- Event: Chaos 031
Jace Parker Davidson.
OnlyFans. Set a guy on fire. Only has one eye. Lee Best pissed in your mouth and you loved it. Tara Michaels Davidson. Denver Broncos fan. Lost a handicap match to Zion. Obsession with Carey. Let me just say all of that off the top, because it’s all the shit you’ve been mentally preparing for me to dunk on since the second you realized this match was coming. It’s what everyone is expecting, and it’s likely what you’ve already been countering in your head.
And none of it is going to be mentioned again.
I don’t need it. Everyone likes to find the fruit hanging so low that it’s literally just sitting on the ground when it comes to you, Jace. If they’d just look at any other branch on the tree, they’d have realized years ago that it was all rotten anyhow. So I’m gonna spit roast and maim you without any of that lowbrow bullshit, and then I’m going to beat you. That’s my mission statement. That’s my letter of intent. Over the next four and a half HOFC promos, I am going to utterly and completely destroy you. And I know that nothing hurts your feelings. I know that nothing effects you. I know that you’re essentially the world’s horniest robot. But my end goal isn’t to make you feel foolish, Jace.
I’m going to make you look foolish.
To them.
Because that’s the thing you care about. You’ll say that you don’t, but that’s because you lie a lot. Actions speak louder than words, as transparent as every single part of you is, that’s number one. Every single time I open Twitter, I’m staring at some dumb fuck argument over the pettiest criticism I’ve ever seen. Someone thinks you stole their stable name? Let’s have a nine day argument about it where you tag every single woman on the planet to make sure that she agrees with you. You’re in every single wrestling company on the planet— literally, if you can afford to put up a ring in a barn, Jace Parker Davidson will go wrestle in it. Gotta get those followers. Gotta get that attention. Gotta say whatever vile, “what do you mean it’s not 2007?” shit you can think of at any given moment, because the only way to make sure people know you don’t care about their attention is to constantly seek their fucking attention.
You’re a toddler, Jace.
A Diet Mike Best.
You are a twelve year old’s crayon drawing of the Son of God. All of my vocabulary but none of my finesse. All of my strategies, but none of my charm. It’s like you read a book about me once and said “yeah, I can do that”, but you CAN’T. No one can. And you know it, which is why you’ve been dick riding me so hard since you came back that I’m sincerely concerned about the structural integrity of your fucking pelvis. I make fun of the strip club? Jace is gonna smash that retweet and pray I don’t notice that he owns a football team full of wrestlers who are actors and models and moms and superheroes. I make fun of a guy pretending to be a girl pretending to be a wrestler who weighs 80 pounds and just got invited to a Hollywood premiere? A much quieter “like”, while Jace runs off to the DMs to make sure they can keep a secret.
It’s like I’m your God.
You stand in my church and you preach my word but you don’t live by an iota of it. You come to Sunday services but you don’t follow my commandments. And now this week, you stand before Kneesus, about to have that crucifix snatched off your fucking neck, and I know what that feeling down in your little tum tum is, Jace.
It’s anxiety.
It’s fear.
You’ve avoided this match for years. I’ve been baiting you for a couple of weeks now, and it’s funny how silent you’ve gone. No replies. No responses. I’ve called you out by name and tagged you on your favorite platform, but you’re suddenly the Holy Ghost to the Father and Son. You’ve been running, Jace, but you can’t run forever. The time has come. The rapture is here. Project Ego is about to explode.
Hit me with everything you’ve got.
Oh, and cold spaghettios are still fucking delicious.