Nope, there it is.
Same old Scotty.
750 words of “I did no research”, prewritten, devoid of effort bullshit. Jokes about your hair that I stopped making years ago. The same “we’ve done this over and over” nonsense that you’ve said every time we’ve had a match for like… five years. You and I buried the hatchet so many years ago that every single person in HOW already knows that we’re friends, and that I like you. I even fucking said as much the LAST time we had a HOFC match.
But here comes Scotty.
Talking to no one. Addressing elephants in the room that have been dead for so long that they’re decomposing. At least this time, you acknowledge that you’ve been paying no attention and have no idea what’s going on. That’s progress, I guess. And you’re right, we both know that there is nothing I could possibly say that is going to phase you.
That’s the problem.
Why are you even still here? What is your actual purpose? Do you even like wrestling anymore? Cause it sure as fuck doesn’t seem like it. When I lose a match, it eats me alive. I obsess about it. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I fucking sweat pure hatred and there is nothing in the world that can contain me from getting back out there and avenging that loss. It’s not a good quality. It’s not a sane quality. It isn’t healthy. But it’s a quality that has made me the single most dangerous wrestler in the history of this and most other companies. But you, Scotty?
You’ve lost to me 97 times.
Said it yourself.
And you’re unphased.
You’re sleeping well, or at least passing out in comfy places. Eating fine, even if you’re drinking your dinner. You have absolutely zero fucking passion, and it’s so far beyond disappointing that I regret even choosing that word in the first place. Fuck you, man. Just… fuck you.
No wonder you’ve never amounted to shit.
At least Stevens tries.
I could slap that man’s dick in the dirt 96 times, and on the 97th time he’s gonna stand right back up and tell me to go fuck myself. He’s still gonna swing for those fences. But here comes Scott Woodson, talking about how “I know what I’m gonna get from him at War Games”. No, Scotty.
I’m afraid I know what I’ll get from you at War Games.
And that fear is quickly becoming a reality.
I tried it the easy way, but I guess like always, you’re gonna make this as difficult as possible. I asked you for something simple. Something humble. Something constructive. And not only did you not give it to me, you literally didn’t even read before you posted your prewritten, woe is me bullshit. So now we’re gonna do it the hard way.
The violent way.
Now, I’m gonna have to drag your ass out into the middle of that cage and beat your ass. Again. I’m going to have to put fresh dents into that Frankenstein skull of yours. AGAIN. I’m going to have to make this the thing you desperately seem to want this to be, which is a rehash of every other HOFC match we’ve had since before America had a fucking black president.
Same old match.
Same old outcome.
Same old Scottywood.
You’ve learned nothing. You’ve changed nothing. You’re the same senseless motherfucker who has been saying the same senseless shit for the entire tenure of my HOW career, and now it’s time to pay for it in knees. You want me to live up to your ancient expectations? You wanna go back to 2012?
Your hair looks stupid and Frankie is a goober and your tag team partner Cancer Jiles is never gonna amount to anything. You suck as a GM of Mayhem and the Battledome will never happen and NGW is dogshit. I will inhabit the soul of Kneesus H. Christ himself and beat your pepperoni nipples into the fucking dirt, and there isn’t a goddamned thing you can do about it, you stupid fuck. You dumb, Marty McFly douchebag. You ridiculous, Ronald McDonald with a Time Machine bitch. You want it to be 2012, well…
Chaos is 2012, motherfucker.
Enjoy the end of your world.