shell, at the tippy top of it’s ascent, after a decade of unwavering loyalty to it.
I cracked it nice and good, too.
Just like how I’m going to crack you, Little C.
Again.