Pawns & Distractions

Pawns & Distractions



Opportunity Cost



Not so fast, Ante.

You didn't think that was actually gonna slip by me, did you?

C'mon - you're smarter than that.

Least you claim to be.

Third time's a charm, right? Isn't that how it's supposed to go? Guy lays you out on your ass two ways runnin' then you finally muster up the balls to show 'em which way's up when the bell sounds round three?

You and me?

We've got unfinished business, Ante.

I dunno if you're the type that's into markin' up your body the way I have over the years. I ain't never really bothered to pay it much mind. Either way, if that's the case, you might wanna go back to Yonkers or whatever backwards ass town it is you put all your beamin' pride in and have a word with whoever it is may have done your back piece, kid, 'cause I dunno what it is you might've actually asked for, but you must've skipped the mirror on your way out. Otherwise, I think you'd know by now.

You got yourself a target on your back.

That's bum luck, kid - 'specially on the back of a f*ckin' non-title like the one you're apparently still allowed to carry around. Guess maybe I shouldn't talk. Still - everyone beneath you's got their eyes firmly fixated on that there subway token to the top you've got your mitts on, not that any one of 'em make much more of it than you have, thus far. I figure you know well enough already that my eyes are firmly supplanted in the back of my head, what with me carryin' around exactly what it is you want, and your propensity for tryin' to take it from behind.

And sh*t - for some reason, you've even gone and tickled the fancy of ol' Obo the Hobo himself, Uncle Phil Schneider.

You're a popular guy, Ante.

That your game?

I mean, it seems sound enough, right? You sit your ass in a hospital bed for Christ knows however f*ckin' long it takes, figure you can keep my boy Isaac company for a while. Sit back, get yourself good and rested, least long enough for someone older, slower, well ahead of ol' David Brennan in the race we've all begun to see who can get past our respective primes first, and so god damn washed up he smells of freshly laundered towels like...oh, I dunno...Phillip Schneider to try and take your end prize off a guy you've twice proven you've got no skin in the game against, and then come on back when you're good and ready to try and make a f*ckin' name for yourself again.

See, I just can't let that happen.

Not to discount the obvious, but right off the bat, I ain't plannin' on lettin' your little sociopathic fan club walk outta that arena with my title. I dunno what the f*ck the hold up is, but if your money's been bet on the odds that you'll be able to find yourself a bit of an easier path back to relevance by circumventin' the inevitable of havin' to eat another loss off the bottom side of one of my size thirteens, then I pray for your sake that bettin' ain't a hobby your lookin' to run with anytime soon, 'cause your chips are all but cashed in on you on that one. See, you bought in on this deal right from the start there, son. You figured, all those months back, that if ol' David Brennan was gonna walk in and take a giant leak all over someone else's hopes and dreams, then you might as well find yourself a bit of relief too. Sh*t, I'd have probably welcomed you along all the same if you'd have had the stones to face me up front, but that **** footin' sh*t you pulled, tossin' my ass off the stage like you had yourself a spotlight to fill?

Heh, thought I forgot about that sh*t huh?

Then and there, Ante? You signed a f*ckin' warrant, tellin' the world at large that your dumb as f*ck ass had a bit more to learn about where you stand in the peckin' order. Ever since I offered the world the courtesy of comin' back here to beat the sh*t out of Yonkers f*ckin' rejects like yourself for their entertainment, you've been stickin' your foot in my way, tryin' to insert yourself into the narrative like you've got a f*ckin' candle to hold.

Most guys in your situation would've taken a f*ckin' hint by now, but you're still here, bidin' your time, duckin' and weavin', hopin' on a prayer spoken to a two-bit has been that you'll be able to get back into the graces of the world by somehow skippin' out on what's happened time and time again.

Schneider? Oh, he'll make you famous kid. Not the way you're thinkin' necessarily, but if you're still buyin' that sh*t you're sellin' yourself, then we're gonna have to get a f*ck ton more remedial here, Yonkers.

Lesson one: Foundation

I've got a whole mess of sh*t on my plate walkin' outta this one, but I've got enough room left to try and drive this sh*t home one last time, once and for all. I want you to sit there, however broken your ass may or may not be, and for once in your pathetic little life, let it sink in, as you watch Schneider show the world in stunnin' fashion that immortality is the stuff of fantasy and make believe. Make sure you've got your golden guarantee in hand, just so you don't lose sight of the fact that there's only one man standin' between you and what it is you want, and that his ass ain't goin' nowhere, and when the camera pans in on Schneider's vacant, expressionless mess he calls a face as he stares up at the arena lights, hopefully as the realization that his time has come and that no amount of victories over the likes of Hugh Jess will ever come close to spellin' out a f*ckin' prayer against David f*ckin' Brennan.

Then, and maybe only then, will you get it through your thick f*ckin' skull that no matter how many times you jump me from behind, no matter how many circumstantial shots you get in some half assed tournament, and no matter how golden you think your lines of opportunity may be, you will never, ever be on my f*ckin' level again.

After all, if Obo can't get the job done, what f*ckin' hope do you have?



Beneath the Burdens, Above the Truth



You'd think I'd been drinkin' again.

I was startin' to wonder whether or not I was lettin' too many people in on my affairs, which is a troublin' thought in of itself, given the relatively short list of people I let in on my affairs to begin with. I could probably put an entire arena to sleep listin' off all the reasons why it is I like to play my sh*t close to the chest, and even then I probably wouldn't even feel like I'd begun to scratch the surface, but it's a safe enough bet to throw a couple chips down on a whole bunch of people worryin' 'emselves sick on my behalf bein' pretty god damned close to the top of the totem if it ain't already playin' the beacon to begin with.

I dunno. I guess maybe that's a character defect. I can't really remember a time, at least professionally, where I can honestly say I ever really gave more'n a passin' thought to what it was the variable who'd been standin' across the ring from me waitin' to do business could feasibly do to me. It ain't that I'm one of these breed of loons who get 'emselves off on takin' the biggest baddest hits or nothin'. I mean, sh*t hurts me all the same that it'll hurt you. It's just...I dunno. Anyone they're gonna throw at me out back, at this point, is interchangeable with anyone else, and what they may or may not be capable of is really kinda negligible, given the relatively low regard I hold for myself.

That's not to try and suggest that I'm any sorta suicidal or susceptible to self harm or any of that sh*t, it's just...hell, when the rest of the world is just a buncha nameless, faceless and you're entire life has been built around the need to hit harder than the other guy, how're you really gonna lose any sorta sleep over what Phillip Schneider might do to you.

"Jesus, this guy is sick."

Nat, I guess, I could understand.

A bit.

I guess I'm a lucky sort out back, in that in spite of keepin' an already tight sorta bubble around me and mine, I still got a soul left in my life what ain't explicitly tied at the hip to what I do for a livin'. Ain't a day goes by without me acknowledgin' that I've still got not business bein' in her presence, never mind her good graces, but it's a nice sorta human comfort, knowin' that if I decided to pack up shop tomorrow and find the closest metal shop to Bar Harbor, I could probably count on the fact that Nat wouldn't so much as entertain the idea of not bein' there when I got home. Somehow, even after findin' herself unwittingly along for the ride, Nat never let the interests of what goes on in the ring interfere with whatever her priorities are as far as I was concerned. She was outspoken, to a fault, but her concerns were invariably selfless, always centered around how I was doin', my well bein', sh*t like that. That's a valuable asset to a guy who ain't gonna consider those factors for himself, y'know?

Sure led to some stupid f*ckin' lover's quarrels every now and again, though.

"Obo? Sh*t, guy'd be near unstoppable if you let the stories call the shots."

"What does that even mean?"

"It means he's only as f*ckin' dangerous as the guy across the way from him's willin' to let him be."

Nat was a unique little f*ckin' worry wart, lemme tell you. Wasn't enough for her to sit and bother her pretty little head with the theoretical notion of what could happen - she had to play that sh*t out in real time. Today's offerin'?

'The Battle at the Garden'

Honestly, I dunno how she finds this sh*t. I wasn't even there for this one, least not as far as I know, but apparently the night's star attraction was the spectacle of Obo and everyone's favorite anti-hero Josh Dean tryin' to murder one another in exchange for the validity of each other's opinion.

High stakes sh*t.

Tell you what, man - if Nat could muster a stomach for this sh*t, she'd be the nameless faceless' number one target. You'd think, the way she'd cower at every blow, wince at every slice, and glance off at me during breaks in the action as if she were picturin' me in whoever was takin' the brunt at that particular moment's boots, that she'd have been fully vested in the result from the very get go.

Me? Eh, spend enough time in Southie, the allure of watchin' two guys tryin' to measure their own d*cks kinda loses its shine.

To watch this sh*t back for the first time - least, the first time sober, anyway - it's almost no wonder a guy like Jo Bishop gets himself all in a wad the way he does. I guess the end game was to get the other guy to fess up a bit of respect. I dunno, maybe Josh is just a bit of a peen, but some grunge ass mother f*cker comes at me with a sword he probably picked up at the local D & D swap meet? Sh*t, respect'll be about the last thing on my mind.

Some Austin Hayes sh*t right there. Roll six for depravity.

"How willing can you be when he's got a sword to your throat?"

"Solution seems simple enough."

"Oh, I can't wait to hear this..."

God, she could be a right f*ckin' b*tch when she wanted to. F*ckin' paused the show and all, sittin' up all eager on the edge of her seat, eyes wide, waitin' for my answer that she'd no doubt already begun dissectin' in her head.

".....don't let him get the f*ckin' sword."

Either she wasn't feelin' as quick witted as I figured, or the answer was too f*ckin' stupid for her to even try and bother. At any rate, she slumped down and let the show play on, with Josh Dean concedin' like the little b*tch that he is that fear's enough to drive a stake of respect through his heart from any man willin' to step up to the plate.

"If only Josh Dean could be as bright as you, David..."

Guess she just needed to think on that sh*t for a second.

"Hey, whose side'r you even on here, huh?"

"Unequivocally? Yours. Pardon me for trying to seek out the most feasible way around you picking up a bit of stigmata on behalf of whatever sharp and shiny Schneider feels like bringing to the ring this time around."

"What? You don't think I can take him?"

"I think the end result is irrelevant. If Schneider finds an opening, he's going to try and hurt you. Probably gets off on it."

Well sh*t - a broken clock is right twice a day.

"Guess I'll just have to not give him the f*ckin' openin' then, huh?"

There just wasn't any convincin' this girl.

"Is it so wrong of me to express a bit of concern for your well being against a....man, I guess....that could very well make your father blush with some of the sh*t he's pulled, David."

There it is. Got me, babe.

"They should party, huh?"

"Assuming that'd mean Schneider goes under..."

"Sh*t, I ain't bankin' on the alternative."

Apparently the idea of Jackie risin' from the grave to boogie down with ol' Obo was enough to cut the tension and grab a smile out of her. Not a moment too soon, if I'm honest - she ain't been doin' that sh*t near enough as of late. I probably wasn't helpin' matters any. I ain't exactly been the most adept a soothin' the nerves of others. F*ckin' genetics, man.

"Nah, don't sweat Obo, though. I mean, c'mon - the main event on the first big to do of the new marketin' campaign or whatever the f*ck it is Sleater was pattin' herself on the back over? That's fluff sh*t. Distractions. Ain't worth playin' into, y'know?"

"My god, I didn't think you had it in you."

F*ck.

I thought I smelled an assh*le.

"I thought I smelled an assh*le."

What?

I don't filter the good ones.

"Oh, good. You were so drawn out when we last met, I'd thought you'd lost your edge for a moment there."

"F*ckin' cut you on it, you think you're gonna keep walkin' into this house talkin' sh*t."

"I can't help my tone..."

"No? I might be able to do somethin' about it."

"...but I meant no inherent disrespect. It was, admittedly, a bit backhanded in nature, but it was, at its heart, a compliment."

God, is it a Boston thing? Do we all just sound like gigantic f*ckin' pricks all the time?

"I'll leave you two to it, then."

F*ck. I'd take a couple more hours of Nat rakin' me over the coals over whether or not my dome was about to become the latest adornment of Obo's barbecue over whatever the f*ck Vieira had for me. Y'ever let your guard down enough so that somethin' you figured you'd be hard pressed to ever buy into starts to sound appealin' in some weird ass, twisted way? I ain't gonna dump that sh*t on Nat, but I'd spent the last couple weeks wonderin' if I'd have ever let Vieira talk me into whatever the f*ck it was he talked me into if we hadn't just come off that whole to-do over whether or not Trace Demon'd be my new gateway epoch.

Nah, by the way. F*ck you, 'boss'.

At any rate, it seemed right f*ckin' stupid in retrospect. What the f*ck was Vieira gonna do for my ass that I couldn't f*ckin' handle myself?

"Actually, Ms. Collins, I was hoping you'd join us. There's a matter to discuss that, as far as I'm concerned, pertains as greatly to you as it does any of us."

Nat didn't look any more f*ckin' enthused over sharin' any more time with the guy than I was - I forget sometimes, even for as bullsh*t as I'd been over the fact, that they pretty much worked hand in hand for a while there orchestrating that little circus stunt in Japan all them years back. I'm guessin' he was probably as endearin' and chill to be around then as he is now, but to her infinite credit, Nat went with it with little more'n a nod, leadin' the way off to the dinin' room, which had all but become ground zero for whatever it was we were doin' here, and even made good with a couple bottles of Polar to make this sh*t go down a bit smoother.

She's a keeper, that one.

"Gonna start with how you plan on keepin' my ass out of these bullsh*t box office marquees?"

Ain't a soul alive who likes to start a meetin' gettin' his ass reamed, and for as suave and stoic as Vieira liked to put himself out there to be, his ass was no different, as evidenced by the f*ckin' look of contempt he shot me as he settled in to his little self assigned spot at the head of the table.

"I start the day acknowledging your razor sharp focus, you bounce back questioning the very nature of my effectiveness. Tremendous, really."

"Well?"

He stared at me like a deer looks into a pair of stalled headlights for a moment, almost as if he was suddenly bewildered by my very presence in my own house, before shakin' the cobwebs, like he'd just had some moment of clarity, that even in motion, left him lookin' like he'd just seen a f*ckin' ghost or some sh*t.

"You were serious..."

I figure I wasn't in any mood to ask twice, and yeah, given my f*ckin' reservations about just what the hell I was thinkin' signin' him along for the ride, I felt, at the very least, like I was owed some sorta explanation as to why this guy who'd been hired on to do my corporate for me let me fall into what most people perceived to be a no-f*ckin'-win situation against a resurrected hobo.

"...look, I had nothing to do with the Schneider match, alright? All this - this change of scenery being enacted? This came as much as a surprise to me as I imagine it did you. At the very least, I think we can chalk all this up to being the reason Sleater's been so hard to reach."

Hold the phone...

"Are you f*ckin' kiddin' me?!"

"Do I strike you as light hearted?"

"Shut the f*ck up. You mean to tell me you've been on for, what? Two f*ckin' weeks? And you ain't even gotten to Sleater yet?"

"David, this isn't some barge in the room type of situation here. In spite of your...well, your allegations as to her...welcoming...nature, she's playing a particularly adept game of 'hard to get' right now. There hasn't exactly been the opportunity to just kick in her front door - not that such an approach would be particularly effective to begin with."

"Sh*t, always worked for me."

"Did it? Then why am I here?"

"Been askin' myself that same question..."

"More to the...sorry, I mean, since it came up...why am I even here?"

"I'll be getting to that, but first...David, the point is, for whatever reason - maybe it's just you - Lila's playing things close to the chest, alright? It's been no easy task, and I don't at all endeavor getting back out on the road, but we have a meeting."

Well, sh*t - couldn't have just started there?

"Go on..."

"Well, rather, I have a meeting. That's the only way this works - I think we'll agree on that being the answer to my hypothetical just a moment ago?"

"Assumin' your way works better..."

"Let's hope. Sleater's fully aware of who I am, why I'm coming in, and the fact that you are very much the subject on the table. That being said..."

"Always a f*ckin' 'but'..."

"...I should be able to walk out of Montreal with a rematch in hand."

No sh*t.

He sounded confident - you can usually tell when someone's bullsh*ttin' you, even a cool cat like Vieira. He either had himself a foolproof plan to win over that cold blooded b*tch, or at least he thought he did, 'cause that sh*t? It wasn't waverin' comin' out of his mouth. I had my doubts - the b*tch put me up against the f*ckin' CHiPs, for f*ck's sake - but if this was his edge goin' in, wasn't no harm in lettin' it all play out if it meant movin' on from Schneider right back into Bishop's neck of the woods.

"To that end, I've a rather tall order to ask of you."

"Here we go..."

"Lay low."

What?

Sh*t, that all?

The f*ck've I been doin' here anyway?

"Have I not?"

"It's you - it bears being said. Don't let me see you anywhere near that office. This is how this works. I'll get you back in the picture. You just hang on to what you've already got to your name."

"Thought we weren't gettin' distracted with the hobo..."

"Can you posit anything you possibly stand to gain by losing?"

Fair enough. Wasn't plannin' on it anyway, but...

"To that end? Get those polished. All of them."

"Lotta hardware to lug around, man."

"You'll have help. Ms. Collins?"

Nat perked up at the sound of her name, half taken aback at bein' addressed so formally for the second or third time in however the f*ck long Vieira'd been around probably, and half havin' forgotten she was even there, I'd guess. This sh*t's gotta draw tears with how boring it must be to someone standin' on the fringe. Sh*t, it involves me and I half wanted to doze off and have a nap.

"I hope you'll join us. I trust you're all sorted with the necessary paperwork?"

"I'm sorry, paperwork?"

"A passport."

"Oh, um...yes, yeah, I...I think it's still valid."

"See that it is. And try and get used to the weight of one of those tag team belts. It's time we start making David here look like a champion."

"Hold up - you really made her doze through half that sh*t just to tell her she's comin' along for the ride?"

"That wouldn't be an effective use of time, now would it. Ms. Collins?"

"Natalie's just fine, really. Ms. Collins makes me sound like a teacher."

"...or a mom."

"Shut the hell up."

"Very well - Natalie. I don't pretend to ignore things we all know are there. I think you'll recall that."

"Vaguely."

"Nevertheless...this retirement business."

Sh*t, I was gonna pay for lettin' that one slip.

"What do you want me to say?"

"I need to know that this isn't going to become come pressing issue. You'll have heard me compliment David on his willingness to not let secondary matters - Schneider, and the like - get in the way of the big picture."

"Bishop."

"In one. I can't make a champion out of a man looking to cast it all aside."

Nat wasn't havin' this sh*t - not a lick of it. Vieira had himself a look that'd cut right through you, but god damn, if Nat had it in for you, she could hand that sh*t right back to you, and he wasn't crackin' yet, but I had to figure that behind those steely blues, Vieira was figurin' that sh*t out good and quick.

"I'm not taking back what I said. David doesn't need this. You know it. I know it. He knows it."

"That's not up to you, is it?"

"I could say the same."

"I'll assume you just did."

F*ck.

"Look, whatever you two got against each other, don't be puttin' me in the middle of that sh*t."

"Bad luck, David."

"Sorry, babe."

"I'm not, I'm afraid. Whether Ms. Collins and I will ever come to see eye to eye aside, all this? It's all about you, David."

"C'mon..."

"Back off, Vieira."

"Can't be done. If this is on the table, fine. We'll need to make room for it alongside the fact that I'm about to petition Lila Sleater to afford David here another shot at the WFWF Championship. That cannot be ignored."

"No one's ignoring that!"

"Not yet."

"F*ckin' Christ, ENOUGH!!!"

Sh*t

No wonder people've been doin' that sh*t around me for years. It's almost kinda cool the way everyone finally shuts the f*ck up and leans in like you got somethin' to say.

Not that I really did. I was just sick of listenin' to the two of 'em.

It ain't beyond me to acknowledge the fact that, even if they got themselves two wildly different ways of showin' it, I was starin' down the barrel of two people here who did, underneath it all, only want what they thought was best for me. Selfish driven incentives, sure - for Vieira life was one big business transaction and all this goin' his way would spell money on top of money, and Nat, I s'pose, can't really be blamed, what with all she'd been through to land at this here table, for wantin' a bit more than a few passin' minutes of whatever time I had left in this world. I dunno. Two sides. Two stories. Two sets of pros and cons.

I was just sick and god damn tired of listenin' to 'em toss 'em around without any f*ckin' input from number one. Spent half my god damn life runnin' down this road time and time again, same ol' story, same ol' song and dance. The details're all that'll ever change, and that ain't where the devil lies at all.

This was just another two way f*ckin' intervention.

These two, I f*ckin' swear.

"Babe, I'm sorry..."

"Don't worry about it.

"David, we're not done here."

"For today? Yeah, we f*ckin' are. Goin' out on the boat."

"David..."

"This matter doesn't go away just because you stand up and walk out on it."

"Jesus Christ, Vieira..."

He wasn't sayin' anything I didn't already know. Sh*t was all out on the table, and these two could bicker over all it 'til they were blue in the face. Vieira was right, Nat had a point, but at the end of the day, it didn't make a f*ck what either of 'em thought.

"You're going to have to make a decision here eventually, David."

You're god damn right I will.



King Sh*t of F*ck Mountain



Ain't it funny how things change?

I mean, sh*t Phil - once upon a time, I'd really be worryin' myself sick over havin' to square up with you.

You remember those days, right?

I do.

You might not expect that, me bein' able to recall the last time you got the opportunity to step in the ring and make some sorta example outta me, but you're one of the lucky few, Phil. You were able to get your licks in just before I really took that last fateful step and went ass over elbow into the f*ckin' abyss.

Sh*t, if I were a lesser man, I could probably just up and blame you for all the sh*t I've dealt with over the past six years, and what with you bein' the WFWF's resident depth of depravity and all, you probably wouldn't feel sh*t. It'd be win-f*ckin'-win across the board and I'd probably have a wave of f*ckin' sympathy on my side on account of the fact that if I'm a piece of sh*t by standard default, then the words to drag your ass through the mud must simply not exist yet.

But then, I wouldn't be where I am now, would I?

See, I've got to imagine that you're sittin' in whatever hole it is you've crawled out of these past few months, comfortin' yourself to whatever it is a guy like you's able to muster resemblin' sleep after all these years of bein'...well...you...with the fact that sh*t, this'll just be another one of your signature Andre Carter, Lincoln Dina romps in the park of depravity. After all, you've played this game already and come out on top. You've risen where so many others have fallen - you've beaten David f*ckin' Brennan. You're part of that exclusive f*ckin' club - that Gang of Four who, in the supposed absence of any other notable accolades, if for nothing else, whether titles or engravings in the tomes of history or anything else that people around here pluck from the sky and stick in the brim of their cap like some vividly colored new feather, can say that they've done what precious others have managed to do.

Now, smarter men than you, they'd call all that a crock of sh*t. They'd tell themselves that a win over David f*ckin' Brennan in twenty eleven means about as much as the fact that once upon a time, Dexter Kingsley was gifted with the 'right' to call himself the WFWF Champion through no true effort of his own, that a comb through your past shows a padded f*ckin' resume of rubber wins over unquantified rookies to make yourself look hard when you finally find yourself starin' across the ring at someone who's about to take you to the f*ckin' limit.

But you're not a smart man, are you Phil?

Oh, you think you're somethin' else alright. Amid your circle of freaks that you keep around to keep yourself elevated to a level that allows you to sleep at night, I'm sure that you're King Sh*t of F*ck Mountain. For years, the world has watched you tout yourself as the resident psychologically tuned sociopath of the WFWF, a man willin' to go to lengths unheard of by most honest, good, hardworkin' folk to get under his opponents skin and deconstruct them from the inside, leavin' little more than a shell of what they were to begin with before you got your filthy f*ckin' mitts on 'em, but c'mon Phil...let's be honest...

...all that's about as real as Obo the Hobo, isn't it?

Week in and week out, the world has watched you pick apart opponents like Play-Doh in the hands of a two year old, unleashin' a violent assault of verbosity that leaves 'em hobblin' to the ring before you've even landed your first f*ckin' strike, creatin' this f*ckin' image of yours that paints you as the immovable object, capable of breakin' down the fabric of any man put to 'em from any walk of life imaginable.

But c'mon...it's time to face facts.

It's an illusion.

An act.

A show, just like the notion that you're untouchable.

'Cause you know, and I know...

...you don't know sh*t, do you?

Six years ago, you laid waste to a man who'd had his ass beaten by a guy who could give you a f*ckin' run for your degree of filth seven ways to Sunday. You performed a clinic of violence on a man four bouts deep into a career that had yet to uncover a finite destination.

Six years ago, you beat an already broken man.

You ran your mouth about a man ingrained in a world of hate and ignorance and superficial vitriol without once stoppin' to see whether or not you even had a firm f*ckin' grasp on exactly who it was would be starin' daggers across that f*ckin' ring at you, and while you may have picked up another win grounded in circumstance on account of your own addictive f*ckin' habit of cherry pickin' foes for you to build your own f*ckin' house of cards out of, you slipped on your own f*ckin' words, and while you may have coasted by thinkin' that your presumptuous nature may have gone unnoticed and that your facade of killer instinct may have slipped by unfazed, you unknowingly hammered the first - and pardon the double entendre - chink in your own f*ckin' armor.

It's time to throw off the blankets, abandon your warmth, and let the cold in a bit, 'cause by now, the reality should be settin' in, but just in case you're still reelin' from too many lumps to the f*ckin' dome, I'm gonna spell it out for you.

Six years ago don't mean sh*t.

You ain't never faced David f*ckin' Brennan.

See, in spite of how imperative you fancy yourself to be to the world's ability to spin on its f*ckin' axis, the fact of the matter is, time kept movin' while you were off lickin' your f*ckin' wounds, Phil. Tides rolled in, tides moved out. Joe f*ckin' Bishop joined your f*ckin' ranks, for f*ck's sake, and even then, I question how that sh*t might've played out if he hadn't had that extra fire under his ass of squeezin' his feet into Drakz's f*ckin' boots. It's gotta be hard to hear, 'specially for a guy like you who fancies himself the ultra violent center of the f*ckin' universe, but the cheese has been moved at least a dozen times in your f*ckin' absence, and the hard truth is, no matter how many Hugh f*ckin' Jasses you come in and try to use to put yourself back on the f*ckin' pedestal you fell so far off of, you're just another forgotten rat, Phil.

Look, in twenty eleven, this sh*t might've flown. You ain't got the advantage of the bottle on your side anymore to assume that I'm too f*ckin' dense to see you tryin' to make me a f*ckin' pawn in whatever game it is you've begun playin' with Ante Whitner - as if the world needed any more evidence of you paddin' the f*ckin' records. I'm sure this belt here'd play nicely into whatever f*ckin' vendetta it is you're tryin' to further for whatever f*ckin' ends, but the simple fact is, Phil, that I ain't got time for your f*ckin' games.

You want the International Championship?

Try and f*ckin' take it, b*tch.

This sh*t here? It ain't gonna do you any more favors'n it's doin' me. Say you win...

...not that you will...

Big f*ckin' whoop.

You're still gonna be playin' touchy-feely with Ante Whitner, and I'm still gonna be squarin' up for round two against Joe Bishop.

You see what I mean?

The world's a different place, Phil, and your effect on it, well sh*t....it's not really that big an effect anymore is it? Seems to me that real tragedy here is the fact that, in a world so vividly different from the one you left behind, the only thing that hasn't managed to evolve is, well....you.

But sh*t, look at me, bein' all negligent like. That ain't right. After all, I know first hand what it's like to walk back into a world that's strange and unusual. It's pretty damn...sh*t, what's a good word....

...oh yeah...

...soberin'.

See, I'm a stubborn little son of a b*tch. I had people fallin' over 'emselves left and right tryin' be be the gilded f*ckin' calf I'd worship if only I'd bestow them the honor of holdin' my f*ckin' hand as I navigate my own surroundings, but lookin' how I've managed to come out on the other side, albeit not without a few bumps in the road, I'd say I managed pretty damn well without, but you?

You're still up to the same old tricks, ain't you?

I mean...Hugh Jass?

Ante Whitner?

You just don't get it, do you Phil?

That sh*t don't mean nothin' anymore. The map's gotten smaller, and you're still tryin' to fly high off the margins hopin' someone'll f*ckin' notice you. Normally, I'm content to stand idly by and try my hardest to give a sh*t less, but god damn, kid - you're supposed to be Phillip f*ckin' Schneider.

Sh*t...maybe that's the problem.

That's all you've ever been.

It's all you'll ever be.

Phillip f*ckin' Schneider.

The King of Gore.

The Prophet of Ash.

The man who once struck fear into the hearts of rookies the world over whose dreams of makin' it in the WFWF would invariably be put on hold long enough for them to step into the ring and find themselves subjected to whatever it is you call a fight to make yourself feel like you were ever somethin' more, somethin' terrifyin', somethin' worthy of the names no one else would ever give you so you had to bestow 'em upon yourself in another flat f*ckin' attempt to be anything more than a sad f*ckin' sack who still can't shake the joke of a name he'd given to himself when he himself was the new,
nothin' little b*tch gettin' taken to school by the men who'd come before him.

You pride yourself on havin' driven off the likes of Lincoln Dina, of Andrew Carter, of Hutton f*ckin' Brown - small men, no less important than yourself, that you've immortalized by the sole effort of comin' back to 'em time and time again, the second anyone has the gall to question your validity.

It's just too bad you never drove off me.

'Cause it may stand as cause to brand me with the mark of insanity, but until today, I never gave that loss a second thought. I lost hours on end of sleep havin' taken five f*ckin' years to get the jump on Drakz. I still beat myself up over the fact that a clown like Drake Elias has a f*ckin' edge over me. I cant wait to give Bishop a receipt for that loss he handed me, but you, Obo? Sh*t. In the grand scheme of it all, because of who you were, because of who you are, that all meant nothin' - not to me, not to anyone.

Don't take it personally.

I just couldn't be bothered.