Post by "The Hottest Shit Going" on Mar 23, 2010 18:14:27 GMT -4
As we pick up exactly where I left you folks last week I finish my words into the camera, and strike my pose. The door to my locker room had just flown open and waltzing into the room was none other the women who birthed a wrestling savior, my mother Terri Lively. I drop the JESUS pose as Chubs spins around to capture the footage for all to see. A modern day showcase showdown occurs as the people watching the screen see the hate rip through my veins as the evil shoots from my eyes right in the direction of my mother. I swiveled my hips standing sideways, which as I mentioned before can only mean one thing. Chubs pans out so that both myself and the woman who biologically is my mother fit into the frame. I spring into action, nothing new for an APW fan to see me in this pose, with my boot quickly heading toward the dick gobbler of my mother. She tenses up, closing her eyes almost knowing that this would be the welcome she would get. In that split second I wondered why, why after all we have been through, why after how blatantly clear I made my intentions would she bare the pain of another super kick. In that moment when she clenched her jaw waiting for impact I pulled up, I stopped just short of sending her right back through the very door which she entered and bring my leg back down to Earth. Like a loaded shotgun I holster my super kicking leg for now to investigate my curiosity.
"What the fuck Terri?"
My mother slowly opens her eyes almost in shock, that she isn't in fact sprawled out on the floor with a sore suck hole.
"Terri hunh, thats where we have come...simple first name basis now Michael"
"What do you expect from me. A real mother wouldn't lie to her son about their father. A real mother wouldn't lie about the fact that her supposed only child was hardly that. So yeah thats where we are at the moment. And in this moment, the only reason I didn't preform Michael Lively ratings magic for the fans is because I am curious. You sparked my dander. You know the only thing I wish to speak to you about is the possibilities of my father's indentity...so let the JESUS know some good news."
My mother then hangs her head releasing a sigh of disappointment.
"Listen Michael, I'm not sure where to begin."
"You are not sure where to begin, or you're not sure where the lies end and reality begins. It's quite pathetic that here I stand possibly the greatest talent in the world of professional wrestling. My skills in the ring are simply flawless almost one hundred percent of the time. On the microphone I spit solid gold each and every week. The segments I spew from this heavenly brain could damn near go down in history as some of the very best tid-bits of comedy, and original masterpieces to ever be produced for film. In all I am a complete package. The thing that shames me the most is that I in fact came from a lying, no good, loose panty'd, any dick having whore. The woman who birthed me, the woman who gave up half her DNA to produce such shear perfection is nothing more then a simple disgrace to the human race. You are a worthless fucking slut, and to tell you the truth I have had enough of your lies, your deceit, and dealing with the constant drama that seems to rise from the shallow graves you have buried them in. As if the father thing wasn't enough. Maybe then was the time for Terri Lively to finally come clean, and wipe that fucking slate clean so we could truly have a fresh start. NO, instead you worried about yourself like you always do. Well you selfish bitch, I suggest you worry some more for your safety because in about three seconds, which is all it will take to put down this New Plague that has tried to ruin my career come Rasstlemania, you will be sent through that door courtesy of one of wrestlings most beautiful moves...the super kick, and Terri I will be bringing the heat on this kick like never before."
Terri then looks at me with slight tears filling her eyes. The mascara on her left eye begins to run just a little as I offer up just a few more words before the count down to my double barrel shotgun like super kick blows her fucking jaw apart.
"You always said I was distant, you wish I would open up more. You said there wasn't a way for us to really become a family if I didn't let you in and show you my true feelings. Well in three seconds Terri you will feel my inner thoughts, my true feelings. You will have the fury of my emotions exploding in your face. You will feel the pain that I do. The pain I so easily mask on the daily, the pain I shove into a locker inside my soul. I have no room for pain, so instead of holding onto it pretending it doesn't exist, I'll just give it to you all in one fail shot. Ready...ONE"
My mother wipes the tears from her eyes. It's her misery that has unleashed itself on me, her wrong doings, mistakes from the past that now I have to burden myself with. My family legacy if you will, the inheritance of sorts.
"TWO"
With that my mother turns opening the door and steps through. She then turns back looking at her son with the disappointment of her actions, and the love of a mother. That look could warm the heart of any son. The bond between parents is a hard thing to break, and when she looked at me I could feel that bond, that connection. She is my mother...
***CRACK***
And with that I sever the fucking bond for good, and drive my boot into her jaw line with extreme force and serious malice. I wanted her to know my pain and I'm sure she felt it fiercely planted on her chin, every little stinging piece of it. I let go of every ounce of misery that had been tormenting my soul lately. I released every bit of agony that I have stifled down for the past few months, and with one perfectly placed super kick it was all gone. As she barreled out into the hall and slide up against the wall I know without a shadow of a doubt that this woman will soon no longer look upon me as her son. I know this woman will hate me just like every fan in the arena, every person who turns on a television set to watch APW. My mother will soon rid herself from the worries of her son. Perhaps then this leech can turn toward a different child of hers, maybe focus on making up lost time with someone she obviously abandoned.
All I know is when I clap my hands together wiping them clean and look down at her lifeless body, I rid myself of so much baggage, baggage that despite it's weight I have carried without missing a beat here in APW. Now free from the cross leaning on my shoulders, imagine the great things your savior can accomplish now!
As I enter the arena, my normal arrogant presence isn't in tact. You see as you gaze upon what is the picture of perfection in professional wrestling there is something obviously wrong in this moment. I know deep in the pit of my stomach, and anyone who lays eyes on the JESUS in these minutes will surely take notice as well. My friendly fat cameraman Chubs stumbles on the scene and before he makes his presence known to me he pauses briefly just admiring the spectacle that I am engaged in. My head moving back and forth constantly checking over my shoulder. My nerves at an all time high. The camera man clears his throat getting my attention which simply startles me as I clench my fists.
"What's up Michael... Mania is finally here...but whats your deal. You look nervous."
"Nervous, your damn right I'm nervous."
I then leap into the face of Chubs, grabbing at the collar of his shirt as my nose presses against his.
"Listen, no one has heard from Damian Dimitri, seen the New Breed since I unleashed one hell of a tongue lashing upon his weak ass after his lucky streak just culminated."
"Thats a good thing, you were fairly harsh, hit on some key points, and if I were just called the embryo of a failed relationship, and you claimed to be the abortion coming to destroy me...hell I would go into hiding too."
"Thats just it Chubs...he's trained by Trevor Blackwell. This a silly ploy, part of the mind games this stupid shit was taught. You see I didn't get rattled by High School Musical, teenage drama bullshit, and the fact that he pulled my sister out from obscurity had zero affect on the JESUS. None of the theatrics that Trevor Blackwell taught this snot nosed little fetus have even come close to taking the JESUS out of his game. In fact it has elevated me because I can smell his fear."
"You are confusing me though, because right now you look like the only one with fear."
I shake Chubs violently as I answer that statement.
"Don't you get it man...he was trained by Blackwell. He has pulled off every stupid Blackwell maneuver in the book. The shotty move list, the retarded cameraman following him around."
Chubs looks at me, as I just shrug my shoulders and continue on.
"The building of a stable, and now here tonight he will before he falls like Trevor Blackwell always has, his pathetic ass will stoop to the levels that only a Blackwell can. I know in my bowels that this Barbed Wire Ass clown will try a sneak attack here this evening."
Then I release my death grip on the Haines T-shirt Chubs is sporting and begin looking around, and over my shoulders once more.
"So you are scarred of his sneak attack?"
With that my head whips back toward Chubs, and my eyes lock on his beady little marbles that are sunken into his cranium. With in an instant a smirk appears on my face, and I let out a slight bit of laughter.
"Hell no I'm not worried. Listen, I'm busting balls, having a good time. Damian Dimitri is a carbon copy, a new version of a failed patent. This silly shit can jump me here tonight, try to get what he will think is the upper hand. Just like Trevor he will probably spit out his first promo, and like a young little boy he will have blown his load way too early, leaving me none too impressed with his two second run. So with the advice of his one shot mentor, they will pull the lame sneak attack out of the bag of broken tricks. This is nothing new Chubs. The same old same old, don't be surprised if this fucker starts name dropping, and trying to build himself off the accolades of the past. People like Kenny Lambardo, Tony Blackwell, Tabitha Crowely...all has beens that are nowhere to be found. He hasn't done shit, except stink up the joint like his mentor did. After tonights brutal match is over I can promise you this Chubs...the fans of APW will see Damian Dimitri in the same light they did Trevor Blackwell, an unreliable, irresponsible, untrustworthy sack of shit."
"Don't get me wrong fat boy I'm not to be trusted either, but at least I project that to the world instead of trying to hide behind a false image of purity, respect, and integrity. This little shit stain will simply get wiped out like all the rest have."
With that I jump onto a crate in the back of the arena. No this isn't one of the famed crates that Spirit Tara Jacobs used to bring with her so she could cut a promo, it's a simple crate that just so happens to be laying around. I mean what is this a Trevor Blackwell promo, I wouldn't bring in tired, old, played out bullshit from the past that half the people watching these days could give a fuck less about, let alone understand. So with that we get back to me standing on this crate and I outstretch my arms almost daring the little shit head prodigy to do something.
"Come on you little bitch, you little sliver of rotted wood off the Blackwell barn. You duplicate, I know you are watching...I know that you think you have the upper hand, but you shouldn't underestimate the JESUS...let alone trust him, or any one else for that matter. I'm reading you like a book Damian...so come get you some...bitch!!"
I keep my pose in hopes that a little froggy will get the urge to jump.
"Fuck it Chubs, he's probably running late, another attribute of the Blackwell training instilled in him by the mentor of Xtreme Shiftiness. You couldn't count on Trevor Blackwell putting out a promo, let alone the asshole showing up for a match. I'm sure this little bitch learned from the very best."
With that I leap down from the crate, and shake my head in disgust. I begin my walk to the locker room to get ready for tonights epic showdown, the blockbuster PPV of the year Rasstlemania.
About an hour later I stand from the bench in my locker room, and fold up the Xtreme title gazing into it's glory. You see like a true savior I rid this division of it's shameful past, it's pathetic excuse for a title belt and gave it something to be proud of. A title worth holding on to, worth fighting for. No one gave three flying fucks about this division because through it all, the hard work, all the blood that would needed to be spilled to win the fucking thing in the end you were presented a trash can lid, seriously. Well, when you give out trash, you will get simply that in return. I have brought in a title worthwhile, worth bleeding for, worth sacrifice, and since I did people have been chomping at the bit to get them some. Well like always here I am about to unleash just that for the thirsty fuck who has knocked on my door. I hear you tapping away like a frightened little snatch, and tonight like I always do you will get one final dose of the JESUS in your face before I whoop that ass in front of thousands of people who can't stand the mere mention of my name. The truth is everyone of these sick shits are closet Lively marks, and they should stop hiding, stop the lies, and step out of the closet and into the sunshine embracing the fact that I am their Savior, and that they worship the Hottest Shit Going. With my adrenalin pumping now, and my heart fueling the fire I look toward Chubs who flips on the camera giving my the iggy to shoot.
"Rasstlemania, the biggest spectacle in wrestling today. Many people try to imitate, but can't simply get the formula down correct. A familiar concept as my challenger here this evening is trying to do the same thing. He's a JESUS mark, a Lively wanna be that came up in the Blackwell House of Prostitution. The little whore sold his soul in the hopes to become a future Mega Star here in APW. Well sunshine I hope the anal sex and the constant mouth fucking that you received in exchange for some washed up wrestling tricks, and some piss poor promo skills was truly worth it. Cause as you stand before me I see nothing more then a silly fuck trying to be something he isn't. You are a confused little shit, who can't separate himself from his mentor, or decide if the man he jocked coming up in this sport is a more fitting image to duplicate, which would be ME. In the end you aren't a real man, hell your just a chameleon. Changing colors faster then Trevor could blows his premature load in your mouth."
I pause briefly and tuck the Xtreme title in my waist band letting it dangle between my legs as I smirk into the lens before starting up once more.
"You see Damian this entire little banter is just the beginning. I'm like a solider hiding in the trees a few hundred yards out. I've had you in my cross hairs, and these words were like me pulling the trigger. The bullet has flown from the barrel, guided through the air and struck you in the knee exploding cartilage and spitting blood everywhere. It has been meant to wound you, it has been meant to slow you down. My first strike comes in these promos, and they cause you to limp around in pain waiting for the gunmen to come and finish the job. These words I have spewed hurt, and thats the point they are meant to torture, meant to be brutal. They are like a sword I wield, and when I strike they cut deep. So deep that when you crawl to the ring you won't just be leaking blood, but spilling bone marrow as well.
When the bell rings I see the broken, battered and wounded looking animal that you are, gazing upon your master with a look begging for mercy. You see you thought because it was the law of the jungle that you were going to play rough, you thought you had it all figured out, you were the Lion on the block. Well I guess you forgot that while you can claw and scratch like a little pussy cat trying to force your way around as the new King of these parts, I carry the deadly force of full metal jacket ammo, and the caliber to riffle those bullets. Hollow point tips that pierce with precision, and make an absolute mess on the inside when impact occurs. Thats the strength to drop any beast, man woman, or child that wishes to claim their right over me.
It's real clear to the JESUS now as I watch you in your rattled state that all along your were but a small ankle bitting dog. It's not your fault, you see like those tiny worthless dogs you don't realize your size in the grand scheme of the world. You think this is your playground your park, and you are prepared to do what it takes to make sure everyone knows that with your loud yapping, and useless statements, and proclamations. Until of course you come across a nasty, blood thirsty Pitt Bull. Soon it becomes painfully clear that you are just not relevant, just not sturdy enough, and simply just a little too small time to be king of anything.
Like a nasty dog I took a big bite out of you last week. I let you know this isn't a game, and that real damage will be inflicted the further we pursue this. The time is almost upon us, and I think now it's starting to sink in. The haze of arrogance that you surrounded yourself with has cleared. You haven't done a damn thing here in APW that gives you the fucking right to come at me, and you know it. You haven't done enough damage here to be qualified to challenge Jason Royce, and that pains you. My dislike over this has been made abundantly clear to all, and I get a chance to release that aggression and frustration here tonight.
As you enter that ring wounded from the words I have sent your direction like daggers, as you suck up the pain I inflicted early on you will have to swallow that lump in your throat, because I wouldn't want Sabur's balls to come flying out during our match. After that I want you to step the fuck up. This is an uphill battle for you kid, and I'm not sure your are dressed for the journey. With the pathetic shit you have layed before me it seems you are in shorts, sandals, and a Bermuda shirt expecting a day at the beach with some fluffy ass Mai Thai drink. Well sunshine this is going to be a rocky climb, in blistering cold weather.
I know what you have done, I understand your thought process, you are thinking to beat any arrogant bastard you must first inflate your own ego. Well I must tell you bullfrog my ego came from my great achievements, my constant accomplishments, and the fact that I carved my name into the history books with outstanding performance after outstanding performance. You have just inserted an air hose up your ass, and began blowing that head of yours up without accomplishing a damn thing. You waltzed in thinking because you were trained by Trevor Blackwell that the red velvet ropes would open up, and that the sea of contenders would part. People have laughed you off from the very beginning. Jeff however loves sticking it to Trevor Blackwell every chance he can get. He made your road to success here quite difficult. Pitted you against Level One, that in itself would rattle any man. You tasted a few defeats back to back and the world could see you where oh so brittle, the prodigy of Trevor Blackwell was just as much as a choke artist as his mentor was before him. Jeff, being the clever man he is, decided to play the game, so he tickled Trevor's fancy by giving you a chance to become number contender even though you never even deserved a match on live television.
I'm sure Trevor sat home with his hand in his pants pounding away because his protege was getting a chance. This also made you feel as if you had done something deserving, something worthy. During his erotic fixation with keeping his name alive Trevor's moment of explosion must have come about when you snuck out the "W". This silly little achievement swelled your balls so much that you actually thought up until a week ago that you could beat Michael Lively. Like the great spoiler of fun I am, like the man who shits on destiny, I will unfold this whole thing like a wet dream, the disappointment will soon sink in that none of this was real, the sadness will overcome you and Trevor both. The best part is this will be your first taste while your mentor once again chokes on the bitterly sweet disgusting flaw of defeat.
At Rasstlemania you are facing thee most viscous son of a bitch wrestling has ever seen. You are going one on one with man that is craftier inside that ring then anyone else this industry has bared witness to. I am The Hottest Shit Going for a reason because I will burn your ass to a crisp inside that ring. It first begins with the heat I offer up via my on camera promo, then the fire engulfs you like an overwhelming flame sucking the oxygen from your lungs as the bell rings. There isn't a person in this arena that will rush to your aid, no fire extinguishers around to dowse out the flame. You will simply be burnt to nothing more then char as Trevor Blackwell sits at home frowning at the mouth, as he sees his shameful Legacy go up in smoke.
It's OK in this moment to know, and finally admit that you have bitten off more then you can chew bitch boy. What isn't OK is backing out, or no showing our match because your scared. I know that has happened more times then not here in APW. Sorry to tell you that the match that you have begged for since stepping through the curtain of APW has been booked, and I am geared up to rip your silly wings off Tinker Bell. The world will watch you shit fairy dust on yourself with the fear that I have stamped upon your heart. The only thing is, that the fear isn't alone is it, accompanying fear is the doubt. I have chopped you down to size and when the world looks into those poisoned eyes they see the truth. As you stare into the mirror I know for once you see it as well. You slurped down the goo of Trevor Blackwell, the thick wads he shot your direction filled you up with a delusion of grandeur. You bought his entire spiel hook line and sinker, you thought he had made you into the next big thing, a warrior to reek havoc on the rings of APW. Now as your stomach aches from the taste of sperm and reality has sunk in, I hope you understand, like a prostitute your were just a place for Big Poppa Blackwell to dispose of his load. He used you up Damian, and once I totally tear through you, and leave the booking staff left to witness the shell of a man not even fit to compete for the Overdrive title this fancy little charade will be finished once and for all. This entire trip down the rabbit hole to Wonderland can come to screeching halt. I don't like homosexual mad haters, gay white bunny's, or fake phony ass bitches trying to be something they are not...you my friend are not a wrestler, you are not a future great to be forever known in this sport, simply just a guy trying to get by on cheap name drops, accolades of medicor hacks, and a bunch of fluff spit from his cheeks. I have filter for bullshit Damian, and I see through your entire act. It's the same shitty show, with the same lame characters, the difference is you have new actors playing the parts, and air on a different channel. Consider me the network head, because I'm pulling the plug on your pilot son. The free ride is over. Michael Lively is here to do what I have done since the beginning of my rise to the top here in APW...weed out the fakes. I have a world class sniffer, and you are covered in plastic, I can smell it from here. You are an imitation Barbie that a girl gets on her birthday...it's a great gift if opened first. In the end when the real deal is unwrapped before her eyes...that make believe generic pile of shit gets tossed aside. I am Malibu Barbie, Damian Dimitri, and you are some half baked, pretend bullshit doll made in Malaysia that carries cheap clothes, and no accessories. My package comes with sunglasses, two different outfits, high heels and a dog in a purse. Yours is lucky the box didn't fall apart in shipping."
I pause briefly looking at Chubs who peeks out from the camera chuckling a bit that I used a Barbie analogy in my promo. This almost causing me to laugh as well, but I keep it together and finish.
"In all the time has come, you have been inked to the ever important Come to JESUS meeting that so many in APW eventually do. This is the make or break test kid, the quality control session if you will. From what I see you aren't making it out in tact. If the fans of APW were children they would need a toy that can stand the test of time, one that is rugged, one that can handle almost anything thrown it's way. Your made overseas hackery can't handle the heat of being left in the car in the middle of summer. You don't have the strength to stand up through the trials and tribulations of what a child brings to the table. In the end you are just a cheap substitute for the real thing. APW is the hills of Beverly little man, and they don't buy generic up here. You have your place though, those scummy streets of Long Island where you began this ridiculous journey...thats the island of misfit toys. Thats where your dollar store ass will shine, and stand out among the lame. Here in the mansions of success, you are nothing more then a piece of trash ready to be thrown out. The stuck up snobs wish to have only the best, and you are looking at one of those.
So once that bell rings, and the fans roar for action I will give these retards something to cheer for. If they wish to have violence then that is what I will offer, upon your scalp. I have concreted my name in history, and will make yet but another small chapter tonight, because the JESUS will extinguish the flame of yet another. One more man will have fallen beneath my mighty boot of righteousness, one more man will have lost the battle, and yet another wrestler will have tasted their demise thanks to Michael Mother Fucking Lively. The list is too long to name off, but down at the bottom, if you are interested to know Damian, will be your John Hancock. There on that chart, that scroll of people the JESUS has simply wiped his ass with, is where you can begin to rebuild. You can take the fact that the greatest man to ever step foot inside a ring kicked the living shit out of you and run with it.
Back on that hell hole the world knows as Long Island you might possibly be able to convince people that one sliver of my shear perfection rubbed off on you during our match. In that land of mongoloids, retards, water-heads, and all out white fucking trash that birthed the scum known as the Blackwell clan, it shouldn't take but just a tiny piece of JESUS to become king. There you can have your rule, there you can have your throne, there Damian Dimitri is where you can achieve all your dreams. Thats where your focus should be kid. You are aiming for the stars, when your potential can only let you go to the moon. Here in the Milky Way, the Galaxy of the JESUS we don't let the lame, the destitute, and the weak of heart enter. Here only the best thrive, only the best can survive, and I simply think you don't cut the mustard kid. I hold the keys to the gate, I am the one who decides where you go from here. You don't make the rules, you haven't a say in anything. This is my fucking world and from what I see, you little man should know your place. If you decide to keep pushing, then the JESUS will simply toss you back. Crawl to your feet once more, and I will crush you underneath the treads that make up my Super Kicker. I know your kind, you think you are owed the world. You look upon people like myself and wonder why it isn't you. This brings about a resentment, a rebellious attitude, and that just makes my job even more fun. I get to royally rape your fucking soul until nothing is left. I get to break you completely down leaving not an ounce of fight in your heart. Then once that moment has come around the bend, and your pain filled eyes look upon the master and ruler of the ring you will finally be put out of the misery you called upon yourself. I didn't seek you out, it was you who knocked upon my door. You who walked right in thinking you could call this place home. My job was to kindly escort you out, and show you where the low lives belong, down in the dark match section of the company.
Your fighting nature, and stupidity accompanied by this senseless arrogance is was brought about the holy wrath of the JESUS. If you had simply known your place, and hung your head on the way back to that retched hell hole where you started off we wouldn't be here right now. I must thank you for that attitude, I must thank you for putting up the fight that you have though. It sort of has made this entire thing worthwhile, made it meaningful. Hell you might of carved a niche in my memory so that when I go back over my list of victims, I might almost remember you. The poor confused soul who let a dirt bag send him into a battle with out the proper training, equipment, or protection. You my friend are just a casualty of war, and I am the Dictator who crushed you along the way.
I hope once the dust has settled, the smoke has cleared, and you muster up the strength, courage, and self respect to possibly even show your face in public, you realize it wasn't worth it. I hope you realize that when you charged the gates like your were going to knock down the entire castle with one single blow, you understand that you underestimated the strength of the fortress you tried to topple. This is Grey-Skull bitch, and I am He-Man.
I hope while you lick your wounds, your think back to before this all happened. I want you to remember the first meeting of Michael Lively and Damian Dimtiri. I want you to recall that super kick I planted on your jaw. That wasn't just me feeling disrespected by some punk bitch rookie, that wasn't me making a statement, that was me warning you of the future. Once my music plays, and you lay in fog of misery looking at me in the haze of defeat, I will simply tell you like I did once that boot layed you out, I TOLD YOU SO, BITCH!!!"
With that I simply just strike the I am JESUS pose, knowing in my mind and in my heart at that very second no matter what my opponent has to offer it won't be enough. He will either go too light, or over compensate because at the end of the day, no man is the Hottest Shit Going, except ME!
"What the fuck Terri?"
My mother slowly opens her eyes almost in shock, that she isn't in fact sprawled out on the floor with a sore suck hole.
"Terri hunh, thats where we have come...simple first name basis now Michael"
"What do you expect from me. A real mother wouldn't lie to her son about their father. A real mother wouldn't lie about the fact that her supposed only child was hardly that. So yeah thats where we are at the moment. And in this moment, the only reason I didn't preform Michael Lively ratings magic for the fans is because I am curious. You sparked my dander. You know the only thing I wish to speak to you about is the possibilities of my father's indentity...so let the JESUS know some good news."
My mother then hangs her head releasing a sigh of disappointment.
"Listen Michael, I'm not sure where to begin."
"You are not sure where to begin, or you're not sure where the lies end and reality begins. It's quite pathetic that here I stand possibly the greatest talent in the world of professional wrestling. My skills in the ring are simply flawless almost one hundred percent of the time. On the microphone I spit solid gold each and every week. The segments I spew from this heavenly brain could damn near go down in history as some of the very best tid-bits of comedy, and original masterpieces to ever be produced for film. In all I am a complete package. The thing that shames me the most is that I in fact came from a lying, no good, loose panty'd, any dick having whore. The woman who birthed me, the woman who gave up half her DNA to produce such shear perfection is nothing more then a simple disgrace to the human race. You are a worthless fucking slut, and to tell you the truth I have had enough of your lies, your deceit, and dealing with the constant drama that seems to rise from the shallow graves you have buried them in. As if the father thing wasn't enough. Maybe then was the time for Terri Lively to finally come clean, and wipe that fucking slate clean so we could truly have a fresh start. NO, instead you worried about yourself like you always do. Well you selfish bitch, I suggest you worry some more for your safety because in about three seconds, which is all it will take to put down this New Plague that has tried to ruin my career come Rasstlemania, you will be sent through that door courtesy of one of wrestlings most beautiful moves...the super kick, and Terri I will be bringing the heat on this kick like never before."
Terri then looks at me with slight tears filling her eyes. The mascara on her left eye begins to run just a little as I offer up just a few more words before the count down to my double barrel shotgun like super kick blows her fucking jaw apart.
"You always said I was distant, you wish I would open up more. You said there wasn't a way for us to really become a family if I didn't let you in and show you my true feelings. Well in three seconds Terri you will feel my inner thoughts, my true feelings. You will have the fury of my emotions exploding in your face. You will feel the pain that I do. The pain I so easily mask on the daily, the pain I shove into a locker inside my soul. I have no room for pain, so instead of holding onto it pretending it doesn't exist, I'll just give it to you all in one fail shot. Ready...ONE"
My mother wipes the tears from her eyes. It's her misery that has unleashed itself on me, her wrong doings, mistakes from the past that now I have to burden myself with. My family legacy if you will, the inheritance of sorts.
"TWO"
With that my mother turns opening the door and steps through. She then turns back looking at her son with the disappointment of her actions, and the love of a mother. That look could warm the heart of any son. The bond between parents is a hard thing to break, and when she looked at me I could feel that bond, that connection. She is my mother...
***CRACK***
And with that I sever the fucking bond for good, and drive my boot into her jaw line with extreme force and serious malice. I wanted her to know my pain and I'm sure she felt it fiercely planted on her chin, every little stinging piece of it. I let go of every ounce of misery that had been tormenting my soul lately. I released every bit of agony that I have stifled down for the past few months, and with one perfectly placed super kick it was all gone. As she barreled out into the hall and slide up against the wall I know without a shadow of a doubt that this woman will soon no longer look upon me as her son. I know this woman will hate me just like every fan in the arena, every person who turns on a television set to watch APW. My mother will soon rid herself from the worries of her son. Perhaps then this leech can turn toward a different child of hers, maybe focus on making up lost time with someone she obviously abandoned.
All I know is when I clap my hands together wiping them clean and look down at her lifeless body, I rid myself of so much baggage, baggage that despite it's weight I have carried without missing a beat here in APW. Now free from the cross leaning on my shoulders, imagine the great things your savior can accomplish now!
The Measure of a Man
What makes a man. People say a real man has integrity, has class, will stand up for what he believes in. A real man will give you the shirt off his back, does anything to help a brother in need. A man has a heart that flows with compassion, a soul deep as the ocean. A man represents himself with honor and respect. He offers that respect toward others with the hopes of getting the very same in return. He asks for nothing and takes what ever is offered to him with a smile. A real man doesn't not scream foul, just deals with the hands that are dealt. A man is to be looked up to, a real man is proud of his actions, his representation to the public, and can stand tall knowing that when the sun goes down he has done all he can to be a Real Man. A Real Man is devoted to his family, and knows that blood is thicker then water. A Real Man will do anything to keep his values in tact, and not stray from his chosen path of Destiny.
I think that is a load of horse shit, a pile of Camel puke. You see my definition of a real man goes way back, the measure of a man in my book of definitions is damn near primal. You see a man will take what he wants when he wants, and royally fuck you up in the process. He will shout and boast across the land letting all who can hear his screams know that if you want to fuck around in these parts there is someone to deal with. A Real Man will defeat his enemies with brutal force and show not an ounce of mercy. When starring at his downed opposition, a Real Man will simply drive the heal of his boot through his opponents skull, and leave it there shattered on the battlefield so that any other supposed threat that wishes to step up can see just how enemies get dealt with by a Real Man. A Real Man will take no prisoners, stop at nothing for success, and sacrifice everything to be the very best. A Real Man doesn't need a fucking army at his side, or a legion of brain dead monkeys to have his back, listening to his barked out commands. A Real Man will simply walk up and slap the shit out of you in front of your troops letting you and them know that indeed you are dealing with not only a lunatic, but a fucking Real Man. A Real Man will spit in the face of his family, letting all who watch him know that he has not a single weakness. Loved ones only bring about misery from both sides of the table. A Real Man simply leaves home, hunts, kills and destroys for what he wants in life. A Real Man will wander the plains, travel the hills, and leave behind a path of destruction with broken bodies left in the wake so that you could document his tribulations, his accomplishments, and his blood thirsty quest. A Real Man doesn't settle for second best, a Real Man can't stomach the word fate. A Real Man will look upon this slut know as Destiny with the simple disdain that he holds for all women. A Real Man won't accept the ramblings of this bitch named Destiny, he will merely break her neck, rape her body, and show the world that he is in control of what comes next in his life. A Real Man chooses his own path, strays when he wishes, and always causes mother fucking ruckus where ever he goes. A Real Man can be seen in the distance ridding into town just as the sun sets. His shadow bringing about a fury of rebelliousness, and an over whelming outlaw attitude that makes shit run down peoples legs. A Real Man is what you want to be when you are but just an infant looking at the world with a haze of immaturity. All that Fruity Pebble bullshit the world feeds you on a political correctness platter is simply just the feces left behind from a Real Man. You sons of bitches are looking the Real Mother Fucking Man!!!!
I think that is a load of horse shit, a pile of Camel puke. You see my definition of a real man goes way back, the measure of a man in my book of definitions is damn near primal. You see a man will take what he wants when he wants, and royally fuck you up in the process. He will shout and boast across the land letting all who can hear his screams know that if you want to fuck around in these parts there is someone to deal with. A Real Man will defeat his enemies with brutal force and show not an ounce of mercy. When starring at his downed opposition, a Real Man will simply drive the heal of his boot through his opponents skull, and leave it there shattered on the battlefield so that any other supposed threat that wishes to step up can see just how enemies get dealt with by a Real Man. A Real Man will take no prisoners, stop at nothing for success, and sacrifice everything to be the very best. A Real Man doesn't need a fucking army at his side, or a legion of brain dead monkeys to have his back, listening to his barked out commands. A Real Man will simply walk up and slap the shit out of you in front of your troops letting you and them know that indeed you are dealing with not only a lunatic, but a fucking Real Man. A Real Man will spit in the face of his family, letting all who watch him know that he has not a single weakness. Loved ones only bring about misery from both sides of the table. A Real Man simply leaves home, hunts, kills and destroys for what he wants in life. A Real Man will wander the plains, travel the hills, and leave behind a path of destruction with broken bodies left in the wake so that you could document his tribulations, his accomplishments, and his blood thirsty quest. A Real Man doesn't settle for second best, a Real Man can't stomach the word fate. A Real Man will look upon this slut know as Destiny with the simple disdain that he holds for all women. A Real Man won't accept the ramblings of this bitch named Destiny, he will merely break her neck, rape her body, and show the world that he is in control of what comes next in his life. A Real Man chooses his own path, strays when he wishes, and always causes mother fucking ruckus where ever he goes. A Real Man can be seen in the distance ridding into town just as the sun sets. His shadow bringing about a fury of rebelliousness, and an over whelming outlaw attitude that makes shit run down peoples legs. A Real Man is what you want to be when you are but just an infant looking at the world with a haze of immaturity. All that Fruity Pebble bullshit the world feeds you on a political correctness platter is simply just the feces left behind from a Real Man. You sons of bitches are looking the Real Mother Fucking Man!!!!
All around the world it's the same song
As I enter the arena, my normal arrogant presence isn't in tact. You see as you gaze upon what is the picture of perfection in professional wrestling there is something obviously wrong in this moment. I know deep in the pit of my stomach, and anyone who lays eyes on the JESUS in these minutes will surely take notice as well. My friendly fat cameraman Chubs stumbles on the scene and before he makes his presence known to me he pauses briefly just admiring the spectacle that I am engaged in. My head moving back and forth constantly checking over my shoulder. My nerves at an all time high. The camera man clears his throat getting my attention which simply startles me as I clench my fists.
"What's up Michael... Mania is finally here...but whats your deal. You look nervous."
"Nervous, your damn right I'm nervous."
I then leap into the face of Chubs, grabbing at the collar of his shirt as my nose presses against his.
"Listen, no one has heard from Damian Dimitri, seen the New Breed since I unleashed one hell of a tongue lashing upon his weak ass after his lucky streak just culminated."
"Thats a good thing, you were fairly harsh, hit on some key points, and if I were just called the embryo of a failed relationship, and you claimed to be the abortion coming to destroy me...hell I would go into hiding too."
"Thats just it Chubs...he's trained by Trevor Blackwell. This a silly ploy, part of the mind games this stupid shit was taught. You see I didn't get rattled by High School Musical, teenage drama bullshit, and the fact that he pulled my sister out from obscurity had zero affect on the JESUS. None of the theatrics that Trevor Blackwell taught this snot nosed little fetus have even come close to taking the JESUS out of his game. In fact it has elevated me because I can smell his fear."
"You are confusing me though, because right now you look like the only one with fear."
I shake Chubs violently as I answer that statement.
"Don't you get it man...he was trained by Blackwell. He has pulled off every stupid Blackwell maneuver in the book. The shotty move list, the retarded cameraman following him around."
Chubs looks at me, as I just shrug my shoulders and continue on.
"The building of a stable, and now here tonight he will before he falls like Trevor Blackwell always has, his pathetic ass will stoop to the levels that only a Blackwell can. I know in my bowels that this Barbed Wire Ass clown will try a sneak attack here this evening."
Then I release my death grip on the Haines T-shirt Chubs is sporting and begin looking around, and over my shoulders once more.
"So you are scarred of his sneak attack?"
With that my head whips back toward Chubs, and my eyes lock on his beady little marbles that are sunken into his cranium. With in an instant a smirk appears on my face, and I let out a slight bit of laughter.
"Hell no I'm not worried. Listen, I'm busting balls, having a good time. Damian Dimitri is a carbon copy, a new version of a failed patent. This silly shit can jump me here tonight, try to get what he will think is the upper hand. Just like Trevor he will probably spit out his first promo, and like a young little boy he will have blown his load way too early, leaving me none too impressed with his two second run. So with the advice of his one shot mentor, they will pull the lame sneak attack out of the bag of broken tricks. This is nothing new Chubs. The same old same old, don't be surprised if this fucker starts name dropping, and trying to build himself off the accolades of the past. People like Kenny Lambardo, Tony Blackwell, Tabitha Crowely...all has beens that are nowhere to be found. He hasn't done shit, except stink up the joint like his mentor did. After tonights brutal match is over I can promise you this Chubs...the fans of APW will see Damian Dimitri in the same light they did Trevor Blackwell, an unreliable, irresponsible, untrustworthy sack of shit."
"Don't get me wrong fat boy I'm not to be trusted either, but at least I project that to the world instead of trying to hide behind a false image of purity, respect, and integrity. This little shit stain will simply get wiped out like all the rest have."
With that I jump onto a crate in the back of the arena. No this isn't one of the famed crates that Spirit Tara Jacobs used to bring with her so she could cut a promo, it's a simple crate that just so happens to be laying around. I mean what is this a Trevor Blackwell promo, I wouldn't bring in tired, old, played out bullshit from the past that half the people watching these days could give a fuck less about, let alone understand. So with that we get back to me standing on this crate and I outstretch my arms almost daring the little shit head prodigy to do something.
"Come on you little bitch, you little sliver of rotted wood off the Blackwell barn. You duplicate, I know you are watching...I know that you think you have the upper hand, but you shouldn't underestimate the JESUS...let alone trust him, or any one else for that matter. I'm reading you like a book Damian...so come get you some...bitch!!"
I keep my pose in hopes that a little froggy will get the urge to jump.
"Fuck it Chubs, he's probably running late, another attribute of the Blackwell training instilled in him by the mentor of Xtreme Shiftiness. You couldn't count on Trevor Blackwell putting out a promo, let alone the asshole showing up for a match. I'm sure this little bitch learned from the very best."
With that I leap down from the crate, and shake my head in disgust. I begin my walk to the locker room to get ready for tonights epic showdown, the blockbuster PPV of the year Rasstlemania.
About an hour later I stand from the bench in my locker room, and fold up the Xtreme title gazing into it's glory. You see like a true savior I rid this division of it's shameful past, it's pathetic excuse for a title belt and gave it something to be proud of. A title worth holding on to, worth fighting for. No one gave three flying fucks about this division because through it all, the hard work, all the blood that would needed to be spilled to win the fucking thing in the end you were presented a trash can lid, seriously. Well, when you give out trash, you will get simply that in return. I have brought in a title worthwhile, worth bleeding for, worth sacrifice, and since I did people have been chomping at the bit to get them some. Well like always here I am about to unleash just that for the thirsty fuck who has knocked on my door. I hear you tapping away like a frightened little snatch, and tonight like I always do you will get one final dose of the JESUS in your face before I whoop that ass in front of thousands of people who can't stand the mere mention of my name. The truth is everyone of these sick shits are closet Lively marks, and they should stop hiding, stop the lies, and step out of the closet and into the sunshine embracing the fact that I am their Savior, and that they worship the Hottest Shit Going. With my adrenalin pumping now, and my heart fueling the fire I look toward Chubs who flips on the camera giving my the iggy to shoot.
"Rasstlemania, the biggest spectacle in wrestling today. Many people try to imitate, but can't simply get the formula down correct. A familiar concept as my challenger here this evening is trying to do the same thing. He's a JESUS mark, a Lively wanna be that came up in the Blackwell House of Prostitution. The little whore sold his soul in the hopes to become a future Mega Star here in APW. Well sunshine I hope the anal sex and the constant mouth fucking that you received in exchange for some washed up wrestling tricks, and some piss poor promo skills was truly worth it. Cause as you stand before me I see nothing more then a silly fuck trying to be something he isn't. You are a confused little shit, who can't separate himself from his mentor, or decide if the man he jocked coming up in this sport is a more fitting image to duplicate, which would be ME. In the end you aren't a real man, hell your just a chameleon. Changing colors faster then Trevor could blows his premature load in your mouth."
I pause briefly and tuck the Xtreme title in my waist band letting it dangle between my legs as I smirk into the lens before starting up once more.
"You see Damian this entire little banter is just the beginning. I'm like a solider hiding in the trees a few hundred yards out. I've had you in my cross hairs, and these words were like me pulling the trigger. The bullet has flown from the barrel, guided through the air and struck you in the knee exploding cartilage and spitting blood everywhere. It has been meant to wound you, it has been meant to slow you down. My first strike comes in these promos, and they cause you to limp around in pain waiting for the gunmen to come and finish the job. These words I have spewed hurt, and thats the point they are meant to torture, meant to be brutal. They are like a sword I wield, and when I strike they cut deep. So deep that when you crawl to the ring you won't just be leaking blood, but spilling bone marrow as well.
When the bell rings I see the broken, battered and wounded looking animal that you are, gazing upon your master with a look begging for mercy. You see you thought because it was the law of the jungle that you were going to play rough, you thought you had it all figured out, you were the Lion on the block. Well I guess you forgot that while you can claw and scratch like a little pussy cat trying to force your way around as the new King of these parts, I carry the deadly force of full metal jacket ammo, and the caliber to riffle those bullets. Hollow point tips that pierce with precision, and make an absolute mess on the inside when impact occurs. Thats the strength to drop any beast, man woman, or child that wishes to claim their right over me.
It's real clear to the JESUS now as I watch you in your rattled state that all along your were but a small ankle bitting dog. It's not your fault, you see like those tiny worthless dogs you don't realize your size in the grand scheme of the world. You think this is your playground your park, and you are prepared to do what it takes to make sure everyone knows that with your loud yapping, and useless statements, and proclamations. Until of course you come across a nasty, blood thirsty Pitt Bull. Soon it becomes painfully clear that you are just not relevant, just not sturdy enough, and simply just a little too small time to be king of anything.
Like a nasty dog I took a big bite out of you last week. I let you know this isn't a game, and that real damage will be inflicted the further we pursue this. The time is almost upon us, and I think now it's starting to sink in. The haze of arrogance that you surrounded yourself with has cleared. You haven't done a damn thing here in APW that gives you the fucking right to come at me, and you know it. You haven't done enough damage here to be qualified to challenge Jason Royce, and that pains you. My dislike over this has been made abundantly clear to all, and I get a chance to release that aggression and frustration here tonight.
As you enter that ring wounded from the words I have sent your direction like daggers, as you suck up the pain I inflicted early on you will have to swallow that lump in your throat, because I wouldn't want Sabur's balls to come flying out during our match. After that I want you to step the fuck up. This is an uphill battle for you kid, and I'm not sure your are dressed for the journey. With the pathetic shit you have layed before me it seems you are in shorts, sandals, and a Bermuda shirt expecting a day at the beach with some fluffy ass Mai Thai drink. Well sunshine this is going to be a rocky climb, in blistering cold weather.
I know what you have done, I understand your thought process, you are thinking to beat any arrogant bastard you must first inflate your own ego. Well I must tell you bullfrog my ego came from my great achievements, my constant accomplishments, and the fact that I carved my name into the history books with outstanding performance after outstanding performance. You have just inserted an air hose up your ass, and began blowing that head of yours up without accomplishing a damn thing. You waltzed in thinking because you were trained by Trevor Blackwell that the red velvet ropes would open up, and that the sea of contenders would part. People have laughed you off from the very beginning. Jeff however loves sticking it to Trevor Blackwell every chance he can get. He made your road to success here quite difficult. Pitted you against Level One, that in itself would rattle any man. You tasted a few defeats back to back and the world could see you where oh so brittle, the prodigy of Trevor Blackwell was just as much as a choke artist as his mentor was before him. Jeff, being the clever man he is, decided to play the game, so he tickled Trevor's fancy by giving you a chance to become number contender even though you never even deserved a match on live television.
I'm sure Trevor sat home with his hand in his pants pounding away because his protege was getting a chance. This also made you feel as if you had done something deserving, something worthy. During his erotic fixation with keeping his name alive Trevor's moment of explosion must have come about when you snuck out the "W". This silly little achievement swelled your balls so much that you actually thought up until a week ago that you could beat Michael Lively. Like the great spoiler of fun I am, like the man who shits on destiny, I will unfold this whole thing like a wet dream, the disappointment will soon sink in that none of this was real, the sadness will overcome you and Trevor both. The best part is this will be your first taste while your mentor once again chokes on the bitterly sweet disgusting flaw of defeat.
At Rasstlemania you are facing thee most viscous son of a bitch wrestling has ever seen. You are going one on one with man that is craftier inside that ring then anyone else this industry has bared witness to. I am The Hottest Shit Going for a reason because I will burn your ass to a crisp inside that ring. It first begins with the heat I offer up via my on camera promo, then the fire engulfs you like an overwhelming flame sucking the oxygen from your lungs as the bell rings. There isn't a person in this arena that will rush to your aid, no fire extinguishers around to dowse out the flame. You will simply be burnt to nothing more then char as Trevor Blackwell sits at home frowning at the mouth, as he sees his shameful Legacy go up in smoke.
It's OK in this moment to know, and finally admit that you have bitten off more then you can chew bitch boy. What isn't OK is backing out, or no showing our match because your scared. I know that has happened more times then not here in APW. Sorry to tell you that the match that you have begged for since stepping through the curtain of APW has been booked, and I am geared up to rip your silly wings off Tinker Bell. The world will watch you shit fairy dust on yourself with the fear that I have stamped upon your heart. The only thing is, that the fear isn't alone is it, accompanying fear is the doubt. I have chopped you down to size and when the world looks into those poisoned eyes they see the truth. As you stare into the mirror I know for once you see it as well. You slurped down the goo of Trevor Blackwell, the thick wads he shot your direction filled you up with a delusion of grandeur. You bought his entire spiel hook line and sinker, you thought he had made you into the next big thing, a warrior to reek havoc on the rings of APW. Now as your stomach aches from the taste of sperm and reality has sunk in, I hope you understand, like a prostitute your were just a place for Big Poppa Blackwell to dispose of his load. He used you up Damian, and once I totally tear through you, and leave the booking staff left to witness the shell of a man not even fit to compete for the Overdrive title this fancy little charade will be finished once and for all. This entire trip down the rabbit hole to Wonderland can come to screeching halt. I don't like homosexual mad haters, gay white bunny's, or fake phony ass bitches trying to be something they are not...you my friend are not a wrestler, you are not a future great to be forever known in this sport, simply just a guy trying to get by on cheap name drops, accolades of medicor hacks, and a bunch of fluff spit from his cheeks. I have filter for bullshit Damian, and I see through your entire act. It's the same shitty show, with the same lame characters, the difference is you have new actors playing the parts, and air on a different channel. Consider me the network head, because I'm pulling the plug on your pilot son. The free ride is over. Michael Lively is here to do what I have done since the beginning of my rise to the top here in APW...weed out the fakes. I have a world class sniffer, and you are covered in plastic, I can smell it from here. You are an imitation Barbie that a girl gets on her birthday...it's a great gift if opened first. In the end when the real deal is unwrapped before her eyes...that make believe generic pile of shit gets tossed aside. I am Malibu Barbie, Damian Dimitri, and you are some half baked, pretend bullshit doll made in Malaysia that carries cheap clothes, and no accessories. My package comes with sunglasses, two different outfits, high heels and a dog in a purse. Yours is lucky the box didn't fall apart in shipping."
I pause briefly looking at Chubs who peeks out from the camera chuckling a bit that I used a Barbie analogy in my promo. This almost causing me to laugh as well, but I keep it together and finish.
"In all the time has come, you have been inked to the ever important Come to JESUS meeting that so many in APW eventually do. This is the make or break test kid, the quality control session if you will. From what I see you aren't making it out in tact. If the fans of APW were children they would need a toy that can stand the test of time, one that is rugged, one that can handle almost anything thrown it's way. Your made overseas hackery can't handle the heat of being left in the car in the middle of summer. You don't have the strength to stand up through the trials and tribulations of what a child brings to the table. In the end you are just a cheap substitute for the real thing. APW is the hills of Beverly little man, and they don't buy generic up here. You have your place though, those scummy streets of Long Island where you began this ridiculous journey...thats the island of misfit toys. Thats where your dollar store ass will shine, and stand out among the lame. Here in the mansions of success, you are nothing more then a piece of trash ready to be thrown out. The stuck up snobs wish to have only the best, and you are looking at one of those.
So once that bell rings, and the fans roar for action I will give these retards something to cheer for. If they wish to have violence then that is what I will offer, upon your scalp. I have concreted my name in history, and will make yet but another small chapter tonight, because the JESUS will extinguish the flame of yet another. One more man will have fallen beneath my mighty boot of righteousness, one more man will have lost the battle, and yet another wrestler will have tasted their demise thanks to Michael Mother Fucking Lively. The list is too long to name off, but down at the bottom, if you are interested to know Damian, will be your John Hancock. There on that chart, that scroll of people the JESUS has simply wiped his ass with, is where you can begin to rebuild. You can take the fact that the greatest man to ever step foot inside a ring kicked the living shit out of you and run with it.
Back on that hell hole the world knows as Long Island you might possibly be able to convince people that one sliver of my shear perfection rubbed off on you during our match. In that land of mongoloids, retards, water-heads, and all out white fucking trash that birthed the scum known as the Blackwell clan, it shouldn't take but just a tiny piece of JESUS to become king. There you can have your rule, there you can have your throne, there Damian Dimitri is where you can achieve all your dreams. Thats where your focus should be kid. You are aiming for the stars, when your potential can only let you go to the moon. Here in the Milky Way, the Galaxy of the JESUS we don't let the lame, the destitute, and the weak of heart enter. Here only the best thrive, only the best can survive, and I simply think you don't cut the mustard kid. I hold the keys to the gate, I am the one who decides where you go from here. You don't make the rules, you haven't a say in anything. This is my fucking world and from what I see, you little man should know your place. If you decide to keep pushing, then the JESUS will simply toss you back. Crawl to your feet once more, and I will crush you underneath the treads that make up my Super Kicker. I know your kind, you think you are owed the world. You look upon people like myself and wonder why it isn't you. This brings about a resentment, a rebellious attitude, and that just makes my job even more fun. I get to royally rape your fucking soul until nothing is left. I get to break you completely down leaving not an ounce of fight in your heart. Then once that moment has come around the bend, and your pain filled eyes look upon the master and ruler of the ring you will finally be put out of the misery you called upon yourself. I didn't seek you out, it was you who knocked upon my door. You who walked right in thinking you could call this place home. My job was to kindly escort you out, and show you where the low lives belong, down in the dark match section of the company.
Your fighting nature, and stupidity accompanied by this senseless arrogance is was brought about the holy wrath of the JESUS. If you had simply known your place, and hung your head on the way back to that retched hell hole where you started off we wouldn't be here right now. I must thank you for that attitude, I must thank you for putting up the fight that you have though. It sort of has made this entire thing worthwhile, made it meaningful. Hell you might of carved a niche in my memory so that when I go back over my list of victims, I might almost remember you. The poor confused soul who let a dirt bag send him into a battle with out the proper training, equipment, or protection. You my friend are just a casualty of war, and I am the Dictator who crushed you along the way.
I hope once the dust has settled, the smoke has cleared, and you muster up the strength, courage, and self respect to possibly even show your face in public, you realize it wasn't worth it. I hope you realize that when you charged the gates like your were going to knock down the entire castle with one single blow, you understand that you underestimated the strength of the fortress you tried to topple. This is Grey-Skull bitch, and I am He-Man.
I hope while you lick your wounds, your think back to before this all happened. I want you to remember the first meeting of Michael Lively and Damian Dimtiri. I want you to recall that super kick I planted on your jaw. That wasn't just me feeling disrespected by some punk bitch rookie, that wasn't me making a statement, that was me warning you of the future. Once my music plays, and you lay in fog of misery looking at me in the haze of defeat, I will simply tell you like I did once that boot layed you out, I TOLD YOU SO, BITCH!!!"
With that I simply just strike the I am JESUS pose, knowing in my mind and in my heart at that very second no matter what my opponent has to offer it won't be enough. He will either go too light, or over compensate because at the end of the day, no man is the Hottest Shit Going, except ME!
