Post by Alexander Pasternak on Mar 18, 2018 21:31:30 GMT -5
"What's next? What's fucking next? Nothing is next. Nothing."
~ Nora Durst, Guest
The 'Rat Prince' is dead.
I've been spending the last few days, in the wake of getting pinned by D-Day, doing my absolute best to avoid this revelation like the plague. A couple parties here, a club I have no business getting into there (funny how things go when you act way more important than you actually are, eh Camilla?), but still it lingers in the back of my mind. Just waiting to consume my focus in those off moments when I afford it any bit of attention. The 'Rat Prince' couldn't steal a win from Roy Speede, and look what he's done for himself in my place. That very same 'Rat Prince' couldn't stop D-Day and now that faggot's face has invaded my dreams so thoroughly you'd think my subconscious was Normandy. Give or take a victory over the patron saint of perpetual mediocrity Spencer Adams, and it looks like I may have already peaked. I jumped the shark when I drove my boot up Alex Richards' taint.
These are the thoughts that have been swirling around my head for the past week, Doc. I'm not quite sure if anyone else you've faced has been this, direct about their insecurities, but you know the saying: honesty is the best policy. Now, from where you're sitting I'm sure your world isn't in a tailspin, even if you couldn't stop D-Day from getting the win last week. You're not having some kind of identity crisis, are you? No, you're nice and happy, lounging around with your fat fucking paycheck and the idea that maybe you're not over-the-hill yet. After all, if you were some washed up fucking hack, you'd have eaten that pin. You'd have lost in under a minute, like the literal dick-kicking I served up to Alex Richards.
You have been embarrassed, right? But you're good. You're solid fucking Teflon. You don't have to worry about the shit that's driving me up the fucking wall.
Can I tell you something, Doc? Sure, maybe I should've led with that but, better late than never right?
You fucking sicken me.
Y'know, I said Alex Richards was the most egregious case of stunt casting I've seen in professional wrestling, but fuck. Your little introduction might be the cream of the crop. The 'legend' everyone forgot triumphantly attacking the new champion from behind. And before half the fucking audience realizes just who you are, you're gone.
But, you know as well as I do, that you did more than just attack Roy Speede from behind. Nah, in doing so you called your shot man. That world title is yours, everyone else just doesn't know it yet. And you know what? It could have been fuckin' great, man. You could've gone full Babe Ruth on that shit, but you know what's holding you back? What's exposing you already?
You couldn't get the job done.
You didn't pin my ass. You didn't come in, hot and heavy, swinging dick like the man who owns this shit. That was D-Day. That was Donald fucking Deruty, pissed off after letting the opportunity to make history slip through his fingertips, resolving to not drop the ball again. Especially only one week removed from Revolution. He dropped me hard and he covered me for the three count.
Where were you?
Oh, right. You caught a kick in the teeth from the very same guy who dropped me. You were flat on your back, powerless to stop your 'deserved' victory from slipping through your fingertips. I felt the pin in slow motion, Doc. I couldn't get my shoulders up but there was some hope in my head that you'd come to your senses and prolong the match, if only long enough for you to eat the pin yourself. But you couldn't even do that.
Now the guy who couldn't beat the guy you attacked from behind has a win over you. And with the way you were out, you can't even fall back on the classic "yeah well he didn't pin me" excuse because the only reason D-Day covered me is because I was closer.
And just like that, you called your shot alright. Then you swung and fucking whiffed. Congrats, my dude. You fucking played yourself. You walked out onto a precipice too high for you to handle and then you dove right off. I hope it snapped your fucking neck. I hope this is the hill you die on, you fucking entitled swine. Given an opportunity, a main event, a contendership match in your Action Wrestling debut just because of the perceived strength of your name?
But of course, this isn't ringing in your head, is it? Realizing the ramifications of your actions hasn't caused you to lose sleep. Knowing just how badly you fucked up isn't sparking some kind of identity crisis, because you're still Teflon, aren't ya? You're still Doc fucking Henry, the something. The Confederate Champ. The 'Southern Gentleman'. It's fitting, that second moniker. Your good ol' boy southern values are about as antiquated as your fuckin' appeal at this point.
But getting your shit wrecked doesn't faze you, does it? Nah, even when you not so subtly imply you could kick the champ's ass and take his belt, only to lose to the guy who couldn't kick the champ's ass, it's all Gucci, ain't it?
This is why you sicken me. I don't hate you because you're some fucking has-been who's gallivanting back to prove he's still got it like Alex Richards. You're not some 'always the bridesmaid, never the bride' dweeb I can feel for and respect like Spencer Adams.
You're the fucking Applebee's of people. You pop up fucking everywhere and are perfectly content with just being there. For all your attempts at blowing smoke up your ass and trying to convince us all otherwise, you don't have the killer instinct. You aren't coming for the throat. You're about that instant gratification, which is why you're content to attack Roy Speede and then slowly drop out of the World Title picture without so much as even a sniff at a title match. Or maybe you'll find some way to insert yourself into the picture without having to face Speede or D-Day in a match. You're about the appearance of contendership, without putting in the fucking effort to actually be in the conversation.
And you wanna know how I know this, Doc? How I can feel so confident that I'm not just talking out of my ass or projecting anything onto you? Simple: you're still fucking talking about that one time you almost beat Torture. Didn't get far enough to actually, y'know, win the fuck match but you did kick out of a Torture's Device and that's like winning a billion world titles. Shit, and I bet you're one of those faggots who whines about participation trophies too. No self-awareness. Ain't surprising. Not by a longshot.
This is the fucking thing that puts you over the top. You lost, but you really made the other guy work for it. And that's okay with you. That doesn't eat you up inside. That doesn't do anything to you?
It's fucking pathetic is what it is.
You're supposed to be this big fucking legend, this amazing wrestler and you look at a loss to one of the greatest to ever lace up their boots and you're satisfied? It's disgusting.
But that's what you're all about, huh? A perennial second round finish, raising the fuckin' banners while the real stars actually accomplish shit of note. Shit that people won't need to be reminded of every time they reappear. But just like the disbanded country you represent, you're a fucking loser who's content to gorge yourself on past mistakes.
And here's the thing. I want to be wrong about you. I want you to bring the heat, to hit me hard, to drop me on my fucking head on your way back up the mountain. I want to see that someone out there tears themselves up as much as I do when shit doesn't go as planned. I want to be fucking validated. And I want to get dropped enough times that it won't shake me to my foundation every time it happens.
But I don't think you're gonna help me with that. So I'm gonna call my shot.
Win, lose, draw: I'm kicking you in the nuts. Because I want you to feel what Alex Richards felt when I left him unable to compete. Because I want to set a fucking precedent: nostalgia punks fuck off. I'm not here for your feel good trip down memory lane, when you were off being a real pro wrestler instead of Al fucking Bundy. This that new shit now. And respect isn't given based on who you were.
So yeah, the 'Rat Prince' is dead, baby.
Long live the Rat Prince.
And a little PS here Doc, you fucking retarded faggot: I'm Russian. What, you think Pasternak is a dago name?