wHeN mIkE bEsT dIeS, Jesus, shut the fuck up

Bawww, Mike beat me by eight minutes. 

Man, even when you finally go hard, everything you say just sounds so fucking soft. Of course it’s my narrative, you dumb bitch, this division is my fucking universe. I am the undisputed, thirteen year undefeated King of HOFC. And you already know that— that’s why you just spent every available iota of try hard to let me know that you don’t need to try hard against me. You can take my name in vain as often as you like, but I am the God of this division, and I have a few more commandments for you:

1. Thou shalt suck my whole dick. 
2. Thou shalt not not suck my dick. 
3. Thou shalt not forget about my balls.

And hey, maybe thou shalt shut the fuck up when grown folks are talking, because you should feel lucky to be shat upon by me, Scotty. Because I do acknowledge you as one of the HOFC greats. I do acknowledge that you’re the guy who has come closest to finally beating me, a couple of times now. But that’s what you want to hang your hat on, you lazy fuck? Almost beating me? Is that how low the bar is now? Or is that how high my fucking legend has grown, that almost is worth putting on your resume? 

The fuck happened to you, man?

You used to give more fucks than my patience even had room for. You wanted it so fucking badly. You wanted that HOW Championship. You wanted that Hall of Fame spot. You wanted HOFC to mean something, you wanted that War Games win. What happened? When I lost my first World Title, all I could think about was winning my second. When I lost my eighth, all I could think about was number nine. When I made the Hall of Fame, it wasn’t enough… I needed to be THE Hall of Famer. And I DID IT, Scotty. I’m not ON our Mount Rushmore, I AM our fucking Rushmore. It’s not enough. It will NEVER be enough. I have kicked your teeth down your throat ninety seven times, but none of it means ANYTHING if I can’t do it a ninety eighth. 

When did almost become enough for you?

The World Title became a bucket list item that you just scratched off. You made the Hall of Fame and called it a day. You hang your hat on ALMOST beating me in HOFC. It makes me sad, dude. Sincerely. Because all those years that I dunked on you and made jokes at your expense, I always really, truly believed that someday, you’d make me look like a fucking dunce for sleeping on you all those years. But it turns out that when I use you like a cheap Holiday Inn mattress, it isn’t to sleep. 

You just get fucked on. 

Constantly. 

I’m mostly responding to your second promo, because your third was such abhorrent dogshit that I don’t even know how to properly address it. 750 words about how when I die, no one is going to care. Okay? Cool? Are we having a “who has more friends” match this week, or are we stepping into a cage to punch eachother in the face? Maybe I misunderstood the rules, maybe that’s my bad. 

Do you think I care? 

I am the single most decorated wrestler in HOW history. If the devil wants to come by once a day and fuck me in the ass with a barbed wire baby’s arm holding a goddamned apple, it doesn’t change the fact that I am still going to beat you like a disobedient stepchild who lives under my roof and thus must live by my rules. You sound like an incoherent homeless man, Scotty. Not like a cool, edgy crazy guy. Like an actual sad mentally ill person who just rambles on the street corner until someone uncomfortably gives him a dollar. The fuck are you even talking about?

I’m seriously gonna hurt you, dude. 

I’m running out of ways to say it, but I need you to take it seriously. I need you to understand that what I’m going to do to you would be a crime anywhere outside of that cage. It won’t be entertaining. It won’t be fun to watch. It’s gonna be really, really uncomfortable. And if there isn’t enough left of you to scrape off that mat and compete at War Games?

Fuck it. 

Maybe I’ll just do it myself.