Post by Amy Jo Smyth on May 1, 2017 3:58:35 GMT
___________________________
Rounds about a year ago - think it has been about ten or eleven months to be exact - I found myself in Mexico, wrestling for a relatively new company known as Guerreros of Lucha. I entered a rumble, and won it. With Roxi Johnson, of course, one of my best friends in this world. became the very first Soaring Eagle champions. Then we faced off for the title and she won - I let her win. Ha. Probably. Maybe.
Who cares?
She's still Soaring Eagle Champion to this day. Getting to be a long reign. It seems nobody can defeat her. Good for her. I knew she could do it. She's also the number one contender to the Reyes de Reyes title. I was once number one contender.
I had a match with Avery Miles for the title. With a bad ankle. Like, I'm talking fucked up. I wasn't even supposed to be wrestling, but I did it anyway. Because, fuck you.
As we all know, as evidenced by my lack of the title around my waist, I lost.
Oh, and did I ever go on a public shame spiral.
But I recovered. Oh, how I fucking recovered. I finally got what I'd been after for nine years - a world title. Check that shit off the list. Goal achieved. I'm L.A.W. Champion. I knew I could do it. It was only a matter of time.
It was only a matter of time before I returned to GoL. And here I am, back for the Super Falcon Cup. I think when I came here last year, the Super Falcon Cup was just coming to a close and Mr. Miles was getting his shot over La Cucaracha.
That feels so long ago.
Everything feels so long. I mean, so much has happened and so many things have changed. Natural progress.
I've gotten one year older, put another title in my trophy case, added achievement after achievement to my list, and best of, I've been healthy as a horse. I've got my shit together, my body is cooperating, I've never felt better, and frankly, I haven't been this good since I was in my early twenties.
All that aside, let's ask a serious question… Did you really think I wouldn't join The Super Falcon Cup tournament? You had to expect that my ass would be on that list. This is what I do, this is what I excel at, this is an aspect of this sport that I just fucking love.
Also!
It's a second chance for me. It's a chance to get back to what I had fucked up the first time. Now, of course, and I wouldn't expect anything different from my career, I've gotta climb a mountain to get another shot, to make amends for the one I blew the first time.
I'm back at the bottom and I've gotta start by facing off with and defeating Mr. Jack Tillman.
___________________________
In the Continuing Adventures of Our Hero...
◀◀ Be Kind, Rewind
I stand in the alleyway, my foot firmly planted on the Neo-Nazi’s back, holding him down, the snowfall increasing with each flake that hits me, wondering what I do now. Even if I knock this fucker unconscious, I can’t possibly drag him along - I don’t have that kind of strength and that would look super weird in a public setting.
Oh, don’t mind me, just dragging this lifeless dude down the sidewalk, nothing to see here…
The guy keeps grunting and groaning, fighting to get to at least his knees, but I just keep slamming him down to the pavement. “Let me up, fucking slag,” he grumbles.
“You want me to kick you in the face?” I ask, looking down at him, training my Glock on him even tighter. “Shut it.”
Question remains, how do I get outta this mess?
Let’s call Hazard. The phones don’t ring right here; they make that low-pitched pulsing sound. It just ain’t right.
“Smyth?” Hazard answers. “Please have good news for me.”
I look down at the guy. “Can you pick up my friend and me?”
“Oh, my, God, yes!” he answers with excitement. “Where are you?”
“The fuck if I know,” I say. I look down at my new friend, ask him, “You know where we are?”
“Piss off,” he grunts.
“That’s helpful,” I say, sarcastically. “You’re so helpful.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Hazard says, “I’ll get them to ping you.”
Ping me? What the fuck is that?
“Hurry up, it’s fucking cold,” I say.
He hangs up and I’m stuck here with this Nazi fuck in an alleyway. I decide to sit down on his back, putting all my weight on him, making it completely impossible for him to move in any capacity. Hell, I’m making it hard for him to breathe, too. Then again, NeoNazis shouldn’t be able to breathe, at all, let alone as well as I’m letting him do so now. I keep the muzzle of the gun pressed against the back of his head.
“So, Pencil Dick,” I say. “How ya doing? Some weather we’re having, huh?” I look up at the sky. “All these little snowflakes, and then this big snowflake, just crushing you…”
He grunts more, tries to speak, but the air just isn’t there.
“Aw, how’s it feel to be silenced by oppression?” I say then smack his ass with my free hand. “And spanked by American justice? Ain’t so big and bad now, are you?”
I laugh.
He tries to speak again.
“Shut the fuck up,” I say, releasing more of my weight on his ribs and back. “That’s one-hundred-fifty pounds of pure American Nazi Crushing Pride right there.”
About ten minutes later, the screech of suddenly stopped tires echoes down the alleyway. Hazard has arrived. My partner comes stomping through the growing snow and walks up on us.
“Hey,” I say, waving. “Long time, no see!”
Hazard looks at me. “I see we’re making friends.”
“I can’t help that all the boys want me,” I quip.
“But do you want them is the better question,” he adds.
I slowly stand up, making sure to give Mr. Fuckface Nazi Boy a quick heel kick to his already suffering ribs. He gasps, taking in a deep breath of air and releases it only to gasp for more.
“Wow, you took his breath away,” Hazard jokes.
I do not laugh. Hazard pulls the fucker to his feet.
“Eat shit,” Nazi Wonder Boy says straight to my face then coughs. “Fucking ugly git.”
“You're not very nice,” I say, pointing at him, getting right into his face. “That ain't how you talk to a lady.”
“You aren't a lady. You're a fucking cunt. A cunt with a fucked up face. What the fuck happened to your face?” he spouts off.
My fist tightens up, I rear back, and nail him right in the nose with a straight on punch. “What's wrong your face?”
Fuckboy Nazi stumbles back and blood starts gushing from his stupid nose. He makes a lame attempt to cover up and alleviate the pain in his nose with his hands.
“Aw, whatchu go and do that for?” Hazard whines, holding the guy up. “Now I gotta worry about staining my shirt and what kind of diseases this arsefucker is carrying…”
“You fucking bitch whore,” Nazi fuck shouts.
“I've had just enough of that shit,” Hazard says, shaking him. “You'll keep your cocksucking gob shut or I'll break your goddamn bleeding jaw.”
“Can I just knock him out?” I ask, holding up the butt end of my Glock. “I can totally do it. One good shot, and bam, goodnight Nazi scum.”
“You wanna drag his sorry carcass to the car? Huh?”
I shake my head. “You got me there.”
Hazard starts pushing the guy forward toward the car. “Get moving.”
“Who the fuck are you? This is fucking police brutality!” Nazi Fuckboy says. “I got rights, ya know.”
“We ain't the police,” Hazard says.
“Nazis voided their rights when they demanded genocide.” I smack him upside the head. “Fuckface.”
“I am not a Nazi!”
“Shut the fuck up,” I say and give him another slap.
“Gonna be a long car ride, isn't it?” Hazard asks.
“I'll gag this Motherfucker if I gotta,” I say. “With my dang shoe.”
↼ ⟡ ⇁
Hazard has taken my new friend and me to a very secret and deserted location. Okay, it's just a rundown apartment in a desolate, poor part of town. It’s beat up, dark, has no real furniture to speak of and smells like rust, piss, and oddly enough, burnt flesh. The mattresses on the wall sure make it a little more homely.
This tiny apartment is set up for all kinds of fun. It’s a black site, or whatever they call them here. It's a fully set up for, well, let’s call it what it really is… Torture. The CIA calls it enhanced techniques or extraordinary measures and it requires incredibly specifics parameters to be met and authorization by the head of the department. I have no idea what MI6 calls it or what they require for torture to be used in the Kingdom of the Queen, but none of that seems to matter right now.
Hazard has hung our Nazi friend from a hook on the ceiling. Hazard sure has a fetish for stringing people up. For all the talking Nazi Fuckboy did on his way here, he sure shut up when Hazard threw him into the apartment and he got a good look at the assortment of toys at our disposal. The look of sheer fear on his face when Hazard placed him on that hook.
Oh, boy,
He didn’t go up without a fight. His fight wasn’t enough, though, and up her went like a cow carcass in a meat locker, ready to take a good beating. I sit in a decrypted, nondescript wooden chair, staring at his bare feet. No idea what he lost his shoes, but he did and now his yellow, fungus-infected, long, gangly toenails are just out for the whole world to see, for me to be completely sickened by.
“You know they make shit to help cure toe fungus now,” I say calmly as I point to his feet. “Nail clippers won’t hurt cha, either.”
There’s no reaction whatsoever from him.
“A girl doesn’t want to wake up next to that,” I add. “Scratching her up in the middle of the night.”
Nothing.
“I bet you’ve never even shared a bed with a girl - and no, your sister doesn’t,” I say. “I bet you’re still a virgin. A virgin with a pencil dick. The ladies aren’t missing much when it comes to you.”
I stand up, move closer to him.
“I have this theory,” I start, circling around him, looking him up and down, “that white men, racists, have this level of penis envy… That’s why you’re so obsessed with this idea of cuckold shit. You all think that black men have bigger dicks - and they do, because, let’s be serious, ManDingo, anyone?”
He just follows me with his eyes, silently enraged.
“White guys hate black men because white men have small - smaller dicks. Y’all are intimidated. Worried that you can’t compete. That a woman will pick the guy with a bigger dick. White men have such low self-confidence. But… Let me say this, if y’all had better personalities, women might be able to overlook your tiny dicks. This is all about little penises.”
I smack him on the ass. “I heard that Hitler had a teeny-tiny micro-penis and one testicle…” I pause. “Or maybe that was Napoleon.”
He glares at me; he doesn’t much care for my lecture.
Just looking at him makes me angry. I grab him by the cheeks with my hand, squeeze his mouth into a pursed lips. “I don’t like you,” I say. “You don’t even know what you really stand for and what you do stand for, doesn’t even make any sense.” I release him, letting him swing violently, and step away.
“You’re one - you’re one of the reasons this world has gone to shit,’’ he sputters.
I turn around my heel to look at him. “Excuse me?”
“Bitch, you heard me. Fucking feminists dykes. Women like you, wanting to be the man. You belong in the home, that’s what you’re suited for, that’s all your little brains can handle. But your husband is too stupid, too fucking whipped to know better.”
Slowly I raise my left hand, look at my wedding ring. “Hm.”
“Shit was good before you liberals ruined it,” he starts. “White men were strong, powerful, the leaders, right where we belong, as God intended. You were right where you belonged, making dinner, babies, and your husband happy. Not anymore. Your husband should smack you around, get you back in your place…”
I lift my finger, put it in his face. “I’m gonna stop you there,” I say. I turn my left hand around, show him my ring. “I have some bad news for you. My wife isn't going to be smacking anyone around.”
His eyes tighten. Everything I say to him just pissed him off. I'm everything he hates, except for the color of my skin. I'm starting to think there isn't a big divide between this guy and the people I grew up with in the church. To them, a woman is to find a man, marry him, and spend her life making dinner, babies, and her man happy. To them, homosexuality is a sin, wrong, and that we are destroying the very fabric of our great nations and do not deserve any rights - these men who say we're possessed by evil and somehow ruining God's gift of marriage, marriage between a man and a woman. Sure, a man can marry multiple women, but so long as it's man and a woman, that's okay. Extramarital affair? Sure, as long as it's a man and woman.
These two groups share the same feelings, for different reasons - except, I don't know why Nazis hate LGBTQ people - about the same things and will resort to violence if needed. At least Nazis don't hide behind the guise of a bible for their hatred.
These two groups aren't so unalike when push comes to shove. Same shirt, different colors.
“But, but,” I start. “I will be smacking you around.”
“Fucking dyke,” he says. “Which one wears the dick?”
I nail him gut with a closed fist. “No,” I shout.
Hazard comes waltzing into the room, a briefcase in his hand. “Jesus, I can't leave you two alone for a minute.”
I step away, go back to my chair, as Hazard steps up to him, case in hand. “Is she being mean to you?”
“She's a fucking bitch,” he says, grunting, shaking his restraints. “Let me down and show what a real man can do.”
“Oh. And would it involve something like this?” he asks and then smacks him square across the face. Bitch boy Nazi fuck falls back, starts squirming. I can't help but smirk.
Hazard moves around, places the briefcase on the table, opens it, and pulls out an assortment of toys. A taser, brass knuckles, finger traps, a small rubber paddle, a thumbscrew, feathers - don't know, not gonna ask - a scalpel, a back band with a buckle, ball gag, and what excites me most of all, a needle with a bottle of fluid next to it.
He can't possibly need to even want to use all this. He can't be that much of a sadistic fuck, can he? I know I barely know the guy, but Jesus fuck, this is pushing some serious boundaries now. I thought we would just beat him up a little until he started talking. And we really haven't even asked this guy any questions so it's not like he's being combative or resisting.
I would never get approval for extraordinary measures, not yet anyway.
“So, Mr. Price,” Hazard says.
Nazi Fuckboy has a name, apparently. Hazard must have phoned home and talked to his people about it. One picture taken with a cell phone run through some photo recondition software and we know everything about there is to know about a person, even more if they’re being tracked.
Not gonna lie, I feel left out and it would seem that my British partner has a plan but I'm not privy to the finer details. Hey, I'm good at winging shit and playing along.
Price’s eyes go large when he sees the assortment of goodies that Hazard is ready to use. He swallows hard.
“We're looking for your friend, Eddie. Edward Griffin,” Hazard says, slapping on a pair of blue latex gloves. “You know where he is?”
“Piss off,” Price answers.
“That's not the right answer,” Hazard says.
I move forward, slam my fist into his ribs
We wait for him. Silence.
“Eddie is where?” Hazard asks again.
More silence so I whack him in the gut with my fist and whole arm, driving the air out of him and crushing his stomach. He groans.
“Your friend Eddie wants to do some bad stuff to good people,” Hazard explains. “I'm certain he has told you all about it. We'd love it you'd share with us.”
“I'm not telling you cowfuckers shit,” Price manages to spit out.
Double fists to the gut get me double groaning “Why are you doing this to yourself?” I ask, grabbing a very handy and well placed broom handle that's been wrapped in tape. I aim up, eying his knees. “It doesn't have to be this way. Don't you want to help out the country you love so much, save a lot of innocent citizens from being killed.”
“They aren't citizens,” he mumbles. “They're not true English. England is for the English.”
That's when I swing for the bleachers.
“It’s outta here!” Hazard shouts.
The broom handle cracks in my hand and Price screams like a goddamn girl.
“Can I just say…” I shake the floppy handle that's held together only by the tape. “Can I just say, I really admire this fucktwat’s commitment to his cause? A shitty cause, but a cause no less.”
It's been a few hours. I'm tired; beating a guy senseless for information takes a lot of you, especially when he's provided so little useful information. So I sit in my chair, legs up, resting on the table, languishing over a bottle of water. Price, bloodied, battered, growing purple with bruises, and broken in various joints, looks at me through his swollen eyes.
I'd almost feel bad for the guy, but nah.
His eyes won't leave me. Rather, they won't leave the bottle of water I take short sips from.
“This water is so refreshing,” I say, looking him dead in the eyes, then take a drink. I swallow then click my tongue, “Ah, delicious.”
His bottom jaw slowly opens. Behind the blood and swelling, I can see it all over his face.
I stand, walk toward him with the bottle in my hand, looking between him and the water. “Untouched by human hands… Comes from deep underground,” I say, reading from the label. “Wow. You sure can taste that. It's got electrolytes, too. Natural electrolytes.”
He starts wiggling his body and tries to move his mouth. Little sounds come out.
“Oh, you want some?” I ask, holding the bottle up to him. After the beating we've given him, the blood loss, the fluid retention in his skin, and the natural sweating the body does during extreme stress, his body wants water, no, it needs water. His brain is solely concentrated on survival thanks to signals from his body, and one of the things he needs to retain homeostasis is water.
“Do you know what happens to your body as dehydration sets in?” I ask and then sip some water from the square plastic bottle. “You're probably feeling some of the effects already. Dry mouth and lips. Hunger. Confusion. Thirst. That's the trick… When you start to feel thirsty, dehydration - mild, of course… Mild dehydration has already begun. That's the first step. After that, it's not pretty. Muscle cramps, hallucinations, fainting.” I pause, drink, ponder my next step. “In severe cases, the eyes go so dry they get stuck open and the brain literally dries up. Organ failure sets in. It's not a pleasurable.”
I shrug, drink some more water.
“Ah, but what do I know about that? I'm nice and hydrated. Got lots of water in the fridge over there,” I say. Now I'm just being cruel, but it's giving me a thrill. “You want some?” I hold the bottle out to him.
Price starts to violently wiggle and shake. “Yes. Water.”
I push the water bottle up to his lips and as soon as he opens his mouth, I pull it away.
“Tell me what Griffin is planning,” I say.
More shaking. He doesn't know what to do. His body is telling his brain to get water and nothing else. It's going to override every other sense he has, it's going to supercede his need to remain loyal to his cause.
I should have done this from the very start.
“C’mon, just tell me. I'll cut you down, give you all the water you can drink, and you can go back to jerking your baby dick to pictures of Hitler,” I say, shaking the bottle, letting the water splash against the sides.
It takes him a long time, a period I'm willing to wait. Saving the world takes patience and tenacity, after all.
“Regent’s Park Mosque,” he sputters. “Regent’s mosque on Wednesday. Tomorrow. He said, said that's he's gonna - gonna shoot, um, shoot it up, and then burn it down.”
Fuck yeah!
“Now that wasn't so hard, now was it?” I ask, bringing the water up to his mouth. Then I change my mind and pull it away.
He groans loudly, “No! Fuck!” This wakes Hazard up with a jerk and grunt.
Hazard looks at me from the sofa, sleepy-eyed, confused. “Huh? What's going on?”
I wave Hazard off and return my attention back to Price. “That's it? I think you're holding back on me. I thought we were just beginning to work on our trust issues here.”
“Please just, I just want some water,” he moans.
“Don't leave things out, then,” I say.
“He's gonna - gonna storm the park and shoot everyone he sees,” he says. “That's all he told me. Please.” Price starts to cry. A fully grown man starts to sob uncontrollably in front of me, over water. These fucking tough guys, think they're so bad, but the minute basic survival mode kicks in, they are nothing.
“You know where he is now?” I ask.
“No - no,” he says. “He took off when you got to Tyler’s.”
“Thanks, shit-stain,” I say with a smile. I push the water bottle against his lips and fill his mouth full of water. Most of it falls out of his mouth, but I fulfilled my promise. It isn't my fault that he can't swallow fast enough. “Remember, you did this to yourself.”
The bottle has run dry and I throw it over my shoulder. “More,” he coughs.
“You're gonna have to get it yourself,” I say, stepping away. I look at Hazard. “Put your pants on, we got places to be and people to see.”
Hazard just stares at me. “What?”
“You heard me,” I announce, clapping my hands loudly. “Chop-chop.”
I snatch my coat off the back of my chair and slide into it.
“Wait,” Price cries. “You can't leave me here. Where are you going?”
“Here, there,” I say. “Out to fuck bitches.”
Price starts shaking and moving his body around with a strength I hadn't seen in him before. “You said - you said you'd let me down!”
“I'm a woman, we change our minds.”
...To Be Continued…
Of all the names to draw in the first round, of the places to be on the card… Either that was a damn setup or the wrestling Gods went ahead and just did what they do. In no uncertain terms, and in no way can what I'm about to say be denied, this is going to be the the match of the night. I may push it one step more and say it might be the match of the whole series, but that's going to depend on how far either of us get and who else wins.
I think, and God only knows why I'm thinking because it gets us all in trouble, I think that regardless of who wins this match between Mr. Tillman and I, every match involving me or him is gonna be the main event, even if it's not the main event.
That's saying a lot about myself, ain't it?
Hasl.
Saying a lot about Mr. Tillman as well.
I'm not going to pretend that I know Mr. Tillman well. That's basically a lie. Mr. Tillman, however, has a reputation that precedes him. In the same way people know me, I know him - merely from our reputations and tendency to get around in tournaments and open rumbles.
Please, I get around more than a downtown bus during rush hour.
I can't help that I wanna wrassle. I can't help that I've devoted my life to this. I can't help that I wanna win me some more stuff. Ha. Let's be serious, the minute I saw this pop up, The Soaring Eagle Cup, I was on top of it. It's a way to shoot myself back up to the top and get myself back into contention for the Reyes de Reyes title.
And fuck, I want a little redemption for my blown save from last time.
See, I don't wanna blow it this time and I'm not in the mood to blow it this time. I've been on a fucking tear lately. L.A.W. Title, undefeated since the new year, moved my way into round three of the Monarchy of Anarchy tournament… I wasn't fucking kidding when I said I'm in the best shape of my life and doing better than I have since my younger years. It's as if I'm a kid again, that rookie in her prime, some kind of talent on a meteoric rise, and that's exactly how I'm treating it.
Difference is, I got the experience and wisdom now.
Age may be a factor, same with the injuries that have added up over the years, and ones that nag.... Thing is, they don't nag and I don't think about them and my age is a non-issue until someone thinks that it gives them an advantage. That usually bites them in the ass. Hard. What is it that say, age before beauty? Something about wisdom?
I dunno, but you get the point.
You'd think at my age, that I'd be lying back, taking it easy… Fuck no. There's much to be done, things to do, places to go, wrestlers to beat...
I'm gonna join this tournament and defeat Jack Tillman. A man I've only ever really crossed paths with, well, passing. I've heard enough about you to know what I'm up against and what I'm gonna be put through and what I'm going to need to do to win. This young man, he is certainly something special and he's doing good things over in ECW. But for all his arrogance, and his ego, there's a lot more to be done to think that I'd publicly wave a white flag.
You want a fight, Mr. Tillman?
Here comes a fucking fight.
You can read my bio, you can pull up the archives from my matches here, or LAW, or Carnage or… God, pick a place and I've probably appeared there at least once… You can do all those things and it still wouldn't be enough. I've encountered so many people who think they've got me figured out and then surprise, motherfucker, I was not what they were expecting. I won't call myself unpredictable, but I do offer up a lot of surprises and I ain't a one trick pony.
Don't ever fucking underestimate me.
It's like that Twitter poll I saw floating around. The world seems to think, by a huge margin, you're going to take this thing. First of all, that's nice, I don't really care. A lot of people are gonna be eating crow, though. Second, they underestimate me. Don't do that, Mr. Tillman, please.
I figure we could come to some kind of agreement here, not to play that game. Come get your fight, come try to step on me as a way up to the top of GoL. I was there, I was at the top once, and I fell, I fell so fucking hard.
Why would I wanna come back and do it again?
That's just fucking stupid. For a smart girl, I do make a lot stupid decisions - this ain't one of those decisions, though. There is a rip-roaring confidence in me that won't let men with bad reputations and big mouths intimidate me or worry me or break me down.
I'm not intimidated by threats from a guy who is still learning the ins and outs of this business, who was, in theoretical terms, still shitting his drawers when I was just getting going in this sport. And yeah, sure, this wasn't my intended career growing up like a lot of guys love to say without much evidence to back it up as true, but fuck, I took to it like a squirrel takes to the trees and that's to keep from falling to its death.
My death is far off, big boy.
I ain't falling, either.
The world that I built, the legacy that I made, the name I put out in this sport, it's not going anywhere, like it or not. You're just another pretty face, a young guy working his way through shit, putting up a strong front to scare people away, but oh, I see right through it. I've seen, I've squared off with little shits like you who talk tough, wave around their dicks, preach about their manliness and how I don't belong and how strong they are and how they're going to crush my girlish figure, and well, suffice to say, I'm still here and they're not.
You've still got a lot to learn and if you think you can keep up with me, well, then, you're just as fucking dumb as a brick at the bottom of the river. I've come to know all styles that people employ in the ring and I use them all well. I do mat-based, brawler style, technical, catch as you can… I've learned it all. In fact, I do flippy shit. It's my speciality, second only to submission shit. I've become so good at this sport because I'm able to combine these things, taken what I've learned as a gymnast, a police officer, a fencer, a human, and turned into something my very own, a style unseen and that can't be learned without the foundation I came into the sport with.
I do flippy shit that turns into submission shit.
I fly through the air, snatch your arm before you can react, and put you down on the mat in a triangle choke before you can blink. If you were as half decent as you say - or think you are, you'd know that already and start prepping for that. But, big boy, you just don't have that sense yet. It's a sense that you can't learn from Newman or Constantine or whomever else is running your career for you.
That's the difference between me and you.
I know who I am and what I'm doing.
You don't.
That's the difference that's going to get me the win in this match.
So, fuckboy, I think it's you who needs to be prepared for me. I'm gonna turn you inside-out and upside-down and spin you in fucking circles and you'll be standing there, derping and looking for Kurt to tell you what to do. So sad, too bad, you're on your own out there with me, and try as you might, you don't fucking got it.
Take your threats, your false beliefs, and bravado, and shove it up your ass. While you're there, pull your head out and wake the fuck up. Your ego is only going to make this that much harder for you and that much more fun for me.
And baby boy, this is all fun for me. Half my fun for me is putting senseless, inflated, and massaged boys - not men, but boys, down for the count and making them realign their joints while they realign their thought process. I'm a fucking wrecking machine lately and you're not in a good place.
They want a main event, well, they fucking got it. Because, well, Tillman is one of the best but he ain't the best, and I'm one of the best. It's going to be sheer fucking delight for me and the fans to watch Mr. Tillman to wrestle Dr. Smyth and have Dr. Smyth make him eat mat with a side of humble pie.
Don't fill yourself up on your own lies.
Gotta save some room for the truth and I'm on my way to your table with a six course meal.
See ya then, fucker.