Irritated. [EoD Wk2, NPW Double-Title Match]
Sept 23, 2020 12:14:06 GMT -5
Dave D-Flipz, Oh-Oh, and 1 more like this
Post by Justin on Sept 23, 2020 12:14:06 GMT -5
Irritation.
That’s a thing we can all agree on, yeah?
Good, because I’m fuckin’ irritated.
I’ve got an entire troupe of goose-fuckin’ sycophants stalking me just because I decided to go back home to the States and work a few matches on national television. You guys wanna know why I fucked off on NPW for a while? It’s not that big of a mystery and if any of you knew how the internet worked you could have found out without putting Brainless Alex Turner P.I. on the case. Send a fucking e-mail next time, Gus, I used to pay a guy to check those for me, I’m sure he still does out of habit or loyalty or, I dunno, stupidity.
Whatever.
If I have to explain to one more person why I went to Chicago for some television exposure and a Pay-Per-View payday, I’m going to get violent, capiche?
I have two Hall of Fame rings.
I’ve won more World Titles than Gordon Carlson has years in the business.
Hell, I’ve won more World Titles than Alex Turner has won matches in SWAT.
Beating has-been locals and barely trained kids in the asshole of Canada is fun, but it pays for shit. The bullshit contract I have in Chicago might not pay much, but I can promise you I make triple in a week there what I get to defend the Canadian Commonwealth title in Butt Fuck, Nova Scotia. On top of that I gotta drive two-hundred hours through the goddamned Canadian wilderness to get out there?
No fucking wonder I don’t make every show.
It’s fucking cold.
Long story short, I got tired of Alex Turner peeping through my window in Chicago so I came back, beat the shit out of half the roster, reminded everybody why I’m the big fish around here, and then some producer has the audacity to tell me that I’ve gotta defend the belt against this Gordon Carlson kid.
In South fucking Korea.
Did I sign up to the South Korea Wrestling Federation?
No, I did the fuck not.
Here I am, though, looking forward to a twenty-plus hour flight to a third world country so I can mop the floor with Gordon Carlson on the other side of the world and nobody in civilisation is gonna give one quarter of one fuck because if they can even get a stream of the show, it’s gonna air at two-o’clock in the fuckin’ morning.
Who books this shit?
All of that is reason enough for a guy to be irritated, am I right? Yeah, no, I forgot to mention that Alex “Time for a new Gimmick” Turner has somehow weaseled his way into a Guest Referee role in the match. How did he do that, you might ask? Weeks of Batman-like detective work, culminating in turning on the television and watching me work for actual money. I’d say you’re an idiot savant, Alex, but that’d be an insult to idiots and savants everywhere.
Oh, boohoo, you tapped out to a girl.
Fuck you, buddy, I tapped out to Lindsay Troy live on Pay-Per-View last month in front of millions of people across the world and I don’t have eight pounds of sand falling out of my vagina, kid. Then again, Lindz is about 8000 times the wrestler you’ll ever be, so, there is that. But anyway, you’re the ref and I’m supposed to give a fuck why?
You gonna cost me the match?
You ain’t got the brains or the balls, kid.
That ugly slut that you run with ain’t gonna distract me, either. I’d rather cut my own dick off than come anywhere near her so understand now that if she comes within arm’s reach of me at End of Days I’m gonna slap those last three scraggly ass teeth out of her mouth on general goddamned principle.
And that brings me to you, Gordon.
You been at this what, ten years now?
Twelve?
And nobody’s ever heard of you.
You know why, Gordo?
Because you’re a boring fuck without the charisma it takes to recite the alphabet. You’ve got no drive or you’d have branched out of Canada at literally any point in the last decade. And if you think I’m impressed by the six months you did in Alabama then I don’t know what to tell you, but maybe you’re in the wrong fuckin’ line of work.
Whatever, man, bring everything you’ve got to End of Days. If you do, you might survive the ordeal with enough rub from hanging with me in the ring that you can double your booking fee when you get home. If you don’t, well, your jaw’s already borderline fucked and I’ve got a Starbreaker Knee with your fucking name on it. Which, let’s be honest here, I’m gonna cave your fuckin’ head in whether you like it or not, you’d just better hope I’m not in a foul mood from the shitty fucking flight over there that nobody fuckin’ asked if I even wanted to take.
Oh, wait, it occurs to me that you’ve got another match that night before ours.
And then you think you’re gonna have a chance in hell at taking the Canadian Commonwealth Championship from me? You better pack a lunch and bring a fuckin’ friend, son, because I may be a lot of things and I may have a reputation, but one thing that I can guarantee you is that once the bell rings and the gold is on the line…
Eric Dane is a stone cold fucking murderer.
I’m done screwing around with you people. You wanted Eric Dane back in Canada, you fuckin’ got it. I don’t wanna hear the first one of you mewling babies crying because of the way I do business. If you ain’t sure of just exactly what that means, do a Google search.
Welcome to the End of Days, boys.
That’s a thing we can all agree on, yeah?
Good, because I’m fuckin’ irritated.
I’ve got an entire troupe of goose-fuckin’ sycophants stalking me just because I decided to go back home to the States and work a few matches on national television. You guys wanna know why I fucked off on NPW for a while? It’s not that big of a mystery and if any of you knew how the internet worked you could have found out without putting Brainless Alex Turner P.I. on the case. Send a fucking e-mail next time, Gus, I used to pay a guy to check those for me, I’m sure he still does out of habit or loyalty or, I dunno, stupidity.
Whatever.
If I have to explain to one more person why I went to Chicago for some television exposure and a Pay-Per-View payday, I’m going to get violent, capiche?
I have two Hall of Fame rings.
I’ve won more World Titles than Gordon Carlson has years in the business.
Hell, I’ve won more World Titles than Alex Turner has won matches in SWAT.
Beating has-been locals and barely trained kids in the asshole of Canada is fun, but it pays for shit. The bullshit contract I have in Chicago might not pay much, but I can promise you I make triple in a week there what I get to defend the Canadian Commonwealth title in Butt Fuck, Nova Scotia. On top of that I gotta drive two-hundred hours through the goddamned Canadian wilderness to get out there?
No fucking wonder I don’t make every show.
It’s fucking cold.
Long story short, I got tired of Alex Turner peeping through my window in Chicago so I came back, beat the shit out of half the roster, reminded everybody why I’m the big fish around here, and then some producer has the audacity to tell me that I’ve gotta defend the belt against this Gordon Carlson kid.
In South fucking Korea.
Did I sign up to the South Korea Wrestling Federation?
No, I did the fuck not.
Here I am, though, looking forward to a twenty-plus hour flight to a third world country so I can mop the floor with Gordon Carlson on the other side of the world and nobody in civilisation is gonna give one quarter of one fuck because if they can even get a stream of the show, it’s gonna air at two-o’clock in the fuckin’ morning.
Who books this shit?
All of that is reason enough for a guy to be irritated, am I right? Yeah, no, I forgot to mention that Alex “Time for a new Gimmick” Turner has somehow weaseled his way into a Guest Referee role in the match. How did he do that, you might ask? Weeks of Batman-like detective work, culminating in turning on the television and watching me work for actual money. I’d say you’re an idiot savant, Alex, but that’d be an insult to idiots and savants everywhere.
Oh, boohoo, you tapped out to a girl.
Fuck you, buddy, I tapped out to Lindsay Troy live on Pay-Per-View last month in front of millions of people across the world and I don’t have eight pounds of sand falling out of my vagina, kid. Then again, Lindz is about 8000 times the wrestler you’ll ever be, so, there is that. But anyway, you’re the ref and I’m supposed to give a fuck why?
You gonna cost me the match?
You ain’t got the brains or the balls, kid.
That ugly slut that you run with ain’t gonna distract me, either. I’d rather cut my own dick off than come anywhere near her so understand now that if she comes within arm’s reach of me at End of Days I’m gonna slap those last three scraggly ass teeth out of her mouth on general goddamned principle.
And that brings me to you, Gordon.
You been at this what, ten years now?
Twelve?
And nobody’s ever heard of you.
You know why, Gordo?
Because you’re a boring fuck without the charisma it takes to recite the alphabet. You’ve got no drive or you’d have branched out of Canada at literally any point in the last decade. And if you think I’m impressed by the six months you did in Alabama then I don’t know what to tell you, but maybe you’re in the wrong fuckin’ line of work.
Whatever, man, bring everything you’ve got to End of Days. If you do, you might survive the ordeal with enough rub from hanging with me in the ring that you can double your booking fee when you get home. If you don’t, well, your jaw’s already borderline fucked and I’ve got a Starbreaker Knee with your fucking name on it. Which, let’s be honest here, I’m gonna cave your fuckin’ head in whether you like it or not, you’d just better hope I’m not in a foul mood from the shitty fucking flight over there that nobody fuckin’ asked if I even wanted to take.
Oh, wait, it occurs to me that you’ve got another match that night before ours.
And then you think you’re gonna have a chance in hell at taking the Canadian Commonwealth Championship from me? You better pack a lunch and bring a fuckin’ friend, son, because I may be a lot of things and I may have a reputation, but one thing that I can guarantee you is that once the bell rings and the gold is on the line…
Eric Dane is a stone cold fucking murderer.
I’m done screwing around with you people. You wanted Eric Dane back in Canada, you fuckin’ got it. I don’t wanna hear the first one of you mewling babies crying because of the way I do business. If you ain’t sure of just exactly what that means, do a Google search.
Welcome to the End of Days, boys.
