Post by Jaice Wilds on Nov 25, 2023 16:21:45 GMT -5
The following is a letter addressed and published to the Action Wrestling website.
If it's not that insignificant pissant Joey Scala, it's the shitty excuse for Tripuran royalty, Raja. And if it's not that blubbering pile of diarrhea, it's his ball fluffers The Keer Twins. And if it's not those two specks of dog shit on an old sandal, it's the developmental anal cum baby Roman Gunn.
I didn't want all this. I just wanted to teach some glorified indie enhancement talent not to be a keyboard warrior unless he's ready to back it up. Then I'm suddenly vying for a title that I wasn't looking at, and I've got Lizardboy and Sultan Shithead trying to one-up each other at my expense. And now I got this punkass developmental talent jumping into my matches??
EVERYBODY seems to want to come for the king. Not that I can blame them; when you're the best to ever do the damn thing, you have a constant target on your back that people are aiming for. Everyone wants to prove their mettle against the best of the very best, and they'll sacrifice their firstborn for the chance to do it. I have no problem being the absolute greatest in the business, I have no issue with this target on my back. No; what my issue is is that all these little insignificant fucks are too goddamn scared to face me one-on-one. So they keep inserting themselves into business that isn't theirs to be involved in, and keep putting goddamn asterisks next to my fucking name.
I'm sick. And FUCKING. Tired. Of all these mindless PEONS inserting themselves into each other's matches, just for the sake of getting one over on me.
Roman, you pathetic sack of monkey shit. You think that because you assaulted me from behind and speared me into a slumber, that you're ready for me?? NEWS FLASH, you punk ass: YOU'RE NOT. You proved that you weren't ready for me when you hid, like a coward, until you could catch me off-guard. You proved you weren't prepared for me when you took your shot to keep me at less than my best come Turmoil. You proved that you are afraid of me when you took a cheap shot at me before I had even pieced a single sentence together about you.
Maybe you were mad, Roman. Maybe you were upset because my dance card was so full up, I wasn't even bothering to look in your direction yet. Maybe you were so irritated at just how few fucks I had to give about you… you decided to send a message. You decided you wanted to get my attention.
Congratulations, Roman Gunn.
You've got my fucking attention.
And I know what you're thinking right now, Roman. I know what's going through your mind. “I've got his full attention. I've got him focused entirely on me.” Oh, poor summer child. If only you had an inkling of a clue about what you have wrought.
This isn't your come-up story, Roman; you're not the conquering hero of this play. You're a side character, bitch. And not one of the good ones, like the comedy relief or the wise elder who helps the protagonist learn some valuable life lesson. You're the henchman in chapter 7 who gets slapped around like he owes someone money and then forgotten before you get into chapter 8. You might get some vague reference near the end of the book, but by then nobody will be able to tell you apart from the other nameless truants who were wiped out in a paragraph or less.
Roman. Allow me to explain exactly how Turmoil is going to go down. You're going to make your grand entrance, hoping and praying that I come walking in on crutches. You're going to fight for your life in the most important match of your career. And after I have beat you up, down and sideways for a while, you're going to get on your knees and beg me to end your life mercifully. And when I finally decide that your discipline has been sufficient, your dying breaths will be used to thank me for leaving just enough carcass for your family to bury.
Count the days, Roman.
Every.
Single.
Precious.
One.
That you have left.
Because when I'm done with you, boy; you're going to be buried in December and forgotten by January. And the closest your name will ever come to greatness is going to be as a footnote in my legacy.
See you at Turmoil.
If it's not that insignificant pissant Joey Scala, it's the shitty excuse for Tripuran royalty, Raja. And if it's not that blubbering pile of diarrhea, it's his ball fluffers The Keer Twins. And if it's not those two specks of dog shit on an old sandal, it's the developmental anal cum baby Roman Gunn.
I didn't want all this. I just wanted to teach some glorified indie enhancement talent not to be a keyboard warrior unless he's ready to back it up. Then I'm suddenly vying for a title that I wasn't looking at, and I've got Lizardboy and Sultan Shithead trying to one-up each other at my expense. And now I got this punkass developmental talent jumping into my matches??
EVERYBODY seems to want to come for the king. Not that I can blame them; when you're the best to ever do the damn thing, you have a constant target on your back that people are aiming for. Everyone wants to prove their mettle against the best of the very best, and they'll sacrifice their firstborn for the chance to do it. I have no problem being the absolute greatest in the business, I have no issue with this target on my back. No; what my issue is is that all these little insignificant fucks are too goddamn scared to face me one-on-one. So they keep inserting themselves into business that isn't theirs to be involved in, and keep putting goddamn asterisks next to my fucking name.
I'm sick. And FUCKING. Tired. Of all these mindless PEONS inserting themselves into each other's matches, just for the sake of getting one over on me.
Roman, you pathetic sack of monkey shit. You think that because you assaulted me from behind and speared me into a slumber, that you're ready for me?? NEWS FLASH, you punk ass: YOU'RE NOT. You proved that you weren't ready for me when you hid, like a coward, until you could catch me off-guard. You proved you weren't prepared for me when you took your shot to keep me at less than my best come Turmoil. You proved that you are afraid of me when you took a cheap shot at me before I had even pieced a single sentence together about you.
Maybe you were mad, Roman. Maybe you were upset because my dance card was so full up, I wasn't even bothering to look in your direction yet. Maybe you were so irritated at just how few fucks I had to give about you… you decided to send a message. You decided you wanted to get my attention.
Congratulations, Roman Gunn.
You've got my fucking attention.
And I know what you're thinking right now, Roman. I know what's going through your mind. “I've got his full attention. I've got him focused entirely on me.” Oh, poor summer child. If only you had an inkling of a clue about what you have wrought.
This isn't your come-up story, Roman; you're not the conquering hero of this play. You're a side character, bitch. And not one of the good ones, like the comedy relief or the wise elder who helps the protagonist learn some valuable life lesson. You're the henchman in chapter 7 who gets slapped around like he owes someone money and then forgotten before you get into chapter 8. You might get some vague reference near the end of the book, but by then nobody will be able to tell you apart from the other nameless truants who were wiped out in a paragraph or less.
Roman. Allow me to explain exactly how Turmoil is going to go down. You're going to make your grand entrance, hoping and praying that I come walking in on crutches. You're going to fight for your life in the most important match of your career. And after I have beat you up, down and sideways for a while, you're going to get on your knees and beg me to end your life mercifully. And when I finally decide that your discipline has been sufficient, your dying breaths will be used to thank me for leaving just enough carcass for your family to bury.
Count the days, Roman.
Every.
Single.
Precious.
One.
That you have left.
Because when I'm done with you, boy; you're going to be buried in December and forgotten by January. And the closest your name will ever come to greatness is going to be as a footnote in my legacy.
See you at Turmoil.