Post by CM Poor on Feb 17, 2017 12:45:06 GMT -5
Pathetic.
Look, let's not mince words - I like to fight, alright? I think we're all bright enough to figure if that weren't the case, I probably wouldn't have stuck around as long as I already have this go around. Long and short of it? That's my business here. I'll leave all of that politickin', peacock posturin' bullsh*t to the rest of you, so long as you make good on your end to come on down to the ring and take your beatin' with a little earnest dignity.
See, I'm not much for the whole pursuit of glory. Belt finds its way around my waist? Cool. Just means I'm gettin' myself paid a fair bit more for my efforts. I mean, it's bound to happen, right? Not like a one of you has stepped up to try and knock me off in the first place. I'll be straight with you? Winnin' that much? Sh*t rails on you after a while. It's a cool like badge of honor, bein' able to be one of the few guys able walk around out back like he owns the f*ckin' place with a bit of muster to back it up, but when push comes to shove and it's time to go out and work?
It's right f*ckin' boring, man.
I think we all know as much that I ain't the guy firin' the WFWF Network between towns to study tape and sh*t. That's all safely set aside in the pile of bullsh*t I'm good and ready to do well without. Still, I'd be lyin' if I sat here and told you that I wasn't lookin' forward to this little clusterf*ck designed to finally put someone in Drakz's place worth a damn. That's the type of sh*t I figure most of you'd be foamin' at the mouth to claim for yourselves. I mean, that's the MO, right? Get the belts, grab the glory, etch your name in the bowels of history, yeah?
So where the f*ck are you?
I was really bankin' on some of you goin' right f*ckin' rabid over this sh*t. Hell, I even tuned in on night two to see which of you was gonna be the one to make a difference. Remember what your old man used to say?
I ain't mad. I'm just disappointed.
Folks'd kill to fill your shoes here, and all we've got to show three rounds in is an injured never gonna be, a former paper-champion who seems content to come on down and just take it on his back, and a handful of fossils leadin' the probable charge into the end.
If I wasn't still gettin' paid, I'd almost be embarrassed to be a part of it.
Now, I know that I all but declared victory before even settin' foot into the ring for the first go around, but really, can you blame me? I mean, you've seen the break down, right? Even if we pretend for a second that I had anyone keepin' me company in B Block worth losin' a wink of sleep over, which I don't, who'd it have been, at best?
Frank Lynn?
Josh Dean?
Thanks for the leg up, guys.
If I wasn't so content to head in and throw a couple jabs for the ever lovin' f*ck of it all, I'd almost be miffed havin' to leave the house on account of the guy whose only claim to fame is bein' handed an oversized participation trophy by the walkin' dead or the guy what couldn't even stop the train before the wheels started rollin' again. F*ckin' hell, by all rights, the latter'd even have himself an honest stab at me, and in all likelihood, he's about to hand that over to the guy who couldn't even get that job done in the first place.
What are you people even tunin' in for?
F*ck.
Is it really any wonder that someone had to come out and all but kill Isaac Cray for any of us to even land in this puddle of sh*t?
Pathetic.
-------------------------------------
I never thought I'd have opportunity to see Chris Meyer more deflated than he looked a whole two minutes before I stepped out in front of the world at SuperBrawl, havin' just laid waste to just about everyone's doubts and givin' 'em the biggest, most silent 'f*ck you' the lot of 'em had ever had driven into their chest. Look, it ain't nothin' personal - I figure as far as the quality of human association with the WFWF goes, Meyer's probably closer to the top than he is the bottom. If you asked me to hold my nose and accuse anyone among 'em of bein' as absent of agenda as can be, I probably wouldn't have that hard a time pointin' the finger at Chris. Guy's a good egg - maybe a little too much heart for 'the business', which is always gonna be a little weird to a guy who can't see much in it beyond the identity of a job, but hey, who am I to tell anyone who or what to love, right?
I ain't gonna sit here and boast proud about lettin' the guy down. I ain't gonna brand him much more'n an associate, certainly nowhere close to a friend, but I ain't gonna ever go out there and harbor any ill will toward the guy.
I just don't think he had anything left to offer me.
"Look, it's nothin' personal, man."
"No, I didn't take it as such, I just....well, I don't know, I thought you might be into the idea, David."
"Yeah...sorry to let you down, guy."
He glanced over his shoulder toward his prospective business partner, Jason Vieira, who stood behind his desk, arms crossed, shakin' his head doin' his best impersonation of a disappointed father as if that was supposed to conjure up some sort of painful recollection on my part or somethin'. Guy worked for my old man - figure he'd know better than to think I'd seen that look anywhere but the TV.
"Neither of us is going to go for broke in trying to compel you reconsider, Mr. Brennan. Just know that if you walk out that door, this offer is effectively off the table."
"Figured as much. We, uh...we done here, then?"
"That's up to you. As I recall, you called the meeting."
He had that right. Picked the venue, menu, and seating as it were, too. I had the longest haul of the three of us, Boston ain't bein' all that close to the upper coast of Maine.
I also had the only private jet of the three of us. Heh.
Thing is, I figured, me bein' me and Vieira bein' Vieira, that this sh*t wasn't gonna be anythin' comfortable, at the very least. I'd already had one too many tense business meetings goin' down in the confines of my own household, which may have been fine and dandy for a guy like ol' Jack, but if I'm honest? I was just growin' tired of all that political sh*t. There's probably an argument for me playin' the absolute fool in that respect, turnin' down the opportunity to have someone else handlin' that sh*t on my behalf, but look - I ain't gonna apologize for not placin' the trust of my ventures in the hands of a guy who'd made his bones in life by signin' of his own volition a deal with the devil of south Boston, alright? Meyer could be the patron saint of earnest and good intent for all I know, but he went and paired off on this one with one shady mother f*cker.
There ain't nothin' in that for me.
"Fair point. Alright then, boys. Stay warm, huh?"
See, that coulda been it. Have a nice day, stay warm, you two. Terse, but cordial, right?
Did I mention this mother f*cker worked for my old man?
Lemme tell you somethin' about the company Jack Brennan kept, alright? Good dudes? Y'know, your Chris Meyers and the like? They don't pal around the likes of Jack Brennan. Ain't no value in 'em, 'cause they ain't ever gonna pack the depravity needed to carry out the sort of sh*t Jacky's gonna ask of 'em.
Guys like Jason Vieira, on the other hand?
If I'd have been any slower or my traps'd been a little lower, I'd have seen that mother f*cker's lips start movin' the second I went to turn my back as he settled into that fancy, overcompensatin' chair of his.
"Well, I certainly can't say that I'm surprised."
Yeah, I know. I coulda just kept rollin', let him talk his sh*t behind the peace and comfort of walls and mileage between us.
But come on - you know me better'n that, right?
"Is what is is, Jay. Don't worry about it."
"It's just a bit typical, isn't it? I mean, you threw away your career over this venture, Chris."
Mother f*cker...
"Right, 'cause that's my f*ckin' problem..."
"Oh, you're still here? I thought we were done here."
"That right? Sounds to me like you wanna keep talkin'."
"Come on, David - let it go."
"Nah, hold up. I wanna hear more about how it's my f*ckin' fault that you up and quit over just askin' to be put with Dex or some sh*t."
"That's not what he was saying, David."
"Not specifically, no, but I can't say I'm at all surprised at your lack of guilt over the matter."
"Yeah? Figure I f*ckin' owe him one?"
"Maybe you don't. Maybe I was just under the naive impression that you were cut from a different cloth than your father."
He must be new at this sh*t.
"Jason, come on..."
"I'm sorry, Chris. I just thought David here would see the intrinsic value in publicly repairing the Brennan name. I suppose we're all at fault here."
"The f*ck's that supposed to mean, repairin' my name?"
Maybe it was the way I brought my tone down, but somethin' in those words have everyone pause to sorta catch their breath - well, at least those two. I ain't scared to tell you I was hot over this sh*t. I ain't got much patience left for people who're gonna act like they got my number down better'n I got my own.
"David, I owe a great deal of my success to your father."
"Not my problem."
"David..."
"Chris, no. He's absolutely correct. David, I don't begrudge you for the virtue of your birth. I'm not going to waste any breath trying to convince you that it hasn't distorted my preconceived perception of you, but I'm only human. The point is, I'm a firm believer in repaying my debts in life."
"No sh*t, huh? Well hey - good news. Guess you haven't heard, but the only place Jacky's holdin' court anymore' the top of Mount Cavalry. Figure it's just a couple stops on the T. Leave now, you might make it there before dark."
"I'm well aware of your father's demise, David. The point is...how can I put this...look, I never relished working for your father. You may think less of me for having done so, but that's the God's honest truth. Whatever my tone or exterior demeanor may have you think of me, I consider myself a man of great moral value, and in working off my debt to your father, I never felt properly absolved of the opportunity that had been bestowed upon me."
"Look, David. This...this was my idea, alright? I'd always seen great value in you, ever since the day you first arrived in the WFWF, and I wanted to make good on the opportunity to get you to the next precipice, because SuperBrawl? The belts you've got littering your home? That's all you, and I should have been playing a greater role in making that path easier for you, alright? I knew this tournament was coming up, and I brought in Jason. You won't find a better PR guy anywhere in the northeast, and he...well, he - "
"I saw an opportunity to give you back your name."
Jesus toe tappin' Christ.
If you'd have told me that morning that by sundown, I'd have found myself at the behest of two sorry mother f*ckers tryin' to correct the imbalance in their lives on the back of my reputation, I'd have just about drowned you in the harbor out of mercy.
"What's this preoccupation with my f*ckin' name?"
"You're serious?"
Stupid f*ckin' question.
"David, I don't know what lengths you went to disassociate yourself from your father, but it was plainly enough to deny you the realization that no matter where you go in this world, no
matter how far outside of Boston you venture, your name and degree of recognition will always draw anyone who's ever turned on the six o'clock news back to your father. He's as synonymous with reprehensibility as James Bulger or John Gotti. As long as you have an avenue to speak and act without guidance, you will, willingly or otherwise, spend every day further and further cementing a reputation as the plain as day son of the devil himself."
"And you think I'm concerned what some f*ckin' dolt on the street thinks of my name?"
"We wouldn't be so naive."
"The problem is, David, there's always been at least a half decent chance you take this tournament to the very top."
"There's a great chance that the suits in LA - this new ownership - may see a perceived decline in marketability over their next top star having that sort of built in reputation."
Mother of the Christ child, where have I heard this spiel before?
"This is insane."
"It's worth a look, David."
"No, it's bat sh*t insane. Your entire thesis is based on the notion that the same f*ckin' number that boasted the likes of Obo the Hobo, Mike Kyzer, and Trace f*ckin' Demon is gonna suddenly have a problem with a guy like me."
"Things have changed, David!"
"We don't know who's calling the shots at this point."
"I am."
I believe I was on my way out?
"And you two are f*ckin' done."
-------------------------------------
I'm gonna do you a solid, Dex.
Now, before you go gettin' yourself all worked up, try and settle down - you can have any one of my belts here just as soon as you take 'em from me the old fashioned way. This ain't that kinda favor. Good news is, we're talkin' along those same lines, kinda.
Sorta.
Same neighborhood, anyway.
See, I dunno if you've been payin' attention or not, but uh....this is kinda it, bud. End of the line, as it were. You get the jump on me here, and you might be able to dangle along for a little while longer, but you come on out and perform the way you have to date? Gig's up, man. I can't, for the life of me, picture too many more stabs at reclaimin' your once ill gotten glory if you manage to treat this one the same way you've come at just about every last moment in the sun you've managed to get yourself since the day ol' Shawn took a giant steamin' dump on that belt everyone's all in a huff over. In that respect, I guess if you're into coddlin' the feelings of others and such, it's kinda not fair, your last big to do bein' subject to a victory over yours truly, I mean, 'cause, well...
...y'know.
I'm gettin' sidetracked here, though.
See, my old man, I try to not take too many pages out of his book. He was a nasty sort, which might, in a way, explain me, but I'd prefer to argue that point, seein' as...anyway...to watch him work, man, he used to try and convince the folks he was about to f*ck good and irreparably that there was some silver linin' to it all. Real vile sh*t, usually - some kid's mother'd be able to find a better father figure for their kids to replace their old man about to get whacked, sh*t like that. Kinda cruel, really, but the idea, in essence, probably wasn't all that bad. Like anything, it's probably all in the execution.
No pun intended.
Let's face it - we all know how this ends, right? I mean, c'mon - we're all bright enough here. Once upon a time, I'd probably relish the fact that I was gonna be the one to put a stop to this silly little dream of yours. After all, it was born of some real howdy-doody sh*t, big ol' feel good moment to send your buddy Shawn out into the ether and cement his...I'm getting sidetracked here. Point is, that's not my game here. I haven't put too much stock in this whole to-do here, namely on the back of the fact that I figure I've got this all but locked up, and the rest of you? Eh. You're not givin' us much to go on, right?
Still, if you've gotta do down with less than so much as even a whimper, at least get somethin' for your troubles, right?
Here's what I've got for you.
I'm guessin' - and this is just conjecture here, but I think it's pretty spot on - that by the time all this is said and done, you'll have finally shed that terrible stench of sick that Shawn left trailin' you when he draped that belt there over your shoulder and somehow decided that made you the champion. Isn't that somethin'?
Now, it ain't gonna be on account of you makin' a difference one way or the other in the Grand Supreme Clusterf*ck. That ship has sailed, and sad to say, you missed the boardin' by a long shot. Tough break. But think on it a bit, Dex. Your entire reputation - every nasty piece of slander that's ever been associated with your name: fraud, fake, phony, paper champion, golden boy, bag of d*cks, piece of sh*t....I may have taken some liberties there...nah, but every last sort of stench left over from your "reign" as WFWF champion, washed away in an instant. That's not a bad consolation prize for the loss, now is it?
See, I think we all know how the rest of this plays out. You? On your back. Whitner? On his back. That's a perfect score for me right there, leavin' me with whoever your odds on pick is between the Demon and the pompous Brit. By the time all that's said and done, I'll have etched such a mark on the history books, so devastatingly bold and upfront, that that whole business about you and Shawn and the title and how you couldn't even swing an honest defense even once?
Footnotes, man.
That's a win in my book, in more ways then one.
From there? Hell, sky's the limit, right? Fade back into relative obscurity, run up a gauntlet of losses to rival the combined efforts of the child of Wolves, Lincoln Dina, and Andrew Carter combined. Hell, find yourself a new mask and hope no one realizes that the newest hood in the WFWF is as ineffective and impactless as that boy Dex what used to run around once upon a time.
Me?
I'll give the world what you couldn't.
A champion who earned the belt.
A champion who can defend the belt, tooth and nail.
A champion worth puttin' on the show poster or the cereal box or wherever the f*ck else your ugly mug landed during your little charade at the top.
When all that's said and done, you won't ever have to lose another wink of sleep wonderin' what it is the world is sayin' about you now. The only time your name'll find its way back into their mouths is when they stumble upon it down the bottom of the margins of the history books somewhere, and they wonder aloud to themselves...
"Dex who?"
Look, let's not mince words - I like to fight, alright? I think we're all bright enough to figure if that weren't the case, I probably wouldn't have stuck around as long as I already have this go around. Long and short of it? That's my business here. I'll leave all of that politickin', peacock posturin' bullsh*t to the rest of you, so long as you make good on your end to come on down to the ring and take your beatin' with a little earnest dignity.
See, I'm not much for the whole pursuit of glory. Belt finds its way around my waist? Cool. Just means I'm gettin' myself paid a fair bit more for my efforts. I mean, it's bound to happen, right? Not like a one of you has stepped up to try and knock me off in the first place. I'll be straight with you? Winnin' that much? Sh*t rails on you after a while. It's a cool like badge of honor, bein' able to be one of the few guys able walk around out back like he owns the f*ckin' place with a bit of muster to back it up, but when push comes to shove and it's time to go out and work?
It's right f*ckin' boring, man.
I think we all know as much that I ain't the guy firin' the WFWF Network between towns to study tape and sh*t. That's all safely set aside in the pile of bullsh*t I'm good and ready to do well without. Still, I'd be lyin' if I sat here and told you that I wasn't lookin' forward to this little clusterf*ck designed to finally put someone in Drakz's place worth a damn. That's the type of sh*t I figure most of you'd be foamin' at the mouth to claim for yourselves. I mean, that's the MO, right? Get the belts, grab the glory, etch your name in the bowels of history, yeah?
So where the f*ck are you?
I was really bankin' on some of you goin' right f*ckin' rabid over this sh*t. Hell, I even tuned in on night two to see which of you was gonna be the one to make a difference. Remember what your old man used to say?
I ain't mad. I'm just disappointed.
Folks'd kill to fill your shoes here, and all we've got to show three rounds in is an injured never gonna be, a former paper-champion who seems content to come on down and just take it on his back, and a handful of fossils leadin' the probable charge into the end.
If I wasn't still gettin' paid, I'd almost be embarrassed to be a part of it.
Now, I know that I all but declared victory before even settin' foot into the ring for the first go around, but really, can you blame me? I mean, you've seen the break down, right? Even if we pretend for a second that I had anyone keepin' me company in B Block worth losin' a wink of sleep over, which I don't, who'd it have been, at best?
Frank Lynn?
Josh Dean?
Thanks for the leg up, guys.
If I wasn't so content to head in and throw a couple jabs for the ever lovin' f*ck of it all, I'd almost be miffed havin' to leave the house on account of the guy whose only claim to fame is bein' handed an oversized participation trophy by the walkin' dead or the guy what couldn't even stop the train before the wheels started rollin' again. F*ckin' hell, by all rights, the latter'd even have himself an honest stab at me, and in all likelihood, he's about to hand that over to the guy who couldn't even get that job done in the first place.
What are you people even tunin' in for?
F*ck.
Is it really any wonder that someone had to come out and all but kill Isaac Cray for any of us to even land in this puddle of sh*t?
Pathetic.
-------------------------------------
I never thought I'd have opportunity to see Chris Meyer more deflated than he looked a whole two minutes before I stepped out in front of the world at SuperBrawl, havin' just laid waste to just about everyone's doubts and givin' 'em the biggest, most silent 'f*ck you' the lot of 'em had ever had driven into their chest. Look, it ain't nothin' personal - I figure as far as the quality of human association with the WFWF goes, Meyer's probably closer to the top than he is the bottom. If you asked me to hold my nose and accuse anyone among 'em of bein' as absent of agenda as can be, I probably wouldn't have that hard a time pointin' the finger at Chris. Guy's a good egg - maybe a little too much heart for 'the business', which is always gonna be a little weird to a guy who can't see much in it beyond the identity of a job, but hey, who am I to tell anyone who or what to love, right?
I ain't gonna sit here and boast proud about lettin' the guy down. I ain't gonna brand him much more'n an associate, certainly nowhere close to a friend, but I ain't gonna ever go out there and harbor any ill will toward the guy.
I just don't think he had anything left to offer me.
"Look, it's nothin' personal, man."
"No, I didn't take it as such, I just....well, I don't know, I thought you might be into the idea, David."
"Yeah...sorry to let you down, guy."
He glanced over his shoulder toward his prospective business partner, Jason Vieira, who stood behind his desk, arms crossed, shakin' his head doin' his best impersonation of a disappointed father as if that was supposed to conjure up some sort of painful recollection on my part or somethin'. Guy worked for my old man - figure he'd know better than to think I'd seen that look anywhere but the TV.
"Neither of us is going to go for broke in trying to compel you reconsider, Mr. Brennan. Just know that if you walk out that door, this offer is effectively off the table."
"Figured as much. We, uh...we done here, then?"
"That's up to you. As I recall, you called the meeting."
He had that right. Picked the venue, menu, and seating as it were, too. I had the longest haul of the three of us, Boston ain't bein' all that close to the upper coast of Maine.
I also had the only private jet of the three of us. Heh.
Thing is, I figured, me bein' me and Vieira bein' Vieira, that this sh*t wasn't gonna be anythin' comfortable, at the very least. I'd already had one too many tense business meetings goin' down in the confines of my own household, which may have been fine and dandy for a guy like ol' Jack, but if I'm honest? I was just growin' tired of all that political sh*t. There's probably an argument for me playin' the absolute fool in that respect, turnin' down the opportunity to have someone else handlin' that sh*t on my behalf, but look - I ain't gonna apologize for not placin' the trust of my ventures in the hands of a guy who'd made his bones in life by signin' of his own volition a deal with the devil of south Boston, alright? Meyer could be the patron saint of earnest and good intent for all I know, but he went and paired off on this one with one shady mother f*cker.
There ain't nothin' in that for me.
"Fair point. Alright then, boys. Stay warm, huh?"
See, that coulda been it. Have a nice day, stay warm, you two. Terse, but cordial, right?
Did I mention this mother f*cker worked for my old man?
Lemme tell you somethin' about the company Jack Brennan kept, alright? Good dudes? Y'know, your Chris Meyers and the like? They don't pal around the likes of Jack Brennan. Ain't no value in 'em, 'cause they ain't ever gonna pack the depravity needed to carry out the sort of sh*t Jacky's gonna ask of 'em.
Guys like Jason Vieira, on the other hand?
If I'd have been any slower or my traps'd been a little lower, I'd have seen that mother f*cker's lips start movin' the second I went to turn my back as he settled into that fancy, overcompensatin' chair of his.
"Well, I certainly can't say that I'm surprised."
Yeah, I know. I coulda just kept rollin', let him talk his sh*t behind the peace and comfort of walls and mileage between us.
But come on - you know me better'n that, right?
"Is what is is, Jay. Don't worry about it."
"It's just a bit typical, isn't it? I mean, you threw away your career over this venture, Chris."
Mother f*cker...
"Right, 'cause that's my f*ckin' problem..."
"Oh, you're still here? I thought we were done here."
"That right? Sounds to me like you wanna keep talkin'."
"Come on, David - let it go."
"Nah, hold up. I wanna hear more about how it's my f*ckin' fault that you up and quit over just askin' to be put with Dex or some sh*t."
"That's not what he was saying, David."
"Not specifically, no, but I can't say I'm at all surprised at your lack of guilt over the matter."
"Yeah? Figure I f*ckin' owe him one?"
"Maybe you don't. Maybe I was just under the naive impression that you were cut from a different cloth than your father."
He must be new at this sh*t.
"Jason, come on..."
"I'm sorry, Chris. I just thought David here would see the intrinsic value in publicly repairing the Brennan name. I suppose we're all at fault here."
"The f*ck's that supposed to mean, repairin' my name?"
Maybe it was the way I brought my tone down, but somethin' in those words have everyone pause to sorta catch their breath - well, at least those two. I ain't scared to tell you I was hot over this sh*t. I ain't got much patience left for people who're gonna act like they got my number down better'n I got my own.
"David, I owe a great deal of my success to your father."
"Not my problem."
"David..."
"Chris, no. He's absolutely correct. David, I don't begrudge you for the virtue of your birth. I'm not going to waste any breath trying to convince you that it hasn't distorted my preconceived perception of you, but I'm only human. The point is, I'm a firm believer in repaying my debts in life."
"No sh*t, huh? Well hey - good news. Guess you haven't heard, but the only place Jacky's holdin' court anymore' the top of Mount Cavalry. Figure it's just a couple stops on the T. Leave now, you might make it there before dark."
"I'm well aware of your father's demise, David. The point is...how can I put this...look, I never relished working for your father. You may think less of me for having done so, but that's the God's honest truth. Whatever my tone or exterior demeanor may have you think of me, I consider myself a man of great moral value, and in working off my debt to your father, I never felt properly absolved of the opportunity that had been bestowed upon me."
"Look, David. This...this was my idea, alright? I'd always seen great value in you, ever since the day you first arrived in the WFWF, and I wanted to make good on the opportunity to get you to the next precipice, because SuperBrawl? The belts you've got littering your home? That's all you, and I should have been playing a greater role in making that path easier for you, alright? I knew this tournament was coming up, and I brought in Jason. You won't find a better PR guy anywhere in the northeast, and he...well, he - "
"I saw an opportunity to give you back your name."
Jesus toe tappin' Christ.
If you'd have told me that morning that by sundown, I'd have found myself at the behest of two sorry mother f*ckers tryin' to correct the imbalance in their lives on the back of my reputation, I'd have just about drowned you in the harbor out of mercy.
"What's this preoccupation with my f*ckin' name?"
"You're serious?"
Stupid f*ckin' question.
"David, I don't know what lengths you went to disassociate yourself from your father, but it was plainly enough to deny you the realization that no matter where you go in this world, no
matter how far outside of Boston you venture, your name and degree of recognition will always draw anyone who's ever turned on the six o'clock news back to your father. He's as synonymous with reprehensibility as James Bulger or John Gotti. As long as you have an avenue to speak and act without guidance, you will, willingly or otherwise, spend every day further and further cementing a reputation as the plain as day son of the devil himself."
"And you think I'm concerned what some f*ckin' dolt on the street thinks of my name?"
"We wouldn't be so naive."
"The problem is, David, there's always been at least a half decent chance you take this tournament to the very top."
"There's a great chance that the suits in LA - this new ownership - may see a perceived decline in marketability over their next top star having that sort of built in reputation."
Mother of the Christ child, where have I heard this spiel before?
"This is insane."
"It's worth a look, David."
"No, it's bat sh*t insane. Your entire thesis is based on the notion that the same f*ckin' number that boasted the likes of Obo the Hobo, Mike Kyzer, and Trace f*ckin' Demon is gonna suddenly have a problem with a guy like me."
"Things have changed, David!"
"We don't know who's calling the shots at this point."
"I am."
I believe I was on my way out?
"And you two are f*ckin' done."
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I'm gonna do you a solid, Dex.
Now, before you go gettin' yourself all worked up, try and settle down - you can have any one of my belts here just as soon as you take 'em from me the old fashioned way. This ain't that kinda favor. Good news is, we're talkin' along those same lines, kinda.
Sorta.
Same neighborhood, anyway.
See, I dunno if you've been payin' attention or not, but uh....this is kinda it, bud. End of the line, as it were. You get the jump on me here, and you might be able to dangle along for a little while longer, but you come on out and perform the way you have to date? Gig's up, man. I can't, for the life of me, picture too many more stabs at reclaimin' your once ill gotten glory if you manage to treat this one the same way you've come at just about every last moment in the sun you've managed to get yourself since the day ol' Shawn took a giant steamin' dump on that belt everyone's all in a huff over. In that respect, I guess if you're into coddlin' the feelings of others and such, it's kinda not fair, your last big to do bein' subject to a victory over yours truly, I mean, 'cause, well...
...y'know.
I'm gettin' sidetracked here, though.
See, my old man, I try to not take too many pages out of his book. He was a nasty sort, which might, in a way, explain me, but I'd prefer to argue that point, seein' as...anyway...to watch him work, man, he used to try and convince the folks he was about to f*ck good and irreparably that there was some silver linin' to it all. Real vile sh*t, usually - some kid's mother'd be able to find a better father figure for their kids to replace their old man about to get whacked, sh*t like that. Kinda cruel, really, but the idea, in essence, probably wasn't all that bad. Like anything, it's probably all in the execution.
No pun intended.
Let's face it - we all know how this ends, right? I mean, c'mon - we're all bright enough here. Once upon a time, I'd probably relish the fact that I was gonna be the one to put a stop to this silly little dream of yours. After all, it was born of some real howdy-doody sh*t, big ol' feel good moment to send your buddy Shawn out into the ether and cement his...I'm getting sidetracked here. Point is, that's not my game here. I haven't put too much stock in this whole to-do here, namely on the back of the fact that I figure I've got this all but locked up, and the rest of you? Eh. You're not givin' us much to go on, right?
Still, if you've gotta do down with less than so much as even a whimper, at least get somethin' for your troubles, right?
Here's what I've got for you.
I'm guessin' - and this is just conjecture here, but I think it's pretty spot on - that by the time all this is said and done, you'll have finally shed that terrible stench of sick that Shawn left trailin' you when he draped that belt there over your shoulder and somehow decided that made you the champion. Isn't that somethin'?
Now, it ain't gonna be on account of you makin' a difference one way or the other in the Grand Supreme Clusterf*ck. That ship has sailed, and sad to say, you missed the boardin' by a long shot. Tough break. But think on it a bit, Dex. Your entire reputation - every nasty piece of slander that's ever been associated with your name: fraud, fake, phony, paper champion, golden boy, bag of d*cks, piece of sh*t....I may have taken some liberties there...nah, but every last sort of stench left over from your "reign" as WFWF champion, washed away in an instant. That's not a bad consolation prize for the loss, now is it?
See, I think we all know how the rest of this plays out. You? On your back. Whitner? On his back. That's a perfect score for me right there, leavin' me with whoever your odds on pick is between the Demon and the pompous Brit. By the time all that's said and done, I'll have etched such a mark on the history books, so devastatingly bold and upfront, that that whole business about you and Shawn and the title and how you couldn't even swing an honest defense even once?
Footnotes, man.
That's a win in my book, in more ways then one.
From there? Hell, sky's the limit, right? Fade back into relative obscurity, run up a gauntlet of losses to rival the combined efforts of the child of Wolves, Lincoln Dina, and Andrew Carter combined. Hell, find yourself a new mask and hope no one realizes that the newest hood in the WFWF is as ineffective and impactless as that boy Dex what used to run around once upon a time.
Me?
I'll give the world what you couldn't.
A champion who earned the belt.
A champion who can defend the belt, tooth and nail.
A champion worth puttin' on the show poster or the cereal box or wherever the f*ck else your ugly mug landed during your little charade at the top.
When all that's said and done, you won't ever have to lose another wink of sleep wonderin' what it is the world is sayin' about you now. The only time your name'll find its way back into their mouths is when they stumble upon it down the bottom of the margins of the history books somewhere, and they wonder aloud to themselves...
"Dex who?"
I dont know good luck 
