- Event: #97RED
If you only had a brain.
Not since Dorothy jerked off the Scarecrow has a human being so desperately grasped at straws. You clicked your little heels together and asked the Wizard for a secret weapon, just to come up with… a single, solitary time you could halfway claim a victory over me?
We didn’t fight, Conor.
The weird origami you’re doing might look like a bomb, but it’s still paper thin. Every single time I’ve ever put my hands on you, I’ve crumpled you into a little ball and threw you in the fucking trash, but alright, man. I guess. If you really need it, then sure, you beat me at ICONIC 2021, and the entire pay-per-view was booked around protecting me from you. Lee Best put me in the ring with my best friend, who squashed me in the first round, just to protect me from being humiliated.
By you.
I got humiliated.
To protect me.
From humiliation.
I would have thought that a dude who based his entire life around video games until literally a month ago might have picked up a few tricks on how to talk shit. At least tell me you’re gonna bang my mom or something. How did you live an existence surrounded by angsty thirteen year olds and not develop at least the trash talking skills of an angsty thirteen year old?
Maybe it’s because you’re all gimmick.
Zero substance.
Always have been. You called yourself The Vintage, and then you wanted to put an Xbox controller on your tights. Our first HOFC match, I ran circles around you with video game wordplay, and you had nothing to come back at me with. Just a guy playing a part, knowing how to talk the talk, but with no ability to walk the walk. And this is no different, Conor— you went from being a fake nerd with a fake gimmick to being a fake cage fighter with a fake cage fighter gimmick. I don’t believe you. When you tell me that you’re going to beat me, it doesn’t feel real. It doesn’t feel like you even believe it, so why the fuck should I believe it?
Why should anyone?
When I tell someone that I’m going to hurt them, the reason it means something is because I hurt them. I can threaten to end a motherfucker’s life because they’ve seen me do it before. This fake it till you make it bullshit doesn’t do anything for me— the pathetic desperation in claiming a victory over me on a night that we never even shared a ring is so sad and thirsty that I almost feel bad even making fun of you for it. I’m threatening to put you in a wheelchair, Conor. I’m threatening to end your career, like I have ended countless careers. And you thought the best way to fight back was to push up your glasses and scream “WELL TECHNICALLY YOU HAVE ONLY BEATEN ME ALL BUT ONE TIME”?
…what?
You’ve been in HOW for three years. You’ve done some impressive shit since you’ve been here, Conor, but until you believe that you’re the guy, you’ll never be the guy. I’m an insecure piece of shit and I know it, but I also know without a second thought that my legacy and my career and my name will never be forgotten. I am the Champion of Champions. The Ultimate Hall of Famer. The Final Boss of High Octane Wrestling. So when I flex my achievements, I don’t do it timidly, Conor.
I do it with fucking authority.
You still sound like you’re trying to convince me that you belong here. You still sound like you’re in a fucking debate contest. Who are you trying to convince? I didn’t have to have my arm twisted to accept this match— I knew you were a good opponent. I knew this was going to be a banger. I knew you belonged here, before you ever said a try hard word. But I don’t think you knew. I think you still don’t.
And that’s why you’ll lose.
That’s it, it’s that simple.
You’re gonna keep trying every trick in the book. Ignoring me, replying to me, digging into the past, speculating into the future. More gimmicks from the gimmick man. Throw it all against the wall, see what sticks. Every word you say that doesn’t reek of imitation reeks of desperation.
Stop it.
Say something real, Conor.
I am fucking begging you.