OH GOD MY SECRETS!
MY TERRIBLE SECRETS!
Quickly, cut the feed, burn the footage, we can’t have anyone seeing all the… stuff I talk about all the time. This is the first time I’ve ever successfully B-Rabbited a man with tracks I’ve been dropping the entire time he’s fucking worked here. Are you kidding me? You’re gonna piss and moan about the number of words in my titles and then give me like 97 free retroactive replies?
You were doing so well.
They all overthink it and fuck it up eventually. HOFC 101, kiddo. They have something going, then they panic, get cute and burn. Xander did it. Cowboy Clay did it. Dan Ryan did it, Scotty did it. I know I’m wasting words here, but I just really need to hammer home exactly how not unlike any other opponent you actually are.
You aren’t special, Conor.
You went with a whole promo on Stevens, huh? Yeah, dip shit, I recruited him. I beat the shit out of him all the time, and he never retires. He beat me for a World Title in 2015. Did you have to hire a private detective for this? Fuck, you spent half a promo talking about how I recycle my premises, and then cut the same fucking promo about it that I cut on Stevens for half the time I’ve been back since War Games.
A WHOLE PROMO?
Come on, Conor. You actually had something decent going with the “you need the spotlight” thing. Yeah, that’s true. I don’t really know how to exist here without being the center of the stage. It was a good point. Again, one I’ve been acknowledging over and over again for fourteen fucking years, but almost a killer. Almost. You just… forgot something.
That’s what makes me dangerous.
I am the world’s deadliest toddler. I throw near constant tantrums when I don’t get my way, I have an ego the size of the confidence you for some reason put on a whole promo about Scott Stevens, and I’m an unlikable shithead who desperately needs to be the best at everything. But do you know what else I am?
Talented enough to make it so.
Time after time after time.
You can call it flexing, but I’m gonna call it “recounting the actual history of HOW”. What do I give a fuck about GenoSyde, or Great Scott, or even fucking Tyler Best? They’re just fucking mouth sounds, Conor. It’s meaningless babble that takes focus away from the part of this you don’t seem to comprehend:
Nothing you have said matters.
Shit, most of it is true. If this was a popularity contest, all the guys and gals would be cheering for you right now and booing me out into the parking lot. They’d put you up on their shoulders and the movie would fade out, while a feel-good 80’s tune played over the end credits. But it’s not a debate, Conor.
It’s a fight.
And it’s a fight you’re gonna lose.
I’m gonna be the unlikeable, toddler tantrum having, Stevens enabling, spotlight stealing, disrespectful, sitting on the bus alone motherfucker who wraps his hand around your little chicken neck and squeezes until either the referee stops the match, or the deoxygenated blood has no way to escape your brain and leaves you with permanent, irreparable damage.
See, that’s a threat, Conor.
Not “yOu’Re GoNnA lOsE tO mE” and a half quippy one liner about how your parents fucked a couple of months earlier than I’d estimated when I looked at your fucking birth year. You’re so busy trying not to reply to me and forge your own path that you’ve failed to recognize that the ground you’re treading is covered in dogshit. I don’t need to learn how to live without a belt, you stupid bitch, because I have the talent and the skills to never have to live without a belt.
I’m a champion.
That’s what we do.
The big empty spaces in your resume don’t apply to me. I take what I want. I beat who I want. I win when I want, Conor, and that’s the thing you don’t seem to grasp here. In a fair world, you’d be the guy. You’d end my streak and you’d take my belts, and I’d skulk away into the night. Forgotten. Alone. Miserable.
But it’s not a fair world.
It’s my world.
Now gimme my fuckin’ spotlight.