Post by Graham Baker on Feb 14, 2021 19:49:45 GMT -5
So it's gonna be like that, is it?
Here I thought we were all men of our words, but if we're not gonna be, then I guess I don't have to mince them. My times with Action Wrestling were supposed to be coming to a brief closure so I could get my shit together-focus on my Japanese ventures, get the knee fixed up, get my eyes checked out and generally get some rest. Losing to ZMac and last week were two individual events that gave me a bit of introspective on my career here, and made me realize it was high time to take a bit of a break. Change the batteries and whatnot.
I had plans to be in Japan this coming Monday, but now I've got to be here, don't I?
Because I'm not letting some cum-eating fuck like Max Daemon cop a fast one on me. You hear me, Max? You were proven wrong when we faced off with ZMac, because you said you wouldn't quit. I didn't get the chance to quit, I got my ass knocked out, and even if you can consider that to be a tinge more pathetic, I can fuckin' promise you nothing looks worse than being nationally televised saying those two words. I quit. That's your legacy thus far, you fucking oxygen thief. You dropped your Pure title-y'know, the only thing you had going for you in this company-and you quit like a fucking schoolgirl. I Quit. Guess you want me to say those same two words, don't you? You want to get me in that cage and get me with one of your second-rate traps, tap my ass out, do something that no one in this company's been able to do thus far.
I told you before, Max, I don't quit. Not under normal circumstances, certainly not often, and one hundred percent not to a dead-weight second-rate competitor like yourself. People've compared us, called the two of us similar in the sense that we both have overinflated egos, and that showed by the fact that you used only a portion of these three-thousand words to jerk yourself off. I'm honestly wondering what's more impressive-the size of your testicles to do such a maneuver on a guy who's made his name off being unpredictable, or the lacking of size in your brain to think that I'd be blind or stupid enough not to respond. Luck could've been on your side here-my eyes could've skirted the internet, I could've missed a notification...but I didn't.
And now, you're fucked.
Max, the major difference between the two of us is that you think you're hot shit, but I know that I am. I'm a bigger superstar within a year than you'll ever be no matter how many years you hang around this company. That's not even counting outside of Action, even though I know that your tiny little gerbil brain can barely perceive things outside of your imminent field of view. I'm a bonafide fucking legend, and I've only been wrestling for two years professionally. I've held gold on five different continents, stormed across country after I've done more in my short period here-and, I guess, I'll not be doing anymore-than you've done in almost an equal volume of time. I made my name known. I got every person in every crowd I fought in front of behind me. You? You got lucky to beat someone like Noris Cranley, to crush some cans, and when push came to shove in the force of ZMac, you quit. I've got my doubts you'll be doing anything else, either, considering how much of your pedigree it took you to get to this point only to falter when true challenge came your way.
You suck, Daemon. From the frosted tips of your hair to your less-than-impressive physique, you fucking suck. If you'd spent more time hanging around the fuckin' gym and less around the Hot Topic trying to look like the Scene Savior, you might be more places than here. But instead, you're at the drain-catcher of the wrestling world trying to evade the next rush of water from the tap to drag you down and drown you out. I don't need ten reasons why I'm going to beat you, because trying to figure out ten would be far more exhausting than just listing the honest-to-God inevitable truth of the world, which is that I'm better than you. I'm faster and stronger than you. I've wrestled more places than you. I'd outlast you in any contest between the two of us, because you are not just bad at this, you're so much fucking worse. I can't even think of what to call you-to say you're dogshit would be an insult to the bacteria that frequents canine fecal matter. To say you're dirt would be an insult to the dirt that holds us up each and every day. I don't even want to call you nothing, because that lets you off too easily. Nothing doesn't have a choice to be bad at what it is, it simply isn't. You exist on this Earth, you are deliberately fucking alive, and you choose to be as shitty as you are.
It'd be impressive, if it wasn't so fucking sad.
The scene set before us was something that should've netted you an easy victory. The outgoing vet with the bum knee and cracked skull sends you over in a flurry of glory, you put me on my back and make me see the lights, or knock me the fuck out. It's called an accolade, to knock off one of the top young guys, to ascend to my spot, but you don't get that. The only thing you get are physical goods, like that championship that's been so easily taken from ya. Something like this, this'd be less than a story you'd tell whichever cheap hooker you pumped full of cum after the show, or whatever you pitched to the dude hooking you up with the heroin you use to keep yourself lookin' pale and gaunt. Instead, you took a low road-nah, you took the lowest road, and you tried to disrespect me. Tried to slap me across the face as I was on my way out, let the door hit me, all that nonsense.
So, instead, I've got to make an example of you. I'm going to fuck you raw. I'm not gonna spit, either. I'm gonna make you learn the consequences of your actions, the disrespect you've sent in my direction since the moment I blind-sided you and took a shot at what I'd been looking for for months. That belt, Max? I didn't really give a shit about winning it. I more cared about getting it out of your hands, because you made a mockery of it. Just like you've made a mockery of this company, a mockery of this sport, a mockery of yourself, really-all clad in leather and playing wrestler. Action thought it was clever to lock the two of us in a cage, probably figured it would be an awesome image when you climbed up to the top after your crowning moment, but instead, it's gonna be a place where you-and everyone in the back offices of this fuckin' company-learn an important lesson.
Don't piss me off.
I put this company on my back for months, carried the Cruiserweights when everyone else had made it a joke. Me, JC, QDT, we made that brand something worthwhile. Hell, look at the most recent champion before Spayde had the opportunity to take the belt back-a fucking child. When I lost match after match, being thrown against higher level talent, being shown the fire outside of the flame, I didn't back down. I persevered, I won everything I went for, month after month, I came out victorious. Belt after belt after belt, accolade after accolade, Graham Baker was Action Wrestling's everyman. The guy who people could admire if they couldn't see themselves hitting the very top of the mountain. It's fine to be passed over, though-some of the talent here are far better than me, better than i'll ever be. I can accept that. I can accept that my time here had a glass ceiling, and even if I'd already hit it, I'd enjoyed the ride. I'd felt respected by my peers, and I'd felt that they felt respected by me, for the most part. Even in the downward slope, I kept my fucking head up. I never disparaged. Never burnt that bridge.
Now, it feels a bit like it's been burnt on me. Fed to you, Max, without a concern in the world for how I'd feel about it. Not a thought to Graham Baker and what he'd done for all of this. It's alright, though. Just business. Don't bother to keep the guy who kept you warm and fed with a blanket on his back and food on his plate. Cast him out so that some mid-2000s-era edge-boi can eat.
Unfortunately, it won't end like you think it will.
Because when I walk out of that cage tomorrow night, Max, when I walk out of this company tomorrow night, Max, I won't have lost to you. I'll have beaten you within an inch of your life. I'll have broken your spine, smashed your head against the cage walls, cracked your brain open on the canvas, popped both of your fucking eyes out with my thumbs and cum deeply into your brain so that you've got a head like a fuckin' cream puff. I hope Torture, Gravedigger, Pasternak and anyone who thinks that you were the second coming of me watch what I do to you, when I brutalize you, when I beat you so badly that the words 'Max Daemon' register as a distant memory for both them and your destroyed brain. I always prided myself on not harming anyone within an irrepairable state, but I promise I'm gonna harm you. I'm gonna send you to a fucking nursing home, to be catered to, to have someone listen to your gibberish and wipe the drool from your chin and the piss from your pants when you can no longer take care of yourself. This is the future you've cosigned yourself to, because when you got into bed with The Guillotine, you had to know eventually something like this would catch you. That the morality of it all would catch up to you and leave you, dead and dying, on the ground.
It's a cold fate...but it's yours to lay in.
When I leave that cage at the end of Clash, walk out of Action, bid farewell to every single stupid fuck backstage, I'll walk out feeling like a winner, knowing I fought to the end of my energy and gave this shit all that I could. I'll toss my contract in the garbage, knowing that it's given me all that it could really give me. I'll know I've beaten you about as fairly and brutally as I possibly fucking could, all things considered. A smile on my face, I'll head to any of the other companies I've achieved super-fucking-stardom in, and continue making a career that'd make a loser like you blush.
And you? Well, after this beating, I doubt you'll be thinking much of anything. I doubt you'll be doing much of anything, short of laying in a casket or an electric wheelchair for the rest of time. But on the off chance that you do retain some level of sentience, I hope that you understand what a fucking loser you are, and exactly what you pissed away in the moment that could have made you a fucking legend.
See you soon, Max. Let's make this last date a hot one, eh?
Here I thought we were all men of our words, but if we're not gonna be, then I guess I don't have to mince them. My times with Action Wrestling were supposed to be coming to a brief closure so I could get my shit together-focus on my Japanese ventures, get the knee fixed up, get my eyes checked out and generally get some rest. Losing to ZMac and last week were two individual events that gave me a bit of introspective on my career here, and made me realize it was high time to take a bit of a break. Change the batteries and whatnot.
I had plans to be in Japan this coming Monday, but now I've got to be here, don't I?
Because I'm not letting some cum-eating fuck like Max Daemon cop a fast one on me. You hear me, Max? You were proven wrong when we faced off with ZMac, because you said you wouldn't quit. I didn't get the chance to quit, I got my ass knocked out, and even if you can consider that to be a tinge more pathetic, I can fuckin' promise you nothing looks worse than being nationally televised saying those two words. I quit. That's your legacy thus far, you fucking oxygen thief. You dropped your Pure title-y'know, the only thing you had going for you in this company-and you quit like a fucking schoolgirl. I Quit. Guess you want me to say those same two words, don't you? You want to get me in that cage and get me with one of your second-rate traps, tap my ass out, do something that no one in this company's been able to do thus far.
I told you before, Max, I don't quit. Not under normal circumstances, certainly not often, and one hundred percent not to a dead-weight second-rate competitor like yourself. People've compared us, called the two of us similar in the sense that we both have overinflated egos, and that showed by the fact that you used only a portion of these three-thousand words to jerk yourself off. I'm honestly wondering what's more impressive-the size of your testicles to do such a maneuver on a guy who's made his name off being unpredictable, or the lacking of size in your brain to think that I'd be blind or stupid enough not to respond. Luck could've been on your side here-my eyes could've skirted the internet, I could've missed a notification...but I didn't.
And now, you're fucked.
Max, the major difference between the two of us is that you think you're hot shit, but I know that I am. I'm a bigger superstar within a year than you'll ever be no matter how many years you hang around this company. That's not even counting outside of Action, even though I know that your tiny little gerbil brain can barely perceive things outside of your imminent field of view. I'm a bonafide fucking legend, and I've only been wrestling for two years professionally. I've held gold on five different continents, stormed across country after I've done more in my short period here-and, I guess, I'll not be doing anymore-than you've done in almost an equal volume of time. I made my name known. I got every person in every crowd I fought in front of behind me. You? You got lucky to beat someone like Noris Cranley, to crush some cans, and when push came to shove in the force of ZMac, you quit. I've got my doubts you'll be doing anything else, either, considering how much of your pedigree it took you to get to this point only to falter when true challenge came your way.
You suck, Daemon. From the frosted tips of your hair to your less-than-impressive physique, you fucking suck. If you'd spent more time hanging around the fuckin' gym and less around the Hot Topic trying to look like the Scene Savior, you might be more places than here. But instead, you're at the drain-catcher of the wrestling world trying to evade the next rush of water from the tap to drag you down and drown you out. I don't need ten reasons why I'm going to beat you, because trying to figure out ten would be far more exhausting than just listing the honest-to-God inevitable truth of the world, which is that I'm better than you. I'm faster and stronger than you. I've wrestled more places than you. I'd outlast you in any contest between the two of us, because you are not just bad at this, you're so much fucking worse. I can't even think of what to call you-to say you're dogshit would be an insult to the bacteria that frequents canine fecal matter. To say you're dirt would be an insult to the dirt that holds us up each and every day. I don't even want to call you nothing, because that lets you off too easily. Nothing doesn't have a choice to be bad at what it is, it simply isn't. You exist on this Earth, you are deliberately fucking alive, and you choose to be as shitty as you are.
It'd be impressive, if it wasn't so fucking sad.
The scene set before us was something that should've netted you an easy victory. The outgoing vet with the bum knee and cracked skull sends you over in a flurry of glory, you put me on my back and make me see the lights, or knock me the fuck out. It's called an accolade, to knock off one of the top young guys, to ascend to my spot, but you don't get that. The only thing you get are physical goods, like that championship that's been so easily taken from ya. Something like this, this'd be less than a story you'd tell whichever cheap hooker you pumped full of cum after the show, or whatever you pitched to the dude hooking you up with the heroin you use to keep yourself lookin' pale and gaunt. Instead, you took a low road-nah, you took the lowest road, and you tried to disrespect me. Tried to slap me across the face as I was on my way out, let the door hit me, all that nonsense.
So, instead, I've got to make an example of you. I'm going to fuck you raw. I'm not gonna spit, either. I'm gonna make you learn the consequences of your actions, the disrespect you've sent in my direction since the moment I blind-sided you and took a shot at what I'd been looking for for months. That belt, Max? I didn't really give a shit about winning it. I more cared about getting it out of your hands, because you made a mockery of it. Just like you've made a mockery of this company, a mockery of this sport, a mockery of yourself, really-all clad in leather and playing wrestler. Action thought it was clever to lock the two of us in a cage, probably figured it would be an awesome image when you climbed up to the top after your crowning moment, but instead, it's gonna be a place where you-and everyone in the back offices of this fuckin' company-learn an important lesson.
Don't piss me off.
I put this company on my back for months, carried the Cruiserweights when everyone else had made it a joke. Me, JC, QDT, we made that brand something worthwhile. Hell, look at the most recent champion before Spayde had the opportunity to take the belt back-a fucking child. When I lost match after match, being thrown against higher level talent, being shown the fire outside of the flame, I didn't back down. I persevered, I won everything I went for, month after month, I came out victorious. Belt after belt after belt, accolade after accolade, Graham Baker was Action Wrestling's everyman. The guy who people could admire if they couldn't see themselves hitting the very top of the mountain. It's fine to be passed over, though-some of the talent here are far better than me, better than i'll ever be. I can accept that. I can accept that my time here had a glass ceiling, and even if I'd already hit it, I'd enjoyed the ride. I'd felt respected by my peers, and I'd felt that they felt respected by me, for the most part. Even in the downward slope, I kept my fucking head up. I never disparaged. Never burnt that bridge.
Now, it feels a bit like it's been burnt on me. Fed to you, Max, without a concern in the world for how I'd feel about it. Not a thought to Graham Baker and what he'd done for all of this. It's alright, though. Just business. Don't bother to keep the guy who kept you warm and fed with a blanket on his back and food on his plate. Cast him out so that some mid-2000s-era edge-boi can eat.
Unfortunately, it won't end like you think it will.
Because when I walk out of that cage tomorrow night, Max, when I walk out of this company tomorrow night, Max, I won't have lost to you. I'll have beaten you within an inch of your life. I'll have broken your spine, smashed your head against the cage walls, cracked your brain open on the canvas, popped both of your fucking eyes out with my thumbs and cum deeply into your brain so that you've got a head like a fuckin' cream puff. I hope Torture, Gravedigger, Pasternak and anyone who thinks that you were the second coming of me watch what I do to you, when I brutalize you, when I beat you so badly that the words 'Max Daemon' register as a distant memory for both them and your destroyed brain. I always prided myself on not harming anyone within an irrepairable state, but I promise I'm gonna harm you. I'm gonna send you to a fucking nursing home, to be catered to, to have someone listen to your gibberish and wipe the drool from your chin and the piss from your pants when you can no longer take care of yourself. This is the future you've cosigned yourself to, because when you got into bed with The Guillotine, you had to know eventually something like this would catch you. That the morality of it all would catch up to you and leave you, dead and dying, on the ground.
It's a cold fate...but it's yours to lay in.
When I leave that cage at the end of Clash, walk out of Action, bid farewell to every single stupid fuck backstage, I'll walk out feeling like a winner, knowing I fought to the end of my energy and gave this shit all that I could. I'll toss my contract in the garbage, knowing that it's given me all that it could really give me. I'll know I've beaten you about as fairly and brutally as I possibly fucking could, all things considered. A smile on my face, I'll head to any of the other companies I've achieved super-fucking-stardom in, and continue making a career that'd make a loser like you blush.
And you? Well, after this beating, I doubt you'll be thinking much of anything. I doubt you'll be doing much of anything, short of laying in a casket or an electric wheelchair for the rest of time. But on the off chance that you do retain some level of sentience, I hope that you understand what a fucking loser you are, and exactly what you pissed away in the moment that could have made you a fucking legend.
See you soon, Max. Let's make this last date a hot one, eh?