Author Topic: JUST TRUTHS  (Read 86 times)

Offline finnwhelan

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JUST TRUTHS
« on: April 01, 2022, 02:10:23 AM »
His feet paced the floor. Back and forth, back and forth. Over and over again. If he kept doing it, he’d wear a hole through the floor in front of his nearly floor to ceiling windows overlooking Central Park. He held his hand lightly over his mouth, thoughtfully as he seemingly stared ahead, boring into nothing, but truthfully, something. The skin of his arms, visible from the oversized t-shirt he wore, still carried the bruises of the thumbtacks that buried themselves into his flesh at Blaze of Glory.

Finn Whelan wasn’t used to failing. He wasn’t used to a zero and something record when he first stepped foot into a company. He wasn’t used to being considered a failure, wasn’t used to the fuck-ups that he’d made. He’d come in, guns blazing, to join a competition that failed him. And when given another opportunity? Squandered that. Eliminated by some Great Value Walmart Version of Marilyn Manson and a so-called monster. That’s what was left. And Goth, a man who rose from his own ashes, won the whole thing only to probably fail against Mac Bane…or whomever was going to be the champion.

That didn’t feel so good.

Given opportunity after opportunity, Finn had really fucked up, hasn’t it?

But he hadn’t said anything. In fact, he took his elimination, walked into the backstage area, and hadn’t said one word about his fuck ups. Not only because they were grating on his own nerves, but because he had nothing to say. All of the things he had said, all of the gravitas and bullshit he’d thrown out without care…yeah, they’d been thrown into the breeze and shot down like a Russian Fighter Jet by a Ukrainian Soldier with an anti-aircraft missile. They were annihilated. Useless. Feckless.

Tap, tap, tap, across the floor. Rhythmic. Slow, not frantic. If he were his younger brother, he’d be like a little hamster, running up and down the cage hurriedly chewing his nails. If he was his sister, Addisyn, she’d be sitting on the windowsill, trying to get both of them to calm the fuck down. But neither would be able to. Both were so high strung, lost in their own heads, it was a wonder if they were actually the ones that were related.

He was sure Alex was sitting in his office, laughing at the failed luck of the Seattle Saint. He wasn’t living up to his promise. He wasn’t living up to be the man that faced him all those years ago and beat the fucker. Now, the SCW Multi-Time Champion had a tidbit that he could hold over Finn’s head, sit there and smirk like a little bitch when they sat in their meetings, across from each other at Wolfslair. Knowing that he’d done better, that he’d succeeded where Finn seemingly couldn’t gain any ground…it was frustrating, to say the least.

Still, a person like Finn was not daunted by the task in front of him. Somehow he’d make it through. Somehow, he would rise above and do exactly what he came here for. It wasn’t going to be a repeat of a failure over and over again. It wasn’t going to be a continual moment in which he’d be considered a fucking joke. He was one and three in this company, dating back to the previous year. So many times in his career he’d been knocked down, but that was the thing about Finn Whelan: he never quit. Never laid down. Never surrendered, and all that fun bullshit the military threw down the throats of the low.

But what if this was the time that he should? What if this was the beginning of that continual fall that would only mean he should retire? Maybe get a day job. Maybe start a pub in the center of New York City like his athair did in the center of Seattle. Maybe do anything but fight for a living.

But that’s what Finn was. A fighter. A brawler. He wasn’t always as technically sound as he was now, and he always preferred weaponry when it was allowed. Thumbtacks, light tubes…fuck, he lived for that shit. But it’d been years since the days of So-Cal Ultraviolent, since KINGDOM Pro. He would have to rely on the technical, the submissionary, the strikes and the throws of the sport, just as he’d been doing for the last couple of years.

He wasn’t aware when his not-really-roommate-but-roommate Kayla Richards appeared from the hallways leading towards the bedrooms and the media room. If he hadn’t been lost in thought, perhaps he would have, what with her wearing a pair of cheeky boyshorts and one of his shirts. Certainly, he would have snapped at her for stealing his clothing yet again, but that didn’t happen. She’d pulled her black hair up into a messy bun, hadn’t bothered to put on shoes or socks, and her makeup was slightly smeared on her raccoon eyes. If Finn hadn’t cut off all thought of playing into her hands as she wanted, he probably would have still found her beautiful in that moment. But he wasn’t there, and this made her frustrated.

She stopped before walking to the couch, dropping into it and pulling her tattooed legs up and grabbing the remote. “Pacing up and down isn’t going to give you any special insights.” Her brown eyes watched her walk up one way, and then back the other way, and he didn’t even bother giving her the satisfaction of looking at her. “I don’t even get why you’re pacing anyway. It isn’t the end of the world.

His blue eyes shifted across the room to finally lay upon her, but they didn’t stay trained on her. Instead, he frowned deeper and crossed his arms. Kayla raised her arm, placing it on the back of the couch and pressed her hand into the side of her head, propping her chin up on it. “You’re being a pussy about this. You know what they say: you are what you eat, and as much as I’d like you to be that, it’s not working out for you. So what? You’ve lost a couple big shot matches. It’s nothing that you can’t grow from.” Her British accent was filled with sarcasm and disdain. Not for him, just her usual tone.

He stopped.

His feet stopped for a moment.

And it wasn’t because she said some outlandish or crazy truthful thing. Inwardly, he knew she was right. He knew that he wasn’t acting right, that he wasn’t consciously correct in his own personal thought process. But this seriously bothered him. The fact that he, a multi-time world champion, couldn’t get his own ass in gear against even the simplest of people.

That he was considered less than.

That people saw him as the stone they had to step on to get across the river of success, and that he was nothing more than that stone. He wasn’t the waves, he wasn’t the river, he wasn’t anything but…a stepping stone. Not a gatekeeper. Not someone that people respected, or even should have respected. It didn’t matter his championships, it didn’t matter what he’d done prior to this moment. All that they saw was a waste of their time.

He was saved from answering when the doorbell rang – a low, calming tone that alerted the occupants that there was someone indeed standing outside his door, waiting in the private hallway for him to appear. He half-thought that he’d just let whomever it was stand there, and then maybe they’d disappear, but when he didn’t move for the door, Kayla sighed an immensely annoyed sigh and got up. Finn watched her as she disappeared down the long hallway past the immaculate kitchen and swung the door open.

He didn’t hear who it was. He turned and looked out the window, watching the light snow coat the trees of Central Park. But his ears pricked as he heard a voice. Not Kayla’s. Her’s. He snapped his head in the direction of the voice and he turned his entire body, walking towards the dining room  so that he could see into the hallway. Kayla rolled her eyes as she led the guest into his abode, heading for the kitchen and leaning against the granite counter, chewing on her lip.

She was his ex-wife. The mother of his deceased children. The ones that came too early. A flood of memories coated his brain, taking him to a time that he’d rather forget. The echoes of a sob, carried out as she clutched to him. The crying as she stood at their doorway, screaming at him to return. Screaming, anger, frustration…that was all that came out of their relationship. And even seeing her now, her multi-colored hair, platinum with variegated purple, pink, blue and green peeking out through her curls. Her own pristine makeup, the judgmental face that she wore as she glanced at the art on the walls, the opulence that was his apartment. The movie screen television that hung on the wall, the high-class tweed furniture and then, back to Kayla, who at this point was looking her up and down with muted interest as she opened a bag of Takis from the pantry.

Aaron.” Finn muttered.

Callien.” She always called him by his real name, even if he preferred “Finn”.

He didn’t ask why she was there. Hell, he didn’t even know how she figured out where he lived. All he knew was that he wanted to do the same thing he’d done that rainy, summer night he’d caught her with one of her wrestling students: walk away. Disappear. Come back and smack her upside the head with another lawsuit. The feeling of rage temporarily coated his disappointment in himself as he stood there, his black hair falling into his icy eyes, his lip twitching over his sharp, white teeth.

I wanted to see what the lawsuit bought,” she commented,  pressing her hand onto the granite, just a couple of feet away from Kayla. Her eyes traversed the high ceilings, the windows and the view. She raised the opposite hand and ran her fingers across her hairline, pulling some of the more colorful hair up and out of her way. Her oversized eyelashes fluttered slightly as she let herself take it all in. “I didn’t think you’d have a roommate so soon.

Kayla, in the process of eating her Takis, had placed her finger in her mouth and was licking the flavoring off. Her eyes narrowed slightly. Finn realized what it looked like: Aaron’s perception of Kayla was that she was his new flavor of the week, and no matter how much Kayla wanted that, that wasn’t what he thought of her. After all, she’d just come off an extremely long relationship where she was engaged to another person – he didn’t want to be that rebound she was bound to get. Kayla, however, took the comment in stride, ostentatiously pulling the finger out of her mouth and making a loud pop. “Kayla.

Nice to meet you, Kayla.” Aaron replied in a tone that wasn’t at all nice.

I’d say the same, but I realized that would be as fake as your tracks.

Aaron turned her head and looked at her with slight surprise, before smiling slightly, snarkily, and looking Kayla up and down. “Or your tits, whichever you’d like to go for.

What do you want, Aaron?” Finn cut through them before Kayla could respond – he saw her stand up straight and look at the four-foot-eleven Transglobal Spectacle.

Like I said, I wanted to see what the lawsuit bought.” She repeated, and then looked up at her with her own hazel-brown eyes, glancing at him up and down. “And I figured we could actually talk since we’re going to be working together in the same building again.

Finn weighed his options. It was true that Aaron was consulting as a cruiserweight trainer for Wolfslair’s Kallie Reznik, a wrestler who worked out of PWS: Apex and VICTORY PRO now. He’d suggested her when Alex had been looking for someone, and Sonja moved immediately to talk to her. He would have to manage to be civil whenever she was around, and perhaps if they could solve their differences now, they would make a decent team. Like they’d done before, when they were married. Or, he could continue to treat her as if she were the trash she was.

He opted for the former rather than the latter. He nodded slightly and gestured to the living room, heading for the couch. Aaron nodded, hanging her jacket on one of the chairs in the dining room and then following him to the couch. Her Louboutins clicked against the floor, though he had no clue why she was wearing them in ice and snow. She wore her skinny jeans, rips all through them, but a nice top. Clearly, she thought she was still a stunner. And maybe she was. But all Finn saw was betrayal through her.

Nice apartment.

He owns the floor,” Kayla commented, walking past them and into the opposite hallway she’d come out of earlier. She cast a look at Finn as Aaron sat down on the couch, crossing her legs and trying to look far more superior than she was. The look completely read “She’s a bitch”, which was a thousand percent hilarious because so was Kayla, but nevertheless, she walked, carrying her no-pants self into her room and slamming the door behind her.

Nice…roommate?” Aaron tried, looking at the hallway. “Girlfriend? Flavor of the week?

Unlike you, I’m pretty comfortable without someone in my life. Including flavor of the week.” Finn replied dryly, leaning back and crossing his arms. “She’s a roommate. Broke up with her fiance, needed a place to stay…and so here we are.

Mhm.

What?

No roommate walks around with tiny ass boyshorts and wearing shirts that otherwise belong to the male they’re trying to get into their own pants.

I dunno what you want me to tell you, Aaron.” Finn shrugged, rolling his eyes, his Irish accent taking hold of his words. “And I certainly don’t recall needing to ask your personal permission anyway.”

Hm. Touchy.” Aaron held up her hand in mock surrender. “With Kallie needing my help,” she started, not bothering to wait for him to talk. She still knew him – he wasn’t going to, “I think we’re going to need to just set a baseline for our own behavior. I know right now we’re kind of at each other’s throats, but I would prefer it if we didn’t have to act like that. It’s been a couple of years, I think we can treat each other civilly.

Finn stared at her for a moment, and he was brought back to that day. The sounds he’d heard, the sight he’d walked in on. The red he saw as he tossed the shithead touching his wife down the stairs, watching in satisfaction as he thudded against the wall. Aaron screaming at him to stop, and then the sound of his bootsteps in the rain, splashing up water as he walked away from all of it.

She raised her eyebrow, crossing her fingers over her leg. “Right?” She questioned.

You cheated on me,” he started, cocking his head to the side slowly, “and you want us to be civil?

Her cheeks flared bright pink, but she didn’t say anything. In fact, she even turned her head and looked away from him, down at the coffee table in front of them and adjusted herself to sit away from him. While it was true that she’d broken their pre-nup, and he’d sued her for every bit of emotional damage she’d caused (hey, the sum of two-thirds her worth), he still hadn’t anticipated seeing her ever again. In fact, he intended on being out of Wolfslair as much as possible when she was around.

They sat in relative silence for a few purloined moments. Finn scoffed and shook his head. But Aaron closed her eyes and swallowed slightly. “Remember when we met?” She questioned.

Another flashback for him. Though it was just as painful. He’d sat on the sidewalk outside a 7-Eleven in Seattle, even his bones shivering in the cold. He’d been on the streets for a few months, addicted to some of the harder shit. He figured that he’d fucked up so bad then that he didn’t have a way up from there and he’d probably die in some ditch sooner or later. But then there she was. Aaron. Standing in front of him, about to head to her car. She didn’t have such bright hair colors at the time, but he could remember thinking that she was rather attractive. Not that it mattered. She handed him a coffee, smiled, and then proceeded to lose her keys underneath her vehicle. Another one of his fellow addicts thought it’d be the appropriate time to try and rob the woman of her purse, and he thought that was pretty much bullshit, so he’d jumped to her defense and punched out the tweaker.

He never knew what she saw in him that day, but she was the one that helped him out of his misery. Out of his hell. And then, she carried him into her world, and he shot to the heavens. She offered him with a place to live, a place to get clean, and a place to thrive. They had a happy life, or so he thought. But then she lost the twins. And they grew distant. He was off wrestling. And she, to his knowledge, was too busy going through the beds of her wrestling students.

I know you’re bothered by your performance at Sin City. And I get it, I would be too. Not only did you draw the short stick with your partner, you also got placed in a match with multiple other people for a chance to face a champion of the winner’s choice.” She started, looking up at the flashing colors on the screen. “You haven’t been wrestling full time, and I know you’d never use that as an excuse, but…I think this time, you can. You held your own as the third person standing in that match. It wasn’t easy. The thumbtacks were an added bonus, but I think…you have an opportunity ahead of you. I know you, Callien. You never just give up.

Who said I was?” Finn snapped back.

Alex said you’d been quiet, that you haven’t been as lippy as your normal self.

Alex doesn’t know shit.

He knows a lot more about you than you expect.” Aaron countered, shaking her head. “And I know it’s hard for you to realize that there are people that give a shit out there, but we all look at you and see a slowly deteriorating competitor that we shouldn’t be seeing. Constant losses, yeah, they’re fucking irritating, but we’ve always known you to stand up and face your next challenge head on. And that’s when you usually rise. This shit you’re doing now? Not you. Has never been you.

You also do not know shit.

I was married to you for six years.

And?” Finn snorted and looked at her. “I’ve been trying to wrap my head around it. Trying to figure out where the fuck I went wrong. I hate the bullshit of looking at people who look like complete dipshits and knowing they’ve done better than I have, and for what? A couple of minutes of fame and a failed attempt to win? Goth didn’t get past Max Whatever the Fuck, and he didn’t defeat me one-on-one. I walked out–

You’ve done a lot of that lately too.” Aaron cocked her head to the side and wrapped her fingers around her leg. “Walking out of things. Taking a break when the going gets tough. Do you think you’ve experienced it all so nothing is viable for you anymore? It takes more than just sitting there, stating you’re going to win. It takes pride. Measure. Passion. All the things you used to have before, and I don’t get why you’re not carrying them with you into your matches now.

Finn went silent. She had him there.

“I know that you’ve got it in you to do great things again. And maybe you’ve had opportunities that you’ve squandered here in Sin City, but it doesn’t look like they’re going to stop any time soon unless you royally screw the pooch here. An actual championship match, not just fucking around for the opportunity. And what are you doing? Pacing in your apartment, acting like a fool.” She shook her head and leaned back against the cushions as well. “This isn’t you. This isn’t who you were, this isn’t who you are, and this isn’t what anyone expects you to be.”

“Nah, everyone just expects me to be the fuck-up that they face and get a cheap win off of.”

“Stop it,” she shook her head and reached over to smack him.

As much as he hated to admit it, Aaron was right. She still knew him. She still understood him. Even if she’d made the mistake, she was still able to help him come to his senses. No, this wasn’t him. This wasn’t The Seattle Saint. This wasn’t the man they’d dubbed The Virulence. Finn Whelan was better than this.

Finn Whelan was championship material, and that championship line would begin with the Roulette Championship. Bill Barnhart wasn’t even going to be aware what hit him.


••••••


Multiple losses. Multiple losses, and still, I ride the wave. I guess that’s always who I’ve been in the past, never who I just simply claim to be. Yeah, it’s frustrating, and yeah, I would be stupid to think that I didn’t have a hand in my own personal demise, but at the end of the day, there are always going to be people who are better than another. I put my best foot forward, I fought with everything – literally everything at my disposal. But I didn’t succeed. At least, not where I wanted to be.

It sucks.

But I’m not full of excuses. Unlike others, I don’t immediately take to Twitter and start bitching about my failures. I don't start trying to wheedle into management’s ear that I deserve this that and the other because even if I did, it wouldn’t garner me anything. It wouldn’t push me ahead. It wouldn’t allow me to get past the people who earned their opportunities. Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? All earned opportunities. I may have lost the last couple of matches, but it’s also been noted that I’m clearly capable of success, and for a second, I didn’t remember that. Didn’t remember the passion and the drive that’s needed to survive this business…

…while also carrying the inherent need to drive my opponent six feet into the ground and throw dirt on them until they suffocate. Figuratively, of course.

Excuses. I could give them. I could tell you it was an off-day, or that the sun wasn’t the right color, or that the world around me just wasn’t giving me the best juju so I was thrown off. I’ve seen people argue this shit left and right, stating that they weren’t really into the match so they just came down and did fuckall. Stating that the cards just weren’t in their favor, that other people win by luck. Now, I may be an asshole, but I’m not an idiot, and I know that the only lucky thing is this business is if you stumble into a match and somehow figure out how to win the damn thing because you wanted it so fucking bad.

Is that what’s happened here?

Bill Barnhart stumbled his way into a match for the Roulette Championship back in October and just happened to…what, continue to defend it? It was an astonishing thing for me to learn that a man who loses more than he wins somehow won a championship. Miles Kasey and Lincoln Daniels all faced off for it, right? Milo. Oh Milo. We’ve gone there, and I’m not going to go there again for the sake of not embarrassing my gym mate, but Bill Barnhart somehow got lucky enough to have a championship opportunity placed in front of him and he capitalized.

Congrats?

Bill Barnhart, the resident Georgian Redneck, who doesn’t understand the world around him and has a very boomer-esque attitude with all of his wise thirty-eight years of age…has a championship. Now, he’s only defended that title twice, which…okay, good on you mate, but the first defense was against Agostino Romano. The budget male version of Candy. It truly isn’t a surprise to me, but if you want to hold that on your laurels, good on you, lad. Good on you. And then you defended against Alexander Raven, who didn’t quite snuff up to shot, but you know what…good on you again mate. Stellar work. I can truly see why you were a champion the second you walked into Sin City Wrestling.

Oh wait, you weren’t? You mean to tell me from July in Twenty-Nineteen, all the way to October in Twenty-Twenty-One, you were single’s titleless. You mean you didn’t do a goddamned thing for three years of your career except take up roster space and act as everyone’s little bitchboy Bulldog? What a legacy. What profundity. What amazement. Much wow. Very great.

If you can’t tell, sarcasm is wafting off every pore right now. Please hear it with a grain of salt. Please understand that while I’m not interested in your woefully sad and pathetic career here in Sin City, I’m going to make you remember why you’re the stepping stone in this company. Your last match on Climax Control was yourself and Masque De Lune getting kicked out of the tournament by a very lovely competitor in Kat Jones and Mark Cross. A champion dismissed from a tournament such as this? How horrifying. And yet, you still did. Not that I’m surprised. Because the thing I’ve learned about you in all of this, Billy, is that you are a certified blowhard that talks a big game but can’t capitalize when it matters.

I’m going to rattle off some numbers to you. I want you to remember them, embed them and keep them sacred in your mind for however long that pea sized peanut gets an electrical pulse and suddenly you have the capability of thoughts.

Twenty One. Thirty-Five. One.

You should recognize these numbers, because they’re your record here in Sin City. Out of fifty-seven matches, your win percentage is thirty-seven percent. Thirty. Seven. Why do I say this? Why do I open my mouth particularly about this? Because I want you to realize that you’re not the sudden beast that you claim to be. You’re not a kick-ass anything, you are a fraud, man. I’m not going to sugar coat it like Raven did with his neutering and his ending talk. You have a losing record and you want to sit there and tell the rest of the world that you’re an “outstanding wrestler” and that you attended the big ol’ FOK-U…which I really think was just you trying to get a really fucking racist joke directed as Asian-Americans, since it’s Kentucky State University in Frankfurt, but whatever, you’ve got that Genius Fuckin’ IQ, right?

Coolbeans, bro. A plethora of positively supreme legumes, dude. Superb and quite dashing success, mate. Stupendous.

Except you sound like you just came out of a cornfield on a Friday night lookin’ for fuckin’ Wilbur and Charlotte to bring back to the pigpen. Maybe ol’ Bea can cook you up some chicken and waffles and some grits as a side course with your Cracker Barrel Buffet and finish it off with some fried apples doused in sauce and clog up them arteries some more, eh?

Would you like me to continue? I can tell you really like the South and all of its bullshit history.

No?

That’s fine.

So, let’s talk about this championship then. The one you carry with…success. The one I’m going to be stripping you and what’s left of your dignity at Climax Control this Sunday. I had it explained to me, the whole…roulette concept. The wheel gets spun, yaddi-yadda…could land on any kind of match that’s provided. Could get hardcore. Could get regular rules. The possibilities…well they’re not exactly endless, but they are profound. To be perfectly honest, I live in this world where I like hardcore, deathmatch fighting, so if it lands on that…

Sorry, you can’t see my smile right now, but let me know how wide and terrifying it should be for you to imagine.

You saw what I’m capable of at Blaze of Glory X. I don’t particularly give a shit if it’ll damage me, I’m going to absolutely go for your throat with every opportunity at my hands. I live and thrive in the deathmatch scene, I breathe in destruction, and I take it and make beautiful chaos out of it. And the amount in which I dislike you furthers how hard I go.

And Bill…I just really don’t like you, dude.

You really need to understand, I think, who you’re dealing with here. I think you, and a lot of others, attribute my affiliation with Wolfslair to mean that I am the same as all of them that have crossed paths within Sin City. That I am the same. Not only are you wrong, but you’re projecting and I need you to understand the difference between affiliation and raising banners. I didn’t come in here saying I was in Wolfslair. I didn’t come in here saying that they’re going to have my back. When it comes down to it, Alex and I rightfully can’t stand each other, so we’re more likely to be across from one another in the ring than next to. I come here alone. I come here to right my own wrongs. I come to Sin City to be one of the best that have walked through its doors. Perhaps I’m the tortoise for a moment, but if I remember correctly, that little shit won the race in the end. I tried to fast track my way up to the top, and then I realized that it wasn’t going to get me anywhere. So here we are. Earning spots. Taking names. Kicking the teeth of my opponents in and hopefully back down their own throats.

Yeah, my record isn’t spotless in Sin City. But you take a look at the achievements I’ve made possible in seven years of wrestling and compare them to yours…we are in two different leagues. I’m not that average wrestler that’s going to come in, say some surreptitious and salacious things and look like a dumbass every time I make sure I’m known. I’m not that bro that comes out and states that I’m the best wrestler to walk this Earth. Not right now. But I can tell you that I put every bit of effort into my matches and take everything from my opponents. Dignity. Respect. It washes off quickly when truths are laid out, and every false truth about you that you’ve tried to scream into the heavens will be forgotten.

You’re not the best.

You’re not even superior to the ground you walk on.

But with all that gusto, all that misogyny, all of that macho shit will come to an end. You will walk home with your tail between your legs, and if I hear you utter the words Roulette Championship again, it will be far too soon. I ran your last promo against Raven through a keyword density checker and you said it thirty-four times.

It doesn’t matter how many times you say something, it doesn’t make it true. It doesn’t make it any more yours. It doesn’t make it viable and credible. You cannot take possession through words, only actions. And that’s exactly what I’m planning on doing when it comes down to the end of the wire.

Now, I’m not going to repeat myself a thousand times in four different ways. I’m not going to leave you with shitty renditions of pop songs turned into abominations. I’m not even going to question why you’ve banned the Devil from coming for your soul, or…whatever the fuck. No analogies, no comparisons.

Just truths.

And that truth is that when Finn Whelan faces off Bill Barnhart, it will be The White Wolf with his hand raised. It’ll be the Seattle Saint with the title. And as it goes, I’ll be rising above my failures and finding my way up again. I’ll be correcting the wrong that is holding that championship for any longer – you.

I’d say good luck, but I don’t mean it. I wish for you every bit of discomfort that can possibly be bequeathed unto you at the end of this match. Then maybe you’ll stop making grandiose, false statements with that loud mouth and that pea sized brain of yours.

See you soon, Bulldog.




[FIN]