Easy there Elton John.
I say a few mean words and you’re all “I’m still standing”, when you SHOULD be a lot more concerned about whether or not ”Saturday Night’s Alright For Fighting”. Hold me closer, tiny Xander.. And you… are you PROUD of the fact that my promos didn’t break your spirit? You know this is just a bunch of new boot goofin’, and we still have a cage fight this week, right? This is the FUN part. This is the part where we sell tickets, I talk shit, and you pretend that it doesn’t have you rattled. That old adage about stick and stones? You’re worried about the words that will never hurt you, but I’m gonna break your bones, homie.
And you’re goddamned right this division revolves around me.
Ten years, Azumba. It has been ten years since anyone beat me in a HOFC match, of which I have lost TWO in my entire career. Two. By Saturday night, you’ll have lost to me as many times as I have EVER LOST IN HOFC. Lee Best retired it in 2016 because I had no competition left, and I dragged it back out of the grave and even UNOFFICIALLY defended it back in 2019, because it is my lifeblood. There’s no hubris here. No exaggeration. No grandstanding. I am the single greatest wrestler in HOW history, and the single most dominant HOFC fighter of all time. Check the betting odds. Check the discord. Check the court of public opinion. You are the only motherfucker on the planet who thinks this match is even going to be close, and that doesn’t make you the underdog, Xander.
It makes you an idiot in danger.
You haven’t said a word to me that I haven’t heard before, and it all ends with a knee to the skull. Blessed or cursed, who gives an actual fuck about you? You’ve got your ding ding, motherfuckers and your buzzwords, and all the vague ways you’re trying to cop my style, but you’re just coming off like a cheap imitation. A copy of a copy of a copy, like an ass print on the office copy machine. Xerox Azula, the Carbon Copy Cult Cunt. Remember how you used to be in a cult? Boy, you stopped talking about that real quick, as soon as the spooky jokes started. I changed your entire fucking personality– WHAT HAPPENED TO THE CULT?
Doesn’t matter anyway.
No one is drinking the Kool-Aid, Xerox.
No one believes in a single word that you’re saying, and YOU don’t believe it, either. Deep down, you’ve already accepted your fate. You already know how it’s going to go out there, and you’re already thinking about the path that awaits you in failure. You are a walking bubble full of doubt, just waiting to burst. But me?
There’s not a doubt in my mind, Xander.
Not an iota of my being that thinks you have a shot at beating me on Saturday night. That isn’t narcissism, or megalomania. It’s not overconfidence. Sunday morning, I’ll be looking for my next challenger, and you’ll be looking for your fucking teeth. Brian Hollywood thought a few continues on the Final Boss would help, and I knocked him out in three rounds. Dan Ryan thought the third time was a charm, and he came up short. It’s not an advantage that I already beat you, dickhead. I don’t care if you’re motivated. I don’t care if you’re up in your feelings. People like you step up to me every single day, and people like me?
Well, there are no people like me.
There is me. Michael Lee Best, the Son of God, the savior of HOFC. The single most dominant wrestler in the history of HOW, and the fucking universe. Praise Kneesus, kneel, and know your fucking place, Xerox. I am an unholy abomination of trash talk, a literal titan inside of the cage. An unstoppable, immovable, irrevocable GOD OF CAGEFIGHTING. You exist to feed the machine, nothing more, nothing less, and you’re wasting a lot of fucking words for a sandwich in spandex. I don’t care if you’re still here. I don’t care if you’re still standing. I don’t care if you’re “just getting started”. You have three more promos to run your fucking mouth, and then I am going to beat you within an inch of your life and if you’re lucky, MAYBE I’ll stop there.
Feeling lucky, Xerox?
Cause you fucking shouldn’t.