Post by Stephen Singh on Jan 27, 2019 23:57:36 GMT -5
Jan 26, 2018
10:32 pm
New York, New York
Stephen Singh’s Condo
The WCF is back inside the confines of Stephen Singh’s minimalist condo, a familiar but not exactly welcoming abode. Singh opts out of decor in his personal space, save for a wall full of his WCF titles. It reflects well the mental state he takes as a competitor: nothing matters other than gold. The wall itself has a title mounted from each of his reigns with the dates thereof below it. Singh--unlike most other members of this tag team turdmoil--is a two-time WCF World Heavyweight Champion. Rabid, X, and Omega can all lay claim to a single reign but only Balfore and Singh have held that mantle more than once.*** In a general sense, Singh is of the same opinion as most WCFers: the World Title is the only one that matters. But in a specific sense, in the framing of this video as a promotional item for a tag team tournament Singh knows which titles are most relevant.
***I know this makes it seem like I forgot about Jayson Price but that’s because...lol, of course I forgot about Jayson Price. That guy’s half the man that half-man used to be half-the-time. GTFOH with even CONSIDERING mentioning him in regards to a World Champion.
Singh is drenched in sweat. He’d been a block away doing intensive and extensive technical mat work in preparation for Jay Omega. Singh wouldn’t announce it in so few words but he took Omega seriously. The man has all the talent in the world--or multiverse or whatever the fuck, I guess--but it’s buried under his pomp, self-importance and good, old-fashioned white-guy false exceptionalism. Still, when Omega was on, he was on. And Singh wasn’t doesn’t just want to beat him if he’s “off;” Singh wanted to beat him at the top of his robot-fucking game.
To be clear, he doesn’t want to beat him AT his robot-fucking game. That’s...that’s his thing.
But Singh stands, back to the camera, still in his wrestling boots and tights topped by a sleeveless shirt that appears to be an advertisement for a gentlemen’s club, a truly unusual choice of attire for Stephen. Upon closer inspection, the fine print can be read: “A subsidiary of PayYungAdam Inc” Back to the camera, Stephen reads from the titles most relevant for this match and for the weeks ahead.
Tag Team Champion: October 30th, 2016 to March 26th, 2017.
His first reign alongside CAPTAIN WCF, a man he neither wanted nor respected as a partner. They were never pinned for their titles; instead, Singh lost a ladder match to CAPTAIN who was then able to name a new partner. He moves to the next Tag title.
Tag Team Champion: May 7th, 2017 to July 30th, 2017.
This reign was alongside Ethan King, by choice this time. King might’ve been a more talented performer in-ring but this partnership somehow required more effort, more parts of Singh’s brain were required to coax the best from the perpetually underachieving Lionheart. These two could’ve broken every Tag Team record in the book but for both moving up at the Ultimate Showdown. Notably for Singh, to the World Title.
Tag Team Champion: June 25th, 2018 to July 30th, 2018.
This time, Singh stood alongside Michael X and again were only forced to abdicate the titles come Ultimate Showdown. Without turning back to the camera, Singh begins pontificating.
The Church of Singh...Tag Team of the Year...Hmph...A flash in the pan if I’m being honest, at least as far as the WCF is concerned. We won’t be mentioned in the same breath as the #beachkrews or the Pantheons. We’ll be relegated to the DRGs and the ZTs of The World. Financially, it was a boon of a boondoggle. That self-help shit (you know, the type of Bhagwan dreck that Jay Omega flashes at the top of his promos like the halfwit hack that he is) has people quick to turn their pockets inside out for you; couple it with a gussied up old building in one of the five boroughs and people were taking out Payday Loans to tithe to us. So it lined my pockets even if it didn’t underline my name in the history books.
Even more important than the financial boom it brought was the rise of my Dark Prophet, of Michael X finally capturing that elusive World Title; a brass ring he’d never have grabbed without me yanking his damn arm out of the socket to grab it. That’s right, I took a sociopath, a possible schizophrenic, a remorseless monster to the absolute mountain top. Through close study and carefully chosen words I was able to get the absolute MOST out of ole Mikey.
In case the subtext isn’t clear here you vapid vaginas, I’m about to fucking do it again.
Singh finally turns around to face the camera with an ear-to-earn grin.
HELLLLLOOOOO FAITHFUL STEPHENITES! I apologize for my recent absence but I promise I have not forsaken thee! Your Golden God is not dead! He was simply...on hiatus. He was simply taking a little “Him with a capital H time”. Some much needed R&R so I could get back to kicking the BS out of these FRs. (That last one stands for fucking retards in case you were wondering--and I know you were.)
So here I stand at the precipice of a tournament that will be my shortcut back to the top of this dung heap, back to the main event, back to the WORLD TITLE. It really is a beautiful little bit of symmetry here...My first World Title came at Ultimate Showdown when I turned in my absolutely untouched TAG title reign into the grandest prize of them all. And then my SECOND World Title came during a TAG match when I cashed in my Final Destination ticket. You see the poetry in motion here, Jeff Hardlies? I was fairly certain Corey Black didn’t like me but this entire set up screams “OH GOLDEN GOD, RETURN TO YOUR GLORY! GET YOUR GOLD!”
So thanks, Corey! But you know now that I’ve pointed out how absolutely obvious it is that this whole shindig is mine for the taking, you’re going to get complaints from all the midcard mulkies I’m about to massacre...SPEAKING OF THEM….
With that Singh plops himself down on the chaise portion of his grey section and turns on the television. We cut to an over the shoulder shot allowing the voracious viewing to see exactly what Singh is seeing. It’s the WCF Hardcore Title match from ONE where Kennedy Matthews successfully defended against Scott Slayer.
Kennedy Matthews, it’s unfortunate we meet like this. You see, I had enjoyed your instagram. Your visage was a welcome break from the masculine monotony of these midcard maggots. And I’d probably even have taken a run at it if you’d agreed to take an STD test first. But now that I see you bumping uglies with Jaice Wilds...Jaice Wilds?! Honey, I’m afraid you’re going to suffer from Midcardiac Arrest now. Since you let that jobber’s jizz into your jewels, you’ll never get his midcard manhood off of you. That stench of mediocrity is wafting so strong from your crotch, I’ve almost mistaken you for Doc Henry a few times. And there’s no cure for Midcardiac Arrest, Ms. Matthews. There’s no treatment. You simply have to live with the knowledge that because you chose to let Jaice stir your milk, you’ve already peaked. The Hardcore Title is the absolute apex of your time here.
Oh who am I kidding, Ms. Mathews? As soon as this girl met world, she knew she was midcard. Of course you let Milds hit it and not quit it, you were already card-condemned. Your talent had already bore out your place in the Dub: the middle. That’s all your good for: the middle. Whether it’s getting into those guts or talking about the Dub: the middle is all anybody sees for you.
We’ve already danced, Kennedy. I’ve already done the “back and to the left” thing which--I’ve got to say--is pretty inspired considering how far down I’m punching. So what now? What newness can you bring that might actually make me think you can hold a candle to my gale force winds before you crash and burn like Princess fucking Di? Except there’s no fancy queen singing for you at your funeral, no on-lookers mourning your loss. In fact, no one’s quite happy either. The overwhelming emotion that would be brought on by your early departure from this plane: complete fucking indifference. That Diana comparison isn’t bad though is it? You’ve dubbed yourself wrestling royalty, born into the upper echelons of this business. That does mean you somehow did even less than Princess Di to deserve your place in the world--at least she had to suck some inbred royal wank to get her position--but even so, if the slipper fits and all that. Let’s just go with that from now on, you’re Princess Die. As in, we all wish you would. As in, you might when you step in the ring with me. As in when you do, not a damn person will care. And as in, you’ve cast yours and rolled a 1: automatic failure.
This match at ONE...sorry, this fucking travesty at ONE is a codex for everything I need regarding you and my partner. Normally, I wouldn’t bother laying eyes on a classic Dub Sea Eff trashfire like this one but it’s important for me to know how you compete when something’s actually one the line. And it’s important for me to know just how you managed to eke out a victory against my partner. I watch this footage and see all the gaping holes in your skill set, all the flaws in what you believe to be your perfect little fight. I watch this footage and I see what I must keep Slayer from doing. How I must guide him, handle him. I see how I must shepherd him to his first real taste of success. It’s an unenviable task but I’m more than up for it.
So I set forth to slap you down because you haven’t earned your name, your contract or even that golden god damned title on your shoulder. Wolf snuck that title away from me and before I could get my rematch he was tucking tail and...well who knows what. Let’s just presume he was in a bedroom at that school for misfit fuckchops or whatever the Dean ran, sobbing underneath layers of blankets. Layers of ‘em. Anyways, the point is I’m not just going to Smite you because you have the misfortune of having your name across from mine and not just as a means to the end of getting a title shot I deserve. But I’m going to do it because you’re doing a disservice to that Hardcore Title that should belong to me. Hey Freddy Whoa, here’s a free one for after I snap this cunt’s neck on Monday: “Oh my god! He killed Kenn(ed)y!” You’re welcome.
Singh chortles slightly at his own joke before the next piece of research is cued up on his television screen. This one is the press conference Scott Slayer gave before ONE. He appears clearly deranged. Perhaps a true, actual sociopath in the vain of Oblivion or the Butcher or innumerable others. Those men were all sick but that saw some modicum of success here at the Dub.
I see this man...or perhaps this rabid, mouth-foaming beast at the podium. It’s a place...he doesn’t belong. This man belongs inside of a ring, pointed at an enemy. He needs a mouthpiece, a man in FRONT of the man. Slayer is pure id--maybe even two of them. He lacks the proper ego to get him to the top of the mountain here. Just as Michael X did before I met him. X had the same eyes-turned-black soullessness to him. He had the same mutterings to himself. And the same ability to physically decimate someone in the ring. X and I never lost the tag team titles. Because I know how to use a cocked gun. I know exactly how and exactly when to let a caged animal off its leash. I honed that skill with X and here I am again, ready to make use of it. And I already know its limitations, I see its downsides. I’ll be there to pick them up, to balance him out. I am the cerebral counterweight to his mindless marauding. Scott Slayer does not even know it yet, but--willing or not--he is my newest disciple. My newest project. The newest name that might just find itself etched into a record book thanks primarily to its proximity to ME. What experience does Matthews have tagging with an intergalactic Edgelord? And what experience does the Omaggot Man have in tagging with untalented, self-deluded twats? No, Bonnie doesn’t count. She’s got more talent in her left labia than Matthews has in her whole body. They don’t know how to get the most out of each other.
The screen changes again. This time to Hank Brown who is excitedly announcing that at least one team in the tournament has given themselves a name and an entrance. Singh smirks.
This is how you do it folks. This is how you win matches right here. Have a pithy name. Come out to the same music. You guys did it! I’m so proud of you, congratulations on your title shots of choice!
Or maybe this is classic Omega. This is all style and no substance. Jay Omega you are a feckless cunt of a man who would preoccupy himself with aesthetics over athletics. I mean, I can’t blame you. You can control your entrance, you can make that as grand and impressive as possible. But me? I control your exit. And the Greatest Show on Earth--
Jesus. Hold on. We’ve got to put the brakes on a moment. That’s the name you came up with? Which one of your Ringling retards thought that was really worth putting down on paper? A familiar phrase from the 1950s that’s synonymous with the circus? Fine, let’s go that route. You sideshow fucks wouldn’t even make it to the center ring. Who’s who here? Jay are you the bearded lady or the man on the flying trapeze? The former is more in line with some of your stranger sexual predilections but the later lines up more accurately with how you swing through here every so often for a wave, realize you’re still a shitdicked little cumrag for proper talent (READ: ME) and then you are right back out of our lives. Well whichever one you identify with, you’re not putting your head in the lion’s mouth. Except all my training is to chomp down and tear your peanut head clean the fuck off your baby shoulders. I can’t wait to be picking your CTE-ed out brain out of my teeth.
So where was I before that aside about what a terrible fucking name that is...Oh yes, you’re all style no substance. All flash, no flame. That’s why you’ve bothered to name the team at all. As the Shakespeare of Shoot, I must paraphrase for you one of my cousin William’s most famous lines:
10:32 pm
New York, New York
Stephen Singh’s Condo
The WCF is back inside the confines of Stephen Singh’s minimalist condo, a familiar but not exactly welcoming abode. Singh opts out of decor in his personal space, save for a wall full of his WCF titles. It reflects well the mental state he takes as a competitor: nothing matters other than gold. The wall itself has a title mounted from each of his reigns with the dates thereof below it. Singh--unlike most other members of this tag team turdmoil--is a two-time WCF World Heavyweight Champion. Rabid, X, and Omega can all lay claim to a single reign but only Balfore and Singh have held that mantle more than once.*** In a general sense, Singh is of the same opinion as most WCFers: the World Title is the only one that matters. But in a specific sense, in the framing of this video as a promotional item for a tag team tournament Singh knows which titles are most relevant.
***I know this makes it seem like I forgot about Jayson Price but that’s because...lol, of course I forgot about Jayson Price. That guy’s half the man that half-man used to be half-the-time. GTFOH with even CONSIDERING mentioning him in regards to a World Champion.
Singh is drenched in sweat. He’d been a block away doing intensive and extensive technical mat work in preparation for Jay Omega. Singh wouldn’t announce it in so few words but he took Omega seriously. The man has all the talent in the world--or multiverse or whatever the fuck, I guess--but it’s buried under his pomp, self-importance and good, old-fashioned white-guy false exceptionalism. Still, when Omega was on, he was on. And Singh wasn’t doesn’t just want to beat him if he’s “off;” Singh wanted to beat him at the top of his robot-fucking game.
To be clear, he doesn’t want to beat him AT his robot-fucking game. That’s...that’s his thing.
But Singh stands, back to the camera, still in his wrestling boots and tights topped by a sleeveless shirt that appears to be an advertisement for a gentlemen’s club, a truly unusual choice of attire for Stephen. Upon closer inspection, the fine print can be read: “A subsidiary of PayYungAdam Inc” Back to the camera, Stephen reads from the titles most relevant for this match and for the weeks ahead.
Tag Team Champion: October 30th, 2016 to March 26th, 2017.
His first reign alongside CAPTAIN WCF, a man he neither wanted nor respected as a partner. They were never pinned for their titles; instead, Singh lost a ladder match to CAPTAIN who was then able to name a new partner. He moves to the next Tag title.
Tag Team Champion: May 7th, 2017 to July 30th, 2017.
This reign was alongside Ethan King, by choice this time. King might’ve been a more talented performer in-ring but this partnership somehow required more effort, more parts of Singh’s brain were required to coax the best from the perpetually underachieving Lionheart. These two could’ve broken every Tag Team record in the book but for both moving up at the Ultimate Showdown. Notably for Singh, to the World Title.
Tag Team Champion: June 25th, 2018 to July 30th, 2018.
This time, Singh stood alongside Michael X and again were only forced to abdicate the titles come Ultimate Showdown. Without turning back to the camera, Singh begins pontificating.
The Church of Singh...Tag Team of the Year...Hmph...A flash in the pan if I’m being honest, at least as far as the WCF is concerned. We won’t be mentioned in the same breath as the #beachkrews or the Pantheons. We’ll be relegated to the DRGs and the ZTs of The World. Financially, it was a boon of a boondoggle. That self-help shit (you know, the type of Bhagwan dreck that Jay Omega flashes at the top of his promos like the halfwit hack that he is) has people quick to turn their pockets inside out for you; couple it with a gussied up old building in one of the five boroughs and people were taking out Payday Loans to tithe to us. So it lined my pockets even if it didn’t underline my name in the history books.
Even more important than the financial boom it brought was the rise of my Dark Prophet, of Michael X finally capturing that elusive World Title; a brass ring he’d never have grabbed without me yanking his damn arm out of the socket to grab it. That’s right, I took a sociopath, a possible schizophrenic, a remorseless monster to the absolute mountain top. Through close study and carefully chosen words I was able to get the absolute MOST out of ole Mikey.
In case the subtext isn’t clear here you vapid vaginas, I’m about to fucking do it again.
Singh finally turns around to face the camera with an ear-to-earn grin.
HELLLLLOOOOO FAITHFUL STEPHENITES! I apologize for my recent absence but I promise I have not forsaken thee! Your Golden God is not dead! He was simply...on hiatus. He was simply taking a little “Him with a capital H time”. Some much needed R&R so I could get back to kicking the BS out of these FRs. (That last one stands for fucking retards in case you were wondering--and I know you were.)
So here I stand at the precipice of a tournament that will be my shortcut back to the top of this dung heap, back to the main event, back to the WORLD TITLE. It really is a beautiful little bit of symmetry here...My first World Title came at Ultimate Showdown when I turned in my absolutely untouched TAG title reign into the grandest prize of them all. And then my SECOND World Title came during a TAG match when I cashed in my Final Destination ticket. You see the poetry in motion here, Jeff Hardlies? I was fairly certain Corey Black didn’t like me but this entire set up screams “OH GOLDEN GOD, RETURN TO YOUR GLORY! GET YOUR GOLD!”
So thanks, Corey! But you know now that I’ve pointed out how absolutely obvious it is that this whole shindig is mine for the taking, you’re going to get complaints from all the midcard mulkies I’m about to massacre...SPEAKING OF THEM….
With that Singh plops himself down on the chaise portion of his grey section and turns on the television. We cut to an over the shoulder shot allowing the voracious viewing to see exactly what Singh is seeing. It’s the WCF Hardcore Title match from ONE where Kennedy Matthews successfully defended against Scott Slayer.
Kennedy Matthews, it’s unfortunate we meet like this. You see, I had enjoyed your instagram. Your visage was a welcome break from the masculine monotony of these midcard maggots. And I’d probably even have taken a run at it if you’d agreed to take an STD test first. But now that I see you bumping uglies with Jaice Wilds...Jaice Wilds?! Honey, I’m afraid you’re going to suffer from Midcardiac Arrest now. Since you let that jobber’s jizz into your jewels, you’ll never get his midcard manhood off of you. That stench of mediocrity is wafting so strong from your crotch, I’ve almost mistaken you for Doc Henry a few times. And there’s no cure for Midcardiac Arrest, Ms. Matthews. There’s no treatment. You simply have to live with the knowledge that because you chose to let Jaice stir your milk, you’ve already peaked. The Hardcore Title is the absolute apex of your time here.
Oh who am I kidding, Ms. Mathews? As soon as this girl met world, she knew she was midcard. Of course you let Milds hit it and not quit it, you were already card-condemned. Your talent had already bore out your place in the Dub: the middle. That’s all your good for: the middle. Whether it’s getting into those guts or talking about the Dub: the middle is all anybody sees for you.
We’ve already danced, Kennedy. I’ve already done the “back and to the left” thing which--I’ve got to say--is pretty inspired considering how far down I’m punching. So what now? What newness can you bring that might actually make me think you can hold a candle to my gale force winds before you crash and burn like Princess fucking Di? Except there’s no fancy queen singing for you at your funeral, no on-lookers mourning your loss. In fact, no one’s quite happy either. The overwhelming emotion that would be brought on by your early departure from this plane: complete fucking indifference. That Diana comparison isn’t bad though is it? You’ve dubbed yourself wrestling royalty, born into the upper echelons of this business. That does mean you somehow did even less than Princess Di to deserve your place in the world--at least she had to suck some inbred royal wank to get her position--but even so, if the slipper fits and all that. Let’s just go with that from now on, you’re Princess Die. As in, we all wish you would. As in, you might when you step in the ring with me. As in when you do, not a damn person will care. And as in, you’ve cast yours and rolled a 1: automatic failure.
This match at ONE...sorry, this fucking travesty at ONE is a codex for everything I need regarding you and my partner. Normally, I wouldn’t bother laying eyes on a classic Dub Sea Eff trashfire like this one but it’s important for me to know how you compete when something’s actually one the line. And it’s important for me to know just how you managed to eke out a victory against my partner. I watch this footage and see all the gaping holes in your skill set, all the flaws in what you believe to be your perfect little fight. I watch this footage and I see what I must keep Slayer from doing. How I must guide him, handle him. I see how I must shepherd him to his first real taste of success. It’s an unenviable task but I’m more than up for it.
So I set forth to slap you down because you haven’t earned your name, your contract or even that golden god damned title on your shoulder. Wolf snuck that title away from me and before I could get my rematch he was tucking tail and...well who knows what. Let’s just presume he was in a bedroom at that school for misfit fuckchops or whatever the Dean ran, sobbing underneath layers of blankets. Layers of ‘em. Anyways, the point is I’m not just going to Smite you because you have the misfortune of having your name across from mine and not just as a means to the end of getting a title shot I deserve. But I’m going to do it because you’re doing a disservice to that Hardcore Title that should belong to me. Hey Freddy Whoa, here’s a free one for after I snap this cunt’s neck on Monday: “Oh my god! He killed Kenn(ed)y!” You’re welcome.
Singh chortles slightly at his own joke before the next piece of research is cued up on his television screen. This one is the press conference Scott Slayer gave before ONE. He appears clearly deranged. Perhaps a true, actual sociopath in the vain of Oblivion or the Butcher or innumerable others. Those men were all sick but that saw some modicum of success here at the Dub.
I see this man...or perhaps this rabid, mouth-foaming beast at the podium. It’s a place...he doesn’t belong. This man belongs inside of a ring, pointed at an enemy. He needs a mouthpiece, a man in FRONT of the man. Slayer is pure id--maybe even two of them. He lacks the proper ego to get him to the top of the mountain here. Just as Michael X did before I met him. X had the same eyes-turned-black soullessness to him. He had the same mutterings to himself. And the same ability to physically decimate someone in the ring. X and I never lost the tag team titles. Because I know how to use a cocked gun. I know exactly how and exactly when to let a caged animal off its leash. I honed that skill with X and here I am again, ready to make use of it. And I already know its limitations, I see its downsides. I’ll be there to pick them up, to balance him out. I am the cerebral counterweight to his mindless marauding. Scott Slayer does not even know it yet, but--willing or not--he is my newest disciple. My newest project. The newest name that might just find itself etched into a record book thanks primarily to its proximity to ME. What experience does Matthews have tagging with an intergalactic Edgelord? And what experience does the Omaggot Man have in tagging with untalented, self-deluded twats? No, Bonnie doesn’t count. She’s got more talent in her left labia than Matthews has in her whole body. They don’t know how to get the most out of each other.
The screen changes again. This time to Hank Brown who is excitedly announcing that at least one team in the tournament has given themselves a name and an entrance. Singh smirks.
This is how you do it folks. This is how you win matches right here. Have a pithy name. Come out to the same music. You guys did it! I’m so proud of you, congratulations on your title shots of choice!
Or maybe this is classic Omega. This is all style and no substance. Jay Omega you are a feckless cunt of a man who would preoccupy himself with aesthetics over athletics. I mean, I can’t blame you. You can control your entrance, you can make that as grand and impressive as possible. But me? I control your exit. And the Greatest Show on Earth--
Jesus. Hold on. We’ve got to put the brakes on a moment. That’s the name you came up with? Which one of your Ringling retards thought that was really worth putting down on paper? A familiar phrase from the 1950s that’s synonymous with the circus? Fine, let’s go that route. You sideshow fucks wouldn’t even make it to the center ring. Who’s who here? Jay are you the bearded lady or the man on the flying trapeze? The former is more in line with some of your stranger sexual predilections but the later lines up more accurately with how you swing through here every so often for a wave, realize you’re still a shitdicked little cumrag for proper talent (READ: ME) and then you are right back out of our lives. Well whichever one you identify with, you’re not putting your head in the lion’s mouth. Except all my training is to chomp down and tear your peanut head clean the fuck off your baby shoulders. I can’t wait to be picking your CTE-ed out brain out of my teeth.
So where was I before that aside about what a terrible fucking name that is...Oh yes, you’re all style no substance. All flash, no flame. That’s why you’ve bothered to name the team at all. As the Shakespeare of Shoot, I must paraphrase for you one of my cousin William’s most famous lines:
"What's in a name? That which we call a fuckchop
By any other name would still fucking job.”
As I was saying, Janky Omega, I understand that it’s important to you to control your entrance...because I’m the one controlling your exit. The Golden God will be ushering your swiftly and unceremoniously out of the ring and out of my fucking purview on your back. Let’s check in on my research on Jay Omega…
The television blips again this time to show not a promo by Jay nor a recent match. But instead it’s a shot of someone, from behind, of Jay’s build, wearing his stupid jacket….fucking a VCR? We can’t see exactly what’s going on but a loose belt, jeans hanging half off the hips and an all-too-aggressive thrusting motion seem to clearly indicate that this guy is fucking that VCR.
Ahh, here we are! My Jay Omega research. Now, I’m not sure which promo this is from...Just kidding, it’s obvious. Everybody knows. This isn’t from one of your promos...it’s from ALL of your promos! Boy, you really love technology. I mean REALLY love technology. Sometimes I think if you loved wrestling half as much as you loved outer space, aliens, robots, or fucking any of the aforementioned, you really could’ve been somebody around here! You could’ve been more than just another Classic Jeff Purse.
How long do you think the Dub will keep your attention this time, fuckchop? How long will you actually hang around? See, Omaggot, that’s the difference between you I. I live to wrestle. I don’t save galaxies, I don’t fuck tentacle creatures from a galaxy without any vowels in its name. You’re so busy living out playboy, scumlord, stardicked fantasies that you can’t buckle down here. Or won’t? Which is it? Are you incapable of the commitment or are you too scared? I remember hearing rumors once that you got run out of town just after one of the biggest Ws of your career. Why would that happen? How could a man who’s been across this entire gaping universe of ours and put his diseased little pecker in every black hole it could find, be run out of a WRESTLING promotion? Is it because your skin’s as thin as my patience for your awful adventures. I mean, if passion for wrestling that “burns hotter than Satan’s ballsack” I certainly wouldn’t be in and then out again like Jay Gonega. I’d stick it out. I’d take my lumps and then gear back up. Just like I have for the past three years here. Just like I’m going to continue to do.
You and Matthews belong together, Omega. You both think you love this sport, you both think you’ve bled and sweat for it. But you’re both born on third and live thinking you hit a triple. Jay Omega: he’s not here for the money, he was born into it. And he’s not here to prove himself because he’s allegedly done that. Instead, he’s here simply because he’s:
grown bored, once again, with the tedium of ruling his own private paradise
That’s what this place is to you? A lark? A distraction from your self-imposed tedium? If you’re bored then you’re boring my friend. You can’t escape the tedium because you ARE the fucking tedium. All you’re doing by coming back to the Dub is bringing it here and setting it at our feet. At my feet. You’ve been made bored and miserable by your stupid fucking face so now you’ve decided to make the rest of us bored and miserable because of your stupid fucking face.
Congrats on your win last week. Who was it against again? Oh that’s right, your putrid partner. And I do believe that earned you a Hardcore Title shot. How does that figure into this equation? Do you think she’ll really keep both eyes on the prize and not just one on you? Matthews knows she can’t beat me...so wouldn’t it make more sense for her to maybe just HAPPEN to leave you all alone in that ring with me and the psycho Slayer? Maybe we happen to crack open that thick skull of yours. Maybe we happen to injure you so badly you don’t ever get to cash in that Hardcore title shot. And by “injure you” I mean say mean words until you pout your way out of the fucking federation again. The name, the entrance, it’s all pomp and circumstance. It’s all filler, no killer. Just like you, Omega.
You don’t have the fangs to bang with guys like me, Balfore, Rabid. You’re the second tier of this tournament. You’ve got biteless bark but my verbal violence will vanquish with vitriol and venom. You think you’re a prodigal son returning home to open arms but I’m slamming the Dub’s door in your face, Omega. You’re not wanted, you’re not needed, you’re not welcome.
You speak of your Hardcore reign with such reverence, with such breathlessness that it almost had me believing--for just a nanosecond--that maybe it did matter. Maybe you did matter. Maybe you’re one of those guys who never truly ran the federation but kept such a ruthless hold on one division, you had earned respect that way. I should’ve known better. Do you know how I can tell when you’re lying about yourself? Your lips are moving. That reign was two months. TWO FREAKING MONTHS. That doesn’t warrant braggadocio; it barely warrants mention. My first WORLD TITLE reign was about that same amount of time and I don’t stand on it as a monument to my greatness here. Do you know why? Because two months is the blink of a fucking eye in a place like this. Two months is meaningless. But of course you tout it. What else would you tout? Your World Title run? I mean I guess you could...but then some asshole would point out THAT was only 14 days. 14 days. Wow. I think I’ve had leftovers that lasted longer than your World Title reign.
But here you are. Speaking like you’re one of the greats and not realizing that you’re speaking TO one of the future greats. You hear that? That’s not humility, it’s reality. I know the history here. I know how deep it runs. And I know how hard it is to be a “great” in a place like this. It takes more than half-ass, half-wit, half-time, half-effort by half-tards like you. And it’ll take more than me stomping your thick skull until my foot is covered in brains to make me a great. Wait, a quick note on this thick skull of yours that is apparently branded as an “organic helmet.” Are you fucking kidding me? God I wish you were kidding me. But that would require an inkling of self awareness. Fine, whatever. We get it. You’re super rich, you can totally travel anywhere and fuck anything, and you live in a paradise. Fucking riveting. Set all your stats to 99. Sounds like a good fucking time.
Anyways, my imminent victory this week won’t do much to make me one of the greats. But this tournament? This wouldn’t be a bad bullet point to add to my resume. The record books will read “Stephen Singh carries Scott Slayer to Tag Tourney Victory; beat forgettable space-jobber, et al en route.” And you better believe Omega, I want that accolade. I want to be mentioned in the same breath as the greats. I want the glory and the reputation. I need it. I was born in that ring and I might just die in it if I have to. It’s the only place I’ve ever been alive. But you...you’re here out of boredom? Your motivation is lacking. Your logic is faulty. And your character is flawed. On Monday, I’m going to bring you that other guardian Verez because you’re taking an L. Sharpen your zero gravity space pens, intergalactic blogosphere, the outer space obituary for Omega runs on Tuesday.
