Stop.

First off, I killed TWO guys. 

Fuck, you suck at research. 

Did you just make fun of me for discrediting your points? What are you, a fucking soccer mom complaining about fact-checking on Facebook? But please, tell me about three more made up guys from The Experts who you beat real good before telling me that guys in the HOW title histories don’t matter. You’re less consistent than the shits I take after eating a KFC bowl, and twice as corny. The reason no one talks about Steven The Mark or Cock Ring Circus is because no one on planet earth could give a single fuck who they are or what they matter to a cage match in 2021. Hey Xander! I won a company softball game in 2006, so you’re ABSOLUTELY FUCKED at Refueled! 

Climb all the way out of your own asshole, bud. 

I don’t care if you fought an actual bear to the death for the ICXWZF World Title. When I show off the Hit List, that’s the shit I’ve done in the last year, not a bunch of bullshit I did in the Proboards Wrestling Federation Circa 199WhoGivesAFuck. The only metric that matters is your record against me, which is oh and fucking one. I ALREADY KNOCKED YOU OUT, so stop pretending like I’m sleeping on you, when you were the one counting fucking sheep until they brought in the smelling salts. Stop talking like you beat me, because you didn’t. Stop talking like this week has been anything like a brutal, one sided humiliation, because your delusion is depressing and concerning– it’s less fun to beat the fuck out of a guy who doesn’t realize he’s getting his ass beat. 

And you’re goddamned right everything needs to be about me. 

That’s the first piece of research you’ve nailed across seven consecutive promos against me. Not surprised you don’t know who Andy Murray is, though— he’s the guy I pinned at the War Games you did nine seconds of research on before telling me I lost to a teenage girl. Hey Lee, is LMAO one word or four? Don’t wanna get my word count wrong and give Azula another TKO victory he doesn’t have to earn. 

It’s all about me, Xander. 

I want the smoke. I want the attention. I want the notoriety. That’s why I go out and earn it. I didn’t TALK my way to the absolute top of pro wrestling, Xander, I fought my way there, and you can’t nitpick a victory out of the champ. You’re just another anonymous clown telling me you’re gonna be the guy to end the reign of terror, and the throne ain’t crumbling— it’s built on the bones of every single guy who said they were gonna take a title from me and failed. 

This was fun, Xerox. 

Had a few hearty chuckles at your desperate attempts not to drown. But now it’s time I put my boot on your fucking neck and submerge the rest of that thick skull of yours, because I’m tired of watching you gasp for breath. You are not going to silence me. You are not going to break me. You are not going to end my reign. You don’t have the talent, the willpower, or the strength. You lack the drive and the determination. At the end of the day, Xander, I am simply better than you by every conceivable metric, and winning the right to face me doesn’t put you on my level. You are an inferior species, a lesser fucking creature, and when we step into that cage, I am going to pick you apart until there is nothing left. 

No quips. No puns. No wordplay. 

I am going to end this facade. 

I am going to make an example of you, so that the rest of the spooky boi wannabes who fancy a few rounds with the champ know that this is not a free lunch. I am not here to make anyone who comes calling a star. I am not your ticket to the main event. I am going to beat the every living fuck out of you, and I don’t need to explain it with adjectives. I’m just gonna hurt you, Xander. I’m gonna fight you, I’m gonna beat you, and I’m gonna forget you, just like I did to Max Kael and the rest, right?

You’ll be a footnote on my career. 

A copy of a copy. 

A fucking Xerox.