750 more words.
Here I am, Dan, dragging us to the finish line one more time. Every fucking match we’ve ever had was a heatless dud, so it shouldn’t surprise me that I’m sitting in front of a keyboard once again, trying to figure out how to make this interesting. We could have had a back and forth contest, digging our heels in, but Double Dropping Dan had to keep it inconsistent, since that’s basically his entire HOW gimmick.
The fuck is left to say, man?
I got no haikus. I got no limericks. I’m not gonna rewrite “Night Before Christmas” for the umpeenth time, because I sadly have too much respect for you to shatter your backboard with the same old shit. Your first promo was a weird love letter. Your next two were a fourth wall bomb that went over like a deathmatch on TNT. Then what? Two waxing philosophical desperation pieces where you just threw darts at a board, hoping that something would stick, and the best you came up with is being “unavoidable”.
How fucking awkward.
Rush hour traffic is unavoidable, Dan, but I get through it on my way to work every day. You could have said inevitable. Inescapable. Unmovable, unshakable, unstoppable. I just cut this promo down to 745 words by wasting five of them telling you that even your self image is underwhelming. Do you know what happens when the unstoppable force meets the unavoidable object, Dan?
It fucking plows right through it.
And that’s what I’m going to do to you at March to Glory, Daniel. I’m going to plow right the fuck through you. I am going to be inevitable. I am going to be inescapable. I am going to be unmovable, unshakable, and unstoppable. You don’t have the confidence to stop me. You don’t have the youth to stop me. You don’t have the sheer force of will to become the greatest wrestler in HOW history, because if you did, you would already have knocked me off this fucking mountain. I’m sick of wordplay. I’m sick of puns, and references, and pop culture callbacks. I’m sick of coming up with new and clever ways to say the same shit over and over again, because there is very little interesting left to say about being the best wrestler on the planet.
So now, we fight.
Now, we get into the cage and we shake hands and we find out who the better man is. I guess I have to say that. I guess that’s the respect you’re owed. I guess that’s what makes me feel less gross about the feeling of inevitability in the pit of my stomach right now. Maybe you’ve got a shot, Dan, everyone has that fucking puncher’s chance, right? Maybe the third time’s the charm, and the show ends with you standing tall over the Son of God with the HOFC Championship over your shoulder. Do you want to bet on it? Would you put your fucking life savings on beating me at March to Glory, Dan?
Because I would.
I got no money left to bet, no collateral left to leverage, no credit left to tap into. But I’m a gambling man, Dan, and I’m a confident one. So let me tell you how confident I really am. Let me tell you how inevitable I have truly become. Let me tell you what an absolute mess of a loss you’re about to take, in yet another PPV main event. I am so certain in the outcome of this match that I am willing to literally bet my career on it.
No, I’m not kidding.
No return in six months, when I feel the itch. No special returns for major pay-per-views. NO rewriting of history, and no loopholes. I believe in myself. I believe in my legacy. I believe that I am the single greatest wrestler on the planet, and if I fail to defeat you on Saturday night, then I’m wrong. Then I’m not the greatest wrestler on the planet. And if I’m not longer the best, then it’s time for me to step aside and let number two finally get his run on top. So if March to Glory doesn’t end with Michael Lee Best holding the HOW HOFC Championship?
Then I will retire.
Not just from High Octane Wrestling. From professional wrestling.
Don’t fucking tell me about my destiny, Dan.