- Event: Chaos 030
Four rounds.
It took you four rounds to cut through all the usual Scottywood bullshit and say something honest. And that was a lot of honesty, Scotty, so I commend you for that. None of it is going to stop me from boot fucking you like you have a foot fetish, but hey, props for speaking your truth. And by round five, because you’re so thirsty for my piss that you open your mouth wide, spam your F5 key and pray for rain, you were telling me that *I* should be thanking YOU?
Bold strategy, Cotton.
Let’s see if it works out for him.
But you know what, man? You’re right. I do owe you a thanks. No one in HOW would have ever even known what HOFC was if Lee didn’t donate that title to the Save Scottywood Coalition every single time you got into your feelings over your midcard existence (back when you still have a fuck), so I wouldn’t have needed to drag it out from the grave and make it mean something again. So thank you, Scotty. Thank you for being the whiniest possible piss baby of the entire MACHINE ERA, so that I could bring it back and make it a coveted championship today.
And make no mistake.
Its fucking coveted.
Maybe you don’t understand the difference between our championship reigns. You dragged the lifeless corpse of this title around for years and never had to defend it, just call yourself the champion. Me? I also drag it around, Scotty, but that’s because NO ONE WANTS TO FIGHT ME. I have no challengers. I have never declined a single challenge for this belt and never will— you used to decline my challenges on a NEAR WEEKLY BASIS. Why the fuck do you think I retired? All that bullshit about being… jealous of Tyler? What? All these constant references about how I wish I could run HOW? Huh?
Scotty.
Are you reta— whoops, almost got me there buddy!
Are you stupid, or are you just avoiding the obvious truth to fit whatever point you think you’re making? I retired because I got bored. I am almost incapable of losing a match in HOW. I have mastered HOW. Lee and I have had a thousand conversations about how I’m “appointment booking only” now, because even my own father is bored of watching me smash you mindless douchebags over and over and over and fucking over again. The mental gymnastics required for you to somehow make my complete and utter domination of this company a bad thing would almost be impressive, if it wasn’t so desperately fucking stupid. And speaking of stupid?
Yeah, I’ll call you ALL the stupids, you fucking half wit.
You’re a dunce. A moron. An idiot. Five forks short of a useful silverware drawer. You are a soft headed, bad at math, blow bubbles in the bathtub with his own farts and then giggle at them like a troglodyte ass dimwit. The fuck are you going to do about it? Cry more about the fact that I can not only smash you like the “like” button on a YouTube video, but also describe it in ways that your simple ass can’t think of? Just because you can’t do something well doesn’t mean that it’s wrong for me to do it, you fucking ignoramous. I can also eat a taco without a fork and a bib, do you what to ban me from enjoying Mexican food?
It annoys me that you think you’re doing well.
I’m half tempted to throw up a “this last post won’t be necessary” on number five, just because I know it will hurt your feelings. 750 more words might actually be classified by the ACLU as a hate crime, and as usual, you’ve blown your whole load early just in the interest of getting drunk a couple of hours earlier. And I’d make a joke here about needing to drink after facing off against me, but the truth is that you’re a grown man with a drinking problem, and you’re just gonna get drunk because it’s a fucking Friday.
And you want a thank you?
A sincere one?
Go fuck yourself. I don’t thank the punching bags at TEN-X either, because they’re doing their jobs. This is your job, Scotty. To almost look like you can beat me, so I can scrape a few more challengers up off the pavement under the guise of false hope.
Ah shit.
That’s 750.