Post by Jim Mud on Jan 17, 2021 18:09:27 GMT -5
This is not a feud, far from it.
Jim: Make no mistake, I don’t give enough of a shit about you to make it one and you don’t have the dick to make it so yourself. I’m sure I’ve gotten under your skin enough for you to try to spin it that way, but you’re about to be disappointed. What you find yourself takin’ part in right now is a filler episode of The Jim Mud Show. This is another Sunday for me. While wrestling serves as the religion, leavin’ you special ed adjacent is the sermon whose bulk run time I find myself snoozin’ through.
The one upside with all of this is that you get the Jim Mud version of an autograph. Without me turnin’ your head into a birdhouse, you’d be nothin’ more than Sam’s Club Shadowlove. Now though, you have the honor of servin’ as feeder talent for The Butcher on the Border to pick apart like meat from a chicken wing. You don’t have to just be some guy now, you get to be that guy that I hurt really, really fuckin’ bad. Now, you find yourself on a highlight reel for the first time ever and I expect you to show gratitude towards the man who has kept a solid quarter million viewers from changing the channel on your ass.
You want this next platform and you want it real bad, but you know it’s outta reach. Normally, you’d jump up and try to grab hold of this moment. The co-main on a card named after some motherfucker that ain’t either one of us, that should feel like opportunity for ya, Sol-dad...but it ain’t. I know that your heart wants to sprint forward until you end up runnin’ right through me, but you’re about to limp to that ring instead and stumble right back out it like a hobbled toddler. Last week, I hurt you and this week I fuckin’ break you.
Once again, this ain’t a feud. I don’t have those. This ain’t a wrestlin’ match, ‘cause I don’t have those neither. Just like every other try hard goober in that locker room, you care. You have a rule book that you like to live by. It’s important to you and that’s why I’m goin’ to take a zippo to it and leave you to sift through the ash that replaces its pages. To you, this is personal and to me...it’s a pit stop on my way to the night that is goin’ to change the landscape of the business for years to come.
What I do have is fights with no boundaries, because boundaries were made by men who are never goin’ to contain Jim Mud. This match will still define the event itself, but only because those watchin’ will feel wrong about continuing on. To many, indulgin’ themselves as spectators ain’t gonna feel right after servin’ as witness to homicide. They’re about to feel bad, you’re about to feel bad..Deruty is about to feel fuckin’ terrible about settin’ you up for this…’cause let’s be honest…
Jim: You are a message, Soldado. The misery and trauma that you’re about to endure..it’s only the prologue for what I’m goin’ to do to him.
The familiar voice of Jim Mud can be heard from echoing through the inside of the arena. The camera pans down and ahead in a shot similar to “that tree scene” shit from Evil Dead. Jim’s back remains turned on the camera while he looks up at the titantron in front of him, his right hand conducting a replay of last week. The speakers boom as a cinder block is cracked over Soldado Fortuna’s head.
Jim: Make no mistake, I don’t give enough of a shit about you to make it one and you don’t have the dick to make it so yourself. I’m sure I’ve gotten under your skin enough for you to try to spin it that way, but you’re about to be disappointed. What you find yourself takin’ part in right now is a filler episode of The Jim Mud Show. This is another Sunday for me. While wrestling serves as the religion, leavin’ you special ed adjacent is the sermon whose bulk run time I find myself snoozin’ through.
The one upside with all of this is that you get the Jim Mud version of an autograph. Without me turnin’ your head into a birdhouse, you’d be nothin’ more than Sam’s Club Shadowlove. Now though, you have the honor of servin’ as feeder talent for The Butcher on the Border to pick apart like meat from a chicken wing. You don’t have to just be some guy now, you get to be that guy that I hurt really, really fuckin’ bad. Now, you find yourself on a highlight reel for the first time ever and I expect you to show gratitude towards the man who has kept a solid quarter million viewers from changing the channel on your ass.
You want this next platform and you want it real bad, but you know it’s outta reach. Normally, you’d jump up and try to grab hold of this moment. The co-main on a card named after some motherfucker that ain’t either one of us, that should feel like opportunity for ya, Sol-dad...but it ain’t. I know that your heart wants to sprint forward until you end up runnin’ right through me, but you’re about to limp to that ring instead and stumble right back out it like a hobbled toddler. Last week, I hurt you and this week I fuckin’ break you.
Once again, this ain’t a feud. I don’t have those. This ain’t a wrestlin’ match, ‘cause I don’t have those neither. Just like every other try hard goober in that locker room, you care. You have a rule book that you like to live by. It’s important to you and that’s why I’m goin’ to take a zippo to it and leave you to sift through the ash that replaces its pages. To you, this is personal and to me...it’s a pit stop on my way to the night that is goin’ to change the landscape of the business for years to come.
What I do have is fights with no boundaries, because boundaries were made by men who are never goin’ to contain Jim Mud. This match will still define the event itself, but only because those watchin’ will feel wrong about continuing on. To many, indulgin’ themselves as spectators ain’t gonna feel right after servin’ as witness to homicide. They’re about to feel bad, you’re about to feel bad..Deruty is about to feel fuckin’ terrible about settin’ you up for this…’cause let’s be honest…
The screen shifts to what appears to be a live feed of the inside of Donald Deruty’s office where the CruiserClash GM is busy hammering through stacks of paperwork, completely oblivious to the spectator outside of his work space.