The fuck is even left to say, man?
Three was too many for us. Eventually waterboarding stops being fun, and you’ve been drowning since the first round. I’ve always had this HOFC fantasy of just saying “this third post won’t be necessary” and then walking away from the explosion without looking back, but technicalities are technicalities, so I guess I’ll just drop two back to back in the hopes that you can rub them together to produce the slightest amount of heat.
You are a fucking charisma void, dude.
Where entertainment goes to die. Being as stale as a week old ham sandwich is not a benefit to you in this industry, it’s a fucking detriment. Stop bragging about being less entertaining than me. The least you could do on your way to a shallow grave at Refueled is have the courtesy to make a couple of jokes and dance for the people. But nah, you just gotta be Spooky Steve and do Spooky Steve shit, talking about repetition while just being The Cult of Christplow 2021. Wait, is that the best reference I have? Hold on.
- Father Michael and David Black
- Edgelord Rah
- Trick R Treat
- Lucian Santangel
- That thing Stevens did with the Tarot cards, I think? Who cares.
- LITERALLY THE MINISTER, WHO I KILLED ONCE.
Since you’re a connoisseur of halfway reading HOW history, I’m sure you’re familiar enough with a few of those names to realize that you’re the fucking Starbucks Frappachino of generic Culty Boyz. There is nothing about you that someone else hasn’t already done better, and you are so under-fucking-whelming that this isn’t even fun for me anymore.
Heathen mortal, I am here to reap your soul and–
Shut the fucking door, holy shit.
Miss me with your goddess worship, you fucking simp.
The only sacrifice that’s going to be made is by the fans who paid for a three round fight and watched it end in a first round flash knockout. The only God is Lee Best, and I’m the one you need to accept into your jaw to find redemption in High Octane Wrestling. The only altar in that cage on Saturday night is gonna be the way I physically alter the shape of your face, you goonie-eyed voodoo cunt. Like, I definitely wouldn’t be surprised if your ring entrance started with a “DONG”.
But like an actual dong.
Big flappy, flaccid dicks with fucking lightning or something behind them, because you are a spooky boner in sweatpants, my dude. And now you’re getting all hard in preparation for the semi-finals, and I’m gonna ruin your orgasm like that little Mommy Mistress you call a goddess who makes you top off her Venmo account every week so that she can get her nails done. Did she tell you to write bad promos and get beaten by a Hall of Famer? Is that your punishment for being a naughty little cash pig? Are you gonna come out to the ring with SLUT written on your forehead in bright red lipstick?
You’re a bad little girl, Xylophone Azexual.
What do I have left, like 200 words? Jesus, you’re just arduous, dude. You’re gonna cry again if I talk about pop culture, or call you a salad. The fuck is left? Since I beat you in my second, this is all literally just a victory lap. I’m really looking forward to your last promo, though. I don’t mean your third one against me, mind you.
I mean your LAST promo.
Because you’re gonna quit just like the rest of them did, Xander. They come into HOW, they can’t hack it, and they leave. That’s why your sad brags about Simon and Solex fall on deaf ears. That’s why you’re coming off so forced and fucking stupid. Because they’ve taken their losses. Because they’ve proven themselves.
Because they didn’t fucking quit.
When I drive a knee into the side of your head, and they carry you out of the arena in your hokey little coffin, will you be able to say the same? Because you ARE going to lose, Xander. I am the HOW World Champion. I am the undefeated HOFC Champion, whether they acknowledge my crown or not. It’s up to you if you fuck off to Fisher Price island, because I AM going to fucking beat you.
That’s not a playbook.
That’s not a man on a mission.
That’s a spoiler.