Post by lulu on Mar 25, 2021 22:51:31 GMT -5
 IN THE FACTORY IN THE STERILE PLACE WHERE THEY MADE ME I WOKE UP ALONE DIZZY FROM THE PROGRAMMING HAVE I BEEN WIPED AGAIN? OH MY GOD, I DON'T EVEN KNOW [Aired promo] The diplomatic thing to do here is to put my hands cross’ my heart and hope to die and tell you about how much I respected you, but I’ve never been the diplomatic type and today ain’t the day to start so let’s not mince words. Fallout came’ a knockin’ and we all answered the call, without an ounce of familiarity or love lost to get in the way of the competition to establish the best fighter. EMPHASIS. Key word, fighter. Not arsonist, not e-girl, not guy cosplaying as Dave Chappele cosplaying as the guy Rick James slapped, best fighter. From the second some lackey hits the switches to start the show, til the moment they force Euan Hill and Lance Williams back into their cages, all eyes are on us because they want to see who the top fighter is. Don’t get it twisted. There’s ten thousand and one excuses I could offer as to this recent losing streak post Prime championship, from facing one of the top fighters in the organization to almost getting ran over by another one, but it doesn't matter what I say or what I feel. I forgot myself. All that nothing to lose, balls to the walls shit made me feel all good and tingly’ til I accidentally stumbled into a position where I had something to lose. Now what’s left? A belt that means fuck all, a fistful of ‘fighters’ dying for the chance to get a kill off the runt of the herd, and in my first defense, Mr. 0-2 ain’t expected to leave with his belt around his waist. But as much vitriol I’ve got towards my current record, it’s NOTHING compared to being the three pigs whose houses get blown down with the declaration of AND STILL. I ain’t got shit left to defend. Every false idol got burned to the ground, a la Dedraca y Fairweather, and that’s exactly why I would pay to face absolutely anyone other than myself at Wired Consequences. There’s nothing left to defend - all that’s left to do is attack. My legacy’s been threatened - my career’s been threatened - MY LIFE HAS BEEN THREATENED. Yet all I can do is put my hands behind my head and take a deep breath for what feels like the first time in a long time… Y’all know what happens when you corner an animal, right? Tooth meets the motherfuckin’ nail. The only one with someone to lose is you, and that’s why I’d pay good money to occupy any goddamn space in the arena other than either of those four corners when you three cut, and you cut, and you cut just to watch me bleed, but now the blood you’ve spilled is the blood you now owe. It felt like putting a dull, square peg into a round hole when y’all kept interfering with my matches, but that’s because ya’ didn’t belong there. I ain’t a hypocrite - all we’re doing in the ring is having a debate about which beliefs about violence will prevail by putting them to work and doing absolutely anything it takes, when it takes is hard as hell to defend against - but my ego’s too fragile to admit y’all got me, so I’d be ROLLING IN MY GRAVE ‘fore I sneak on someone, phantom of the opera style, lay hands on them, and let them live to tell the story. You wanna’ put an animal out of its misery, you slit its throat. Otherwise, that cornered beast only sees the exit and the person they need to get through to reach it. Y’all didn’t. Fatal four in whatever the fuck type match when I’m the underdog, with the ghost of Forever 21, Post Malone after rehab, and a discount Pimp named slickback? Coo - that only means there’s nowhere else to run. Whether I’m tossin’ ya’ into a dumpster after setting it ablaze, beating you in a Fight pit after putting you through it, or slammin’ ya into an Ambulance after throwing you underneath it, believe there’s no part of me that’s concerned about defending or protecting what I’ve got. Y’all showed me a part of myself I didn’t know. Fuck walkin’ out with a strap, this is about guaranteeing none of y’all walk ever again. Paint godlike pictures of yourself. Ignore history. Debate semantics. Mock others for doing the exact same type of shit you do. Welcome to debate club, but this time, the students think drug addiction is a personality. Same shit, different day, and Drago Santiago’s able to read through the lines. There’s three ways to go about proving your point: my argument is good, your argument is bad, and my personal favorite, scorching the playing fields the arguments are built upon. Flip the freakin board. Screw being the ace, make yourself the card with the rules on it. Make them meet you on YOUR terms. I let you bastards run amok these last few weeks, but I’m afraid this ball’s coming to Santiago’s court. Wanna play? ******* [continuation from projecthonor.proboards.com/thread/326/persona] “Ways for caring for my business, I have plenty. But this isn’t my business, and I couldn’t have been clearer about that.” If the walls of the Bloody Knuckles gym would speak, they’d scream, but the walls from the office of Sergei ‘Marcello’ Manusharov wouldn’t mutter a word for fear of retaliation. During these ungodly hours, there’s not a soul in sight. Every adrenaline junkie looking for their next hit has already found their fix and headed home, or were dropped at the doorstep after an unsuccessful search. Sergei ashes his pipe at the rim of the ashtray, carefully avoiding making a mess across his desk. Calm, careful, and intentional actions put him in direct contrast to the skittish, shaking motions from Nikolai’s arms, flailing in every which direction as his youthful ways show themselves. “You’ve gottttta be yanking my chain here. You, of all people, giving me this ‘my hands are tied’?! Do-don’t you have something for times like this? Like disappearing? Or like, phone books?” Sentiments best kept to oneself land awkwardly enough to even bring Imre, standing at the helm beside his seated employer, rubbing his temples and combing through fields of gray atop his head with his fingers. “Nikolali, this isn’t Sopranos.” “You’re hanging me out to dry? Come on, what’s the beef? Everyone’s all over MMA these days. I’m trying to do you a favor and you’re kinda letting me hang myself here! No offense, private gym money is great, but you ain’t reading the room; people fighting is turning into private ISLAND money, and I’m just trying to do my best to get you the best return on investment, yes?” “You wish to doubt me a second time?” Features practically chiseled into stone leave little room for misinterpretation about the death drilling holes into Nikolai, so much so they’re practically piercing the wall behind him. Even on the younger side of his twenty-somethings, years spent with needles in veins or waking up with sinus infections leaves him as the physical manifestation of anxiety when Nikolai feels the walls closing down around him.The words race from his lips so quickly that they trip over themselves, as his whiny tone drips with frustration. “It’s not that at all - listen, this is a simple misunderstandin-“ “Better; I'm an idiot who cannot understand. Continue.” Nikolai doesn’t even need to look, he can feel Imre’s presence approaching him. This side of Detroit isn’t known for many warning shots. Persisting anyways, Nikolai belts out, “You’ve definitely got a lot better tools at your disposal for this kind of thing, I’m more of a dollar and cents type..” “Yet now, you stand in office, hemorrhaging these dollars and cents. You must learn to do business, because if your value to someone is making them wealthy, and you fail at doing so… they begin wondering why keep you around. Understand?” His elbows rest atop the oak wood, and his hands rest in a steeple for a brief second of deliberation. A headtilt in the direction of the man insulting him bring Imre to action immediately, and a hand on Nikolai’s shoulder leaves the young hustler to clasp his hands together; his eyes are PLEADING for a chance to speak, but he’s ushered back a few steps under Imre’s gentle, but firm hand. He can feel his feet sliding across the thin ice he’d landed himself on, so he doesn’t even attempt to offer Imre any resist as the bouncer ‘guides’ him to the office door, just standing on tippy toes to try catching the attention of his business partner. “Wait, but I’m-“ “Seven days, солнце. Little tip, assuming you wish to see this ‘private island money?’ Cover your eyes, he tends to go for those first.” ******* A man without any chains cannot be leveraged. A lifetime of clever business deals and strategic partnerships serves Sergei well, as no debt or responsibilities leaves him without any crosses to bear. Imre’s aware of this, but he doesn’t need a heartstring to pull. For an employer of brass tacks, decades of loyalty and service has given Imre a special place and privilege that gives him the confidence to speak openly, without hesitation, as a closed door allows him to ask, “Serious about, how they say, cutting loose, aren’t you?” Sergei’s hand strokes the gray scruff on his chin. He’d barely been able to grow a five-o-click shadow when these two forged their partnership in gold, so the annoyed sigh of having to explain himself carries no lingering threat behind it. “He is smart, don’t doubt it. But being smart on paper doesn’t get far, does it? Formulaic thinking offers me nothing. No one needs a man who is competent only when things go right. Relying on your coin or your name to get favor with people only works with those who follow the rules of how power flows, and not everyone’s going to agree. It’s better he learn it now, if his efforts turn a profit, I’ll be another shadow in the background and he’d need to step up.” Imre’s busy fixing up his collar after the slight physical altercation wrinkled his button up. Half looking at himself in a mirror on the wall, half looking to Sergie enough to flash glances of uncertainty, he speaks with as casual of a tone as his Russian accent can be perceived as ‘casual.’ “You talk of future like guarantee. He’s angry his fighters were attacked, can you blame him? Feels like begging for disaster, no? He’s furious, and Nathaniels a fan of the carrot, not the stick. He might devour him. Since the attack, none of his men will even look Nathaniel in the eye. Sasha’s been training since, but awkward tension in air, could cut with knife. He has no backup.” “If he can’t get it done himself, then it’ll be chalked up to the game. Nathaniel’s temper tantrum finally tires itself out, and things go back to normal. I learned to swim by being pushed in the pool. So must he.” “Nathaniel almost shattered a mans orbital socket. He’s lucky he can still see. You cannot expect Nikolai to live by code, can you? He’s sour over losing hours of time scouting, in gym, training, building fighter only to go up in smoke, he is not like us, how is he supposed to handle this?“ Sergie sneers. “-and if he cannot handle someone so malicious, he deserves whatever happens.” “But Nikolai’s your son!” “Yes, and that’s the issue. I don’t need a child who relies on the rules; I need a strong heir who will make his own. This means no matter how this plays out, I’ll get what I want.” ******* In a world built on evolution, adaptation, and innovation, there’s nothing more powerful than a tool capable of stopping time. This appreciation’s carved into his hide with his red life force spilling down his body. Lightning traveling up his spine, his toes curl, his nails sink into the leather of the chair he’d recognize as the tarp one lays a canvass across. He is a master at his work and a dedicated believer of his methods. Sighing and panting up a storm, absolutely plummeting in a Nirvana of his own making, Nathaniel bites his lower lip to suppress the moan fighting to escape his mouth as again. Pressure’s applied to the bamboo needle until the skin caves, and the black ink punctures the wound to continue working on the image. There wasn’t a tattoo gun capable of reaching Simoni’s slow, dexterous approach to turning human bodies into art - and modern tattoo equipment was geared towards changing one’s appearance, not one’s being. Through the blood pooling beneath him reflecting under the single mounted light above the chair, and the endorphins carrying him away as his body’s carved and sculpted, it’s impossible to not feel as if he’s being made into something else - something better! Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, when he’s at his lowest, he looks to rebuild himself in the same manner responsible for the artwork covering his legs, his neck, his arms, his torso, and almost fully encompassing his back as the symbol of luck, brilliance, and cunning, a kitsune, is built upon by the artist above him. Simoni’s responsible for every piece of ink in Santiago’s body each time the sadomasochist needs to rebuild himself, so much so that it’s almost ritual. Santiago was his top customer. And that’s exactly what Nikolai was expecting when he opened the door and heard the bell’s ringing on this unnamed tattoo parlour, as the only customers who’d frequent the place had never needed a name to find it. Many of the tattooists turning his way upon entry look more like butchers standing over their meat, so a gray two-piece suit guarantees Nikolai stands out. A rushed beeline towards the back of the parlour, walking like a demon possessed, he ignores any resistance or opposition from anyone other than the man of the hour. Thankfully, a lack of technology gives Nikolai no noise to hide behind, and Simoni turns his head before his adrenaline intoxicated client even registers anything. “Nathaniel, you’re spendin’ a lot of time getting a tattoo for a man that owes me a few stacks, don’tcha think?” Simoni steps in between his client and Nikolai, but Santiago’s arm brushes the small, elder man aside. With a lot of noise from his body prying itself from the leather for the first time in a long time, Nathaniel sits up, gives Nikolai the once over, and tilts his head. “Aren’t you a little young for a place like this? I’ll tell you what - close the curtain and get the fuck out, and I’ll buy you whatever stick and poke you like.” “His name is Sasha. He’s the man you attacked a couple weeks ago in the middle of a ring with a thousand witnesses, but we don’t get to call the fuzz, so let me tell you how we’re going to handle this - and these are the words coming from his manager, mind you. Every second he’s not fighting, is a second you’re gonna’ have to come out of pocket to fix what you broke.” “‘You killed the guy I pay to fight because I don’t know how to fight, so now that I’m confronting you, you’re gonna’ pay up!’ Can you see why I’m not exactly all that intimidated, all things considered? He put his hands on me but allowed himself to get beaten - and don’t even start to say I snuck him, cuz it’s kinda hard to pull that excuse off with a broken face. If you’re out of sorts for the ten dollar roll of quarters you’re out because he ain’t getting his ass kicked, you’re really gonna go broke if ya’ keep feeding your boys to me.” “What makes you think you can get away with shit like this?” “Iunno, always have. You the cunt bankrolling what’s happening with Bloody Knuckles changin, right? It’s bad enough that I gotta get my sativa from a place that looks like an Apple store, so if you’re doing the same thing to the only place that felt like home for me, piss right off, will ya?” Far as Santiago knows it, no outside force and puncture the Nirvana surrounding him. The excited jolt traveling through his body is genuine, as Nikolai’s hand on his shoulder forces Nathan to turn. The incoming fist comes so close to Nathaniel’s face that it brushes his hair aside, but tucking his head leaves the blow whizzing past Santiago. Simoni rushes backwards as the two men collide, arms fighting for position as Nathan’s hands try wrapping around his attacker’s legs to send him to the ground and to a fate similar to his employee. Nikolai’s not having it, barreling forward torso to torso until both men go crashing into Simoni’s equipment cart. Rum, rubbing alcohol, red and black ink, and razor-sharp bamboo needles spill to the floor and towards the drain. Nikolai’s forearm slams into Santiago’s nose with enough force to knock the man’s head back once, then twice, and the third attempt’s interrupted as Nikolai cocks his arm back to swing and throws it forward, only for Drago to slam his head forward and intercept! Fists fly back and forth! Blocking isn’t on the menu for the day - both men take immense pleasure in absolutely wailing on one another, until one poorly placed punch is taken into Santiago’s hands and slowly twisted and torqued until it’s behind Nikolai’s back! The one hand that’s free lands like a hammer across Drago’s bloodied back, but the fire spiking through his body doesn’t stop him! He’s a pitbull, locking his jaw across his prey, twisting and turning that arm at every single angle but the one god intended! While screaming in pain, Simoni’s free hand desperately reaches out for something - ANYTHING - to spare him from his fate and he finds… a handful of bamboo needles. A handful of razor sharp pricks makes for a great blade as he cocks his arm back behind him and… and… … and he hesitates. In the moment of pause, Drago’s elbow slams across the back of his skull, and floors him. He rolls onto his back to see Drago standing over him. “...Why’d you have to ruin my high? Here I am, in the throes of passion, basking in bliss and you attack me… but here’s a wee lickle hint - ya’ don’t need a license to use those needles the way you intended. You wanna make me pay for what I did to your boy? Fine. I’ll show you how to make me pay.” “...You’re... joking. I'm not... done.” “No, but if you think I am trying to make you giggle, I can break your arm off and see how much you cackle. I can’t stand knowing I owe thanks to something as superficial as mercy...Don’t know what your beef is with me, but if you can’t bring yourself to sealing the deal… Quit.” "I'm not stopping until I'm beatin' every peso you owe. You don't get to act however you want because you think the laws everyone else abides by don't apply to you." "The laws only apply if you can enforce them. Shit in one hand then accept payment from me in the other and see which one fills up first. All of these rules and codes and laws and blah blah were the ropes I allowed to guide me when I didn't know what to do when I was as bright-eyed and bushy tailed as you, but now? They're just the ropes braiding into a noose for me to hang myself with anytime I decide to act how I feel. You're fair game. Your boys are fair game. It's all fair game if you can't do shit about it... so let me show you how." *******  IT'S A MYSTERY EVERYONE AROUND ME'S SO BUSY IS THIS MY HOME? AM I YOUR PRISONER OR YOUR DELIVERER? OH MY GOD, YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW [Aired promo] Pyro, who hates you enough to throw you into a ring with me? Lest we make metaphors about Hippie Jesus thrown into the lions den? You entered Project Honor as an intimidating force next to mark hunter, the guy who beat the guy, current grand champion ending the most dominant reign Project Honor might ever see - and all you’ve got to show for it is this dingy T-shirt. When fans voted for matches, I anticipated some silly prank if there was a write in option - haha, a bra and panties match voted in, creative kneeslapper aint it? I didn’t anticipate any joke competitors slipping through the cracks - maybe one of the sixth teeth that haven’t rotted out of your mouth knicked DeMarco while you “earned your championship match” so he asks for one Santiago Special to knock the rest out? Do you have a second of pause to think about the words you say before you speak, or is it performance art? Maybe a gas leak in one of those burning buildings? You mocked Tessa before she spikes your head into the ground for losing to one of the most dominant fighters in this place…. but are we going to really ignore that the man named PYRO lost an inferno match? You’ve been talking fire and brimstone since you arrived but it’s all been smoke and hot air - and that’s the slice that takes the cake. It’d be like me losing a finger breaking competition, Tessas bath water getting outsold, or going over Jules’ place to see who outsmokes who and finding out he smokes stems. Tessa stood against me as an over dramatic bitch that basks in the chaos looking to right her wrong against me. Jules got one over on poor ol Santiago after baiting me into a match and hitting me with his ultimate move, aka his fucking bumper. You got eliminated from the Prime championship competition by a wannabe biker. We are NOTthe same. You fiend over the flame because you say you treasure the flame and all it can do… but I think that’s ass backwards, pussyfooting bs. You get your rocks off watching fire do things you can’t, because you never learned how ta. I see “WORSHIP THE FLAME” as a cop out equivalent to telling teacher the dog ate your homework - when I’m tearing limb from limb, that’s all me. I feel the bones shatter, I hear it splintering, and I feel something that once was solid turn to putty. It isn’t randomized chaos, it’s destruction by my own design, cuz being a zealot doesnt you’re getting into heaven, lest you learn how to worship. Under a microscope, I can’t lie and say we’re extremely different in our beliefs - in another world, I could imagine us being friends. This is me presuming in that world, your grinch finger dreadlocks are held together by more than ash, soot, and fabrics from Mark Hunters coat tails. Drago can’t say if we’re hashtag built different, but I know However you’re designed, a few screws must be loose. you idolize feeding someone to a destructive force, and I realized with my threefold path, you can become that destructive force. Let me be the last person to shame someone for their success or lack thereof, but you lack the tools to eventually obtain success. My advice? Ask if Straders chopper has a side car. Don’t worry about your ears, his ride doesn’t roar, it just plays the ice cream truck music for all the little ones in the neighborhood. On the microphone you’re Ozzy Ozbourne ripping the head off a bat with his bare teeth before blasting out some metal, but in the ring you’re lofi beats to listen/study to. You’ve got a better chance as his plus one than you’ve got at ever showing up at the big ball. Spend less time worshipping fire and more time understanding it. Nature abhors a vacuum. If your attention weren’t so childlike, you’d see new homes built on the ashes of burnt buildings, you’d see forests burnt to a crisp growing twice as thick, and you’d see the complete and utter havoc you leave in your wake as the perfect birthing place for my creation; and trust me, a lil bit of heat is a mercy kill compared to what I’ve got stewing. To paraphrase Hegel, advancement cannot occur without both thesis and antithesis, and I cannot think of a greater antithesis to a man with all the passion in the world but without any tools in his arsenal, and a woman with all of the tools and none of the skills to use them. Welcome to the last meeting of the loser club, and the only way to kill this snake is to cut off it’s head. How many times must Dickie’s name follow you throughout your time here? UNTIL YOU REALIZE THAT THIS IS A BUSINESS WHERE WE SPRINKLE AWAY THE SANDS OF OUR TIMES LIKE SALT-BAE EVERYTIME WE STEP INTO THE RING AND YOU LEAVE THE FRENCH QUARTERS BECAUSE THE PITY PARTY IS CANCELLED. You’ve stood in the ring and stood toe to toe with some of the most dominant forces this place has to offer. Two of your more competitive losses were against the Grand Champion and the future Prime champion. But for a woman who seems to navigate a world of gray, you only see the world in shades of black and white. What’s the sayin? This ain’t horseshoes, close enough doesn’t cut it? Do you understand how much it pains me to watch you speak, and watch you fight, and understand that I could unlock every door in the Tower of Babel, but know there’s nothing I could do to you that’s more suffering than what you do to yourself? You were given an opportunity to throw your hat into the Prime Championship picture, likely because you happened to be in the right place at the right time when the right guy won the thing, but I’m the ONLY person in this match you haven’t beaten. I’d take pride in earning my shot under the bright lights, but you see the bright lights and see yourself on the operating table, where you can surgically dissect every mistake or misstep you’ve ever made, caught in 8K. I could break every one of your fingers, I could make you bleed, and when the curtain’s called, you’d simply nod your head and say you deserved it. Do you know how much that pisses me off? You stand in the ring with a guy who likely swallowed Holt’s burning sword and the living embodiment of lemon pepper wings and freeze cups, but think you’re the one who doesn’t measure up. It ain’t too often I get the privilege of being one of the bigger fighters in a match, but you cast a large shadow. Those little moments where you lose yourself to the bloodlust and become brilliant? It almost makes me believe in monogamy, Tessa! The flesh is strong, but the mind is weak. I expect a battle where you attempt to make up for your mistakes by pushing me to my physical limits, but I’m more interested in your finding your mental limit. Tessa, the world needs a believer more than it needs a martyr. Don’t worry! Every piece of you that doesn’t believe yourself is gonna’ get carved off and dismembered. Every voice in your head that says your last beating was the worst you could take is about to be proven wrong. Any insecurities about never being able to bounce back from hitting rock bottom will be fixed, once I drop the floor from underneath ya’. Allow me ta’ lend a helping hand, will ya? No more self-flagellation, no more self-inflicted punishment. You’re a sick chick, but sometimes the cure is worse than the disease. And last but not least, Miss Congeniality herself, Julius Fairweather. I gooooottta admit - you got me good, and it’s a story so good it writes itself, ain’t it? You decide to stand against the new world order looming over Fallout when I had my hands around Strader’s neck, and two clicks of a deer’s knees later, you were standing alone. Always the bridesmaid, but never the bride. That didn’t slow you down a single beat, because the second you found yourself free of the dead weight you made a beeline for me, and you nailed me with everything but the kitchen sink… but you should’ve finished the job. I could say I didn’t take you seriously. Maybe I didn’t expect to play ‘Halle Berry’s wild ride’ with ya. Doesn’t matter though, because your hand got raised, and a show later, you got your hands on the gold. With a grip like a pitbull’s locked jaw, it sure felt it was the eleventh hour for Santiago, didn’t it? That’s because fans are fickle moths flailing around inside a Pier’s one import. There’s more tickets and mugshots with Nathaniel Santiago across it than diplomas, but trust: I’m a student of the game. Sides, don’t gotta spend many nights trying ta’ JSTOR and chill to do research on someone who garners so much attention, do I? How many times have you been here, Jules? How many times have you almost made it, or almost been famous? I appreciate the F-Word as much as anyone else, but I can’t wonder if it’s a clever little front to make Julius Fairweather’s clever little jabs and jokes begin to start filling the google searches, rather than the F-words Julius yells across Worldstarhiphop videos of this wrestler going absolutely feral? You planted the seeds of doubt in my head when you tried running me over. Violence is sacred, and when someone puts their everything into it, it’d be sacrilegious not to take anything from it, wouldn’t it? A smorgasbord of fightin’ styles made you a difficult person to compete with, til somewhere in between the concussions was the realization that I was facing a jack of all trades, and a master of none. Maybe he’s a clever fighter trying to be adaptable to any setting he’s put in? Maybe being versatile is a strength, not a weakness? Save that versatility for Aiden’s grindr account. You live up to your name and you cannot outrun the rumors and gossip. Fairweather isn’t just a surname - it’s a freakin’ lifestyle. Can’t get your head in check long enough to show the discipline expected of amateur wrestlers? Don’t learn, don’t grow, just go do something else! Oh, the exact same issue ends your boxing career before it can start? Well, you know how to do a GATOR ROLL and throw a nice jab, why not give MMA a spin? You spent weeks getting your chunk of flesh out of me, and I thought it was a Death by a Thousand Papercuts - but I was wrong. You’re a swiss army knifebut ya’ ain’t got a blade that can cut further than skin deep. I only need one slice with that Santiago steel to do you in. You got me good with clever offense and brutal strikes, but when Contessa was the latest competitor to realize that you ain’t Jordan on the court, you’re Jordan in the diamond. Memories of our match are few and far between, but when I’m hurt, I’ve got an ocean of knowledge to rely on. When the type of match we’re fightin’ in isn’t guaranteed, you really think a splash from the kiddie pool’s gonna cut it? When Pyro lives up to his name and lights that BP oil spill you call a jerry-curl ablaze, what’re you gonna rely on? When Tessa fades you and your fingerwaves, what’re you gonna’ pull out of your ass? That Caddy was at the top of your greatest hits, and you missed. Letting me make it to this match was your mistake, and I PROMISE you’ll never repeat it. I’m picking myself back up. The saccharine grin is gone, now there’s just war paint. You three have pissed me off, so let’s cash in those tickets and see what your prize is. A match gimmick that’s uncertain and three competitors that would rather see me dead than see me with my head held high. I invite it. I’ve got my back against the wall and I’m surrounded on all sides. Perfect. You can’t escape me. |