Post by CM Poor on Mar 25, 2018 10:23:37 GMT -5
Down in Flames
Feel better, Frank?
You feel validated now?
Finally able to get that sh*t up for once?
Pathetic.
F*ckin' pathetic.
If there's a silver linin' here, it comes with the knowledge...well, the presumption that at least now you know how big a batch of bullsh*t it is you've been spittin' for however long Bishop's been fillin' your maw with his brand of business. Maybe now, in light of what it took for you to go out and make yourself feel like a valid, contributin' member of the roster, you can spare us anymore of the holier than thou, pure of heart, soul, and skill bullsh*t the rest of us have been subject to since Joe first started feelin' kind enough to clear your throat long enough to allow you to get a word or two in.
Maybe now you'll come to realize what me and everyone else out back has known since the day you reared your ugly f*ckin' mug for the first time and started struttin' lie a f*ckin' South Shore gull that figures his sh*t don't stink.
That you ain't any better'n anyone else, Frank.
You might walk along the sidewalk but there ain't a god damn soul passin' your ass by, belt or no belt, that doesn't know that you belong right down here in the f*ckin' gutter alongside all the rest of the scum around here. And that ain't a knock on a single soul out back, save for you, Frankie.
We all know what we're about.
Whole world's just waitin' for you to figure your own ass out.
So y'know what, Frankie?
Bravo.
Golf claps.
Whatever helps you f*ckin' sleep at night.
You go on back to the Vineyard or Weston or Wellesley or wherever the f*ck it is you tell yourself is close enough to claim the city for your own, and you find a nice lookin' place to put that belt of yours. Make sure you shine it up real nice, and get yourself a couple of copies made for the road so the grubby ass fingers you claim to represent don't smudge it all up on you when you go out'n make nice with the public.
You can have it.
I don't want it.
Me?
I already got mine.
You do with that belt whatever it is you need to make you feel like that sh*t danglin' right beneath it counts for a damn thing in the world.
I'm still king of this f*ckin' mountain.
You just found a f*ckin' trailhead, b*tch.
Say hi to Dex for me, would you?
David Brennan:
Righting the Ship
"David, this is insane!"
David glared across the desk, unflinching, unyielding, emotionally vacant to the general manager's pleas as she surveyed the document he'd just presented her. Largely, he'd wiped his mind of any emotional attachment having come here today, unwilling to give Sleater a single inch in the matter, lest she find some opening from which to steal a mile. It was almost a welcome blessing - a silver lining, even - given his relative lack of dexterity when it came to talking business at the great table of negotiation, that his face, in particular, was near immobile. His eyes were certifiably unreadable, owing to one being swollen shut, its orbitable cavity completely shattered, and the other being conspicuously darkened by the swollen, black ring that had welled up over the past several days. Often prone to saying far too much, and almost always of the wrong nature, he'd come perfectly content to speak as little as possible. Each word had been carefully selected since leaving New Orleans, as even the slightest vocalization of affirmation or denial rattled the thousands of splintered bone fragments floating idly about the cartilaginous sack he'd just last week called a nose, each one packing its own unique sting of localized, discernible pain.
It likely goes without saying what this compounding of circumstances had done for his mood as of late. Twenty four hours out, he'd been entirely willing to come here today to end, at any personal expense, his tenure with the WFWF. Forty eight hours on, he'd begun rationalizing, for the first time in however many years, the advice of medical professionals who had, in no uncertain terms, insisted he reconsider returning to the ring at any sort of expedited rate.
Now, however, as he sat emotionless and glaring (as best he could), he'd at least returned, in spite of the difficulty some might have recognizing him on a physical basis at the moment, to some semblance of his own nature, offshoring the emotional aspect of seeking out his best interests to his own, personal anchor of ethics, morality, and self preservation.
"This should be the least of your worries, really."
It's no secret, at least among the two of them, that Nat had long desired for David to leave the WFWF entirely behind. Her persistence in the matter was a labor of unconditional love - she'd been the first to recognize, with sound mind, the sheer toll that this career path would ultimately take upon his body, his mind, his sobriety, and in general, his overall well being. Nobody who'd born witness to David's career would have much of a leg to stand on in denying that she'd been correct on every last account, as he'd laid in a hospital bed for the first time since drunkely stepping out into oncoming traffic so many years ago, David was certain that she would have burst into an emotional well of triumph when he told her, upon arrival, that he'd decided to end his career.
Instead, she'd simply advised him to rest.
Days later, free of the confines of the immediate aftermath of all that had happened at Back to Basics, on the back of a particularly strained and ill-advised first day back at the gym, he was certain he'd be met with welcome support when he'd told her that he was going to sign on to medical leave until he was good and ready. He'd concede any present standing in the organization - titles, stature, what have you - but he'd be able to put a rest to a string of incidents that, if kept up at this rate, might ultimately mean the death of him.
Instead, they talked it over.
Well, as best as he could talk.
Much like today, she ultimately did most of the work.
I'm sorry, Ms...?"
"Collins."
"Collins, right. Nothing in haste, right Brennan? I'm sorry, Ms. Collins, but what David is asking for here is unprecedented control over a contract he willfully signed not six months ago."
"Better him than you."
That had largely been the crux of their conversation.
No matter how tempered matters had become between them, given the recent rise of Frank Lynn as the resident thorn in Sleater's side, a clean break would, ultimately, give Sleater the long fought win. In the grand scheme of things, it meant nothing. David had more than enough to his name to never need to work again, given the shared, shoestring quality of life the two of them enjoyed. With that frugal quality, however, came a mutual drawback neither of them could escape.
Each of them was equally stubborn - likely a lifelong side effect of their environmental surroundings.
As it was with Lynn, handing someone a victory, even in spirit, was far removed from the nature of any self-respecting Bostonian, and David's psyche, they both acknowledged, would suffer far too much from allowing Sleater to crack so much as a passive grin as he turned his back. Nat had once fought tirelessly for David to do just this, but the stakes then were exponentially higher than they are now. She'd eggshelled for a long, long time since the two of them had reconnected, but the thought of David diving back down the bottle was a notion so far removed from the concept of reality at this point that she'd hardly given it a second thought.
Nevertheless, Sleater could not be allowed to win this war.
"I didn't welcome the two of you here today to be insulted in my own office."
"I saw the show, Sleater. Any high ground you might have had going in has been completely abandoned. This is the better of two options. I wouldn't advise f*cking this one up."
"Peas and carrots, the two of you, huh?"
Sleater's eyes returned to the contract before her. She pored it over again, at an accelerated rate, the indignity of what's been presented to her plainly visible upon the reactionary contortion of her face.
"I can't concede this kind of power! You've seen our roster? We're thin enough as it is without our World Champion having a door out whenever he pleases!"
"You'd prefer he walk?"
"He'd be out millions!"
"Yeah, I mean, look how concerned he looks."
It was an option, of course, they'd had to leave open - David had, back in October, signed an airtight, four year contract extension. That was, of course, long before the Kyzer situation had escalated to where it was today. Long before management sat idly by and watched a man with a temporary instillation of power rob the rightful champion of his belt. Long before that same management had contracted a new talent to end the career, at the willful risk of the life, of another contracted member of the roster. David had spent seven years, on and off, handily navigating the sort of bullsh*t that saw tendency to break lesser men into full blown fits of rebellion before they were two years in, but even he was only human.
Even he, like the structure of his face, had a breaking point.
"Look, David - I get it. Okay? I can barely even look at you right now. That's not a knock - that's my own nature....and I'll thank you for not mentioning Trace, if you don't mind. You've every right to be upset with the cavalcade of what went wrong for you in New Orleans, but if I concede this, it isn't long before my talent is running my program, right? I can't have that."
"Can't you?"
"I don't like your tone, Ms. Collins."
"I don't like you, Ms. Sleater."
"Shame. I'd have pegged David a bit more strongly willed than to allow this sort of influence to dictate his actions."
At this, David rose without hesitance, brushing aside Nat has she placed a hand on his chest to calm him. Snatching up his World Chmapionship that had rested beside his seat, he took a long, hard look at the belt, glaring past its glimmering face as he did so to ensure that Sleater was watching his every move. Folding the straps behind the main plate, he stepped forward, and without a second's pause, placed the belt upon Sleater's desk.
"We're leabin'."
Turning his back to her, David signaled with a strained twitch of his head for Nat to follow, and began making his way out the door.
"Damn it......David, wait!"
David paused, not turning back to face her, allowing Nat, instead, to once more serve as his eyes an ears. She slowly turned, crossing her arms in front of her as Sleater, for the umpteenth time, pored over the details of the ammended contract. Muttering to herself, she slammed the form down, siezing a pen off her desk as she signed, hurriedly with no attempt to mask her frustration.
"There. It's done. It's insane, but it's done. Do I at least get a handshake agreement that you won't try and summarily f*ck me over on this."
"I'll keep him satisfied, thanks."
Recoiling at the forward implication of Nat's comments, Sleater slumped back into her chair, holding her head as if to nurse some sudden, imaginary headache.
"Couple weeks off, then?"
It was David now who reentered the room, approaching Sleater's desk and retrieving the belt he'd just offered up as the ultimate downpayment on what he wanted. Slinging the belt over his shoulder, he afforded a strained, painful grin as he shook his head in the negative.
"Necks show."
"Kyzer?"
His grin grew wider, even through the pain, as he once more refuted her presumption.
"Wolf."
I Hunt, Therefor I Am
Welcome to the big times, Wolfman.
Don't get too comfortable.
It ain't gonna last long.
See, you ain't here to build momentum. You ain't here to elevate your own risin' star, and you sure as sh*t ain't here to take a leap and get yourself a big ol' win over the WFWF World Heavyweight Champion.
You're here to be made an example out of.
You might fancy yourself somethin' of a bump in the road for someone like me, but the fact is, I got myself bigger fish to fry than the likes of someone like you.
Still, everyone's gotta be here for somethin', right?
Now, don't let that sh*t go to your head too quickly, either. You ain't a fraction of the man Michael Kyzer is. If that one stung a little bit more'n your everyday, run of the mill person-to-person, it's on account of it not really sayin' much, seein' as the only thing you and Kyzer've got in common's the propensity for cheap shots on the cut'n run. At least Kyzer's got a bit of brass behind him to put a little backup on top of his sucker punch game. At least Kyzer's got the f*ckin' decency to hit a guy when he's still upright and breathin'.
Come to think of it, he's also got the stones to at least come at a guy his own size, to boot.
That sh*t feel good, beatin' down the daughter of the only man who'd ever seen an ounce of f*ckin' worth in you, Trev?
See, at least when someone like Kyzer comes out swingin' cheap, he's got the bare modicum of self respect to come out swingin' high. Far as I can tell, you've spent whatever it is you call your career playin' safe and sound. That's kiddie sh*t. Nerf ball.
B*tch fights.
Has beens, like Jon O'Deeves.
Losers, like the Ahriman kid.
Nobodies, like whoever else it is you might've gone and tangled with down the bottom of the f*ckin' card.
You're outta your element, and I ain't afraid to let you know that I'm gonna exploit that for whatever shred of worth I can beat the f*ck outta you.
See, I’ve been ‘round the block long enough by now to figure out this place goes through phases like some twit little f*ckin’ teenager what’s just figured out the word ‘rebel’ for the first time and thinks he’s got what it takes to find his way through the f*ckin’ world. I ain’t exactly as tenured as some of the other old f*cks runnin’ around these parts, but I seen enough to know that if it’s workin’ for one son of a b*tch, you can bet the damn farm that soon enough, everyone else’ll be runnin’ around tryin’ to ride that wave of momentum like they went and thought of it all by their lonesome.
I figure that’s why it is you see just about everyone - Kyzer, Frankie, the new goth lookin’ kid, you - runnin’ up behind the backs of the folk holdin’ ‘em down the most and hittin’ ‘em unawares like a f*ckin’ bitch these days.
But you, Trev?
Well, sh*t kid - you just happen to be one unlucky little b*tch.
See, you’re fixin’ to be the little b*tch that shows the rest of the little b*tches out back just how far that sh*t’s gonna get ‘em. Now, you may be thinkin’ to yourself, “sh*t, David - you’re right! I ain’t f*ckin’ nobody! Why come after me? Why...why not go after Frankie, what took your belt the only way he was ever gonna get his lousy little Lynnfield mitts on one, or Kyzer! Everyone’s afraid of Kyzer! Nobody’s afraid of me!”, and you’d be just about right on the f*ckin’ money, Wolfie, but hey - sh*t break, man. It’s gotta be you.
You’re weak.
Their biggest set of guns might be restin’ right up on their f*ckin’ gums, but guys like Kyzer and Frank? Well, sh*t, it may not be much, but guys like them can at least put up half a decent fight, and the kinda licks they’ll inevitably get ‘emselves in before they f*ckin’ drop aint gonna do much in the way of makin’ a point, but you?
Oh, ho, ho, Wolfman…..I can make one hell of a f*ckin’ point outta you.
Whatever sh*t you think’s brought you up to this point don’t mean sh*t next to the fights I’ve walked my ass out of. There ain’t a soul you’ve stared down that’d make me quiver in my Martens, and you sure as sh*t ain’t toppled anybody’d who’d have a saint’s chance in hell against the likes of me.
Look, I’ve been around the block. That f*ckin’ stunt you pulled ahead of SuperBrawl however far back that was now? I’d have sooner’ve slapped on a pair of white gloves and bought myself a bright red popsicle’n bought an inch of that sh*t you were sellin’.
Come New Day Risin’?
I’m gonna make your ass wish you wasn’t fakin’.
Feel better, Frank?
You feel validated now?
Finally able to get that sh*t up for once?
Pathetic.
F*ckin' pathetic.
If there's a silver linin' here, it comes with the knowledge...well, the presumption that at least now you know how big a batch of bullsh*t it is you've been spittin' for however long Bishop's been fillin' your maw with his brand of business. Maybe now, in light of what it took for you to go out and make yourself feel like a valid, contributin' member of the roster, you can spare us anymore of the holier than thou, pure of heart, soul, and skill bullsh*t the rest of us have been subject to since Joe first started feelin' kind enough to clear your throat long enough to allow you to get a word or two in.
Maybe now you'll come to realize what me and everyone else out back has known since the day you reared your ugly f*ckin' mug for the first time and started struttin' lie a f*ckin' South Shore gull that figures his sh*t don't stink.
That you ain't any better'n anyone else, Frank.
You might walk along the sidewalk but there ain't a god damn soul passin' your ass by, belt or no belt, that doesn't know that you belong right down here in the f*ckin' gutter alongside all the rest of the scum around here. And that ain't a knock on a single soul out back, save for you, Frankie.
We all know what we're about.
Whole world's just waitin' for you to figure your own ass out.
So y'know what, Frankie?
Bravo.
Golf claps.
Whatever helps you f*ckin' sleep at night.
You go on back to the Vineyard or Weston or Wellesley or wherever the f*ck it is you tell yourself is close enough to claim the city for your own, and you find a nice lookin' place to put that belt of yours. Make sure you shine it up real nice, and get yourself a couple of copies made for the road so the grubby ass fingers you claim to represent don't smudge it all up on you when you go out'n make nice with the public.
You can have it.
I don't want it.
Me?
I already got mine.
You do with that belt whatever it is you need to make you feel like that sh*t danglin' right beneath it counts for a damn thing in the world.
I'm still king of this f*ckin' mountain.
You just found a f*ckin' trailhead, b*tch.
Say hi to Dex for me, would you?
David Brennan:
Righting the Ship
"David, this is insane!"
David glared across the desk, unflinching, unyielding, emotionally vacant to the general manager's pleas as she surveyed the document he'd just presented her. Largely, he'd wiped his mind of any emotional attachment having come here today, unwilling to give Sleater a single inch in the matter, lest she find some opening from which to steal a mile. It was almost a welcome blessing - a silver lining, even - given his relative lack of dexterity when it came to talking business at the great table of negotiation, that his face, in particular, was near immobile. His eyes were certifiably unreadable, owing to one being swollen shut, its orbitable cavity completely shattered, and the other being conspicuously darkened by the swollen, black ring that had welled up over the past several days. Often prone to saying far too much, and almost always of the wrong nature, he'd come perfectly content to speak as little as possible. Each word had been carefully selected since leaving New Orleans, as even the slightest vocalization of affirmation or denial rattled the thousands of splintered bone fragments floating idly about the cartilaginous sack he'd just last week called a nose, each one packing its own unique sting of localized, discernible pain.
It likely goes without saying what this compounding of circumstances had done for his mood as of late. Twenty four hours out, he'd been entirely willing to come here today to end, at any personal expense, his tenure with the WFWF. Forty eight hours on, he'd begun rationalizing, for the first time in however many years, the advice of medical professionals who had, in no uncertain terms, insisted he reconsider returning to the ring at any sort of expedited rate.
Now, however, as he sat emotionless and glaring (as best he could), he'd at least returned, in spite of the difficulty some might have recognizing him on a physical basis at the moment, to some semblance of his own nature, offshoring the emotional aspect of seeking out his best interests to his own, personal anchor of ethics, morality, and self preservation.
"This should be the least of your worries, really."
It's no secret, at least among the two of them, that Nat had long desired for David to leave the WFWF entirely behind. Her persistence in the matter was a labor of unconditional love - she'd been the first to recognize, with sound mind, the sheer toll that this career path would ultimately take upon his body, his mind, his sobriety, and in general, his overall well being. Nobody who'd born witness to David's career would have much of a leg to stand on in denying that she'd been correct on every last account, as he'd laid in a hospital bed for the first time since drunkely stepping out into oncoming traffic so many years ago, David was certain that she would have burst into an emotional well of triumph when he told her, upon arrival, that he'd decided to end his career.
Instead, she'd simply advised him to rest.
Days later, free of the confines of the immediate aftermath of all that had happened at Back to Basics, on the back of a particularly strained and ill-advised first day back at the gym, he was certain he'd be met with welcome support when he'd told her that he was going to sign on to medical leave until he was good and ready. He'd concede any present standing in the organization - titles, stature, what have you - but he'd be able to put a rest to a string of incidents that, if kept up at this rate, might ultimately mean the death of him.
Instead, they talked it over.
Well, as best as he could talk.
Much like today, she ultimately did most of the work.
I'm sorry, Ms...?"
"Collins."
"Collins, right. Nothing in haste, right Brennan? I'm sorry, Ms. Collins, but what David is asking for here is unprecedented control over a contract he willfully signed not six months ago."
"Better him than you."
That had largely been the crux of their conversation.
No matter how tempered matters had become between them, given the recent rise of Frank Lynn as the resident thorn in Sleater's side, a clean break would, ultimately, give Sleater the long fought win. In the grand scheme of things, it meant nothing. David had more than enough to his name to never need to work again, given the shared, shoestring quality of life the two of them enjoyed. With that frugal quality, however, came a mutual drawback neither of them could escape.
Each of them was equally stubborn - likely a lifelong side effect of their environmental surroundings.
As it was with Lynn, handing someone a victory, even in spirit, was far removed from the nature of any self-respecting Bostonian, and David's psyche, they both acknowledged, would suffer far too much from allowing Sleater to crack so much as a passive grin as he turned his back. Nat had once fought tirelessly for David to do just this, but the stakes then were exponentially higher than they are now. She'd eggshelled for a long, long time since the two of them had reconnected, but the thought of David diving back down the bottle was a notion so far removed from the concept of reality at this point that she'd hardly given it a second thought.
Nevertheless, Sleater could not be allowed to win this war.
"I didn't welcome the two of you here today to be insulted in my own office."
"I saw the show, Sleater. Any high ground you might have had going in has been completely abandoned. This is the better of two options. I wouldn't advise f*cking this one up."
"Peas and carrots, the two of you, huh?"
Sleater's eyes returned to the contract before her. She pored it over again, at an accelerated rate, the indignity of what's been presented to her plainly visible upon the reactionary contortion of her face.
"I can't concede this kind of power! You've seen our roster? We're thin enough as it is without our World Champion having a door out whenever he pleases!"
"You'd prefer he walk?"
"He'd be out millions!"
"Yeah, I mean, look how concerned he looks."
It was an option, of course, they'd had to leave open - David had, back in October, signed an airtight, four year contract extension. That was, of course, long before the Kyzer situation had escalated to where it was today. Long before management sat idly by and watched a man with a temporary instillation of power rob the rightful champion of his belt. Long before that same management had contracted a new talent to end the career, at the willful risk of the life, of another contracted member of the roster. David had spent seven years, on and off, handily navigating the sort of bullsh*t that saw tendency to break lesser men into full blown fits of rebellion before they were two years in, but even he was only human.
Even he, like the structure of his face, had a breaking point.
"Look, David - I get it. Okay? I can barely even look at you right now. That's not a knock - that's my own nature....and I'll thank you for not mentioning Trace, if you don't mind. You've every right to be upset with the cavalcade of what went wrong for you in New Orleans, but if I concede this, it isn't long before my talent is running my program, right? I can't have that."
"Can't you?"
"I don't like your tone, Ms. Collins."
"I don't like you, Ms. Sleater."
"Shame. I'd have pegged David a bit more strongly willed than to allow this sort of influence to dictate his actions."
At this, David rose without hesitance, brushing aside Nat has she placed a hand on his chest to calm him. Snatching up his World Chmapionship that had rested beside his seat, he took a long, hard look at the belt, glaring past its glimmering face as he did so to ensure that Sleater was watching his every move. Folding the straps behind the main plate, he stepped forward, and without a second's pause, placed the belt upon Sleater's desk.
"We're leabin'."
Turning his back to her, David signaled with a strained twitch of his head for Nat to follow, and began making his way out the door.
"Damn it......David, wait!"
David paused, not turning back to face her, allowing Nat, instead, to once more serve as his eyes an ears. She slowly turned, crossing her arms in front of her as Sleater, for the umpteenth time, pored over the details of the ammended contract. Muttering to herself, she slammed the form down, siezing a pen off her desk as she signed, hurriedly with no attempt to mask her frustration.
"There. It's done. It's insane, but it's done. Do I at least get a handshake agreement that you won't try and summarily f*ck me over on this."
"I'll keep him satisfied, thanks."
Recoiling at the forward implication of Nat's comments, Sleater slumped back into her chair, holding her head as if to nurse some sudden, imaginary headache.
"Couple weeks off, then?"
It was David now who reentered the room, approaching Sleater's desk and retrieving the belt he'd just offered up as the ultimate downpayment on what he wanted. Slinging the belt over his shoulder, he afforded a strained, painful grin as he shook his head in the negative.
"Necks show."
"Kyzer?"
His grin grew wider, even through the pain, as he once more refuted her presumption.
"Wolf."
I Hunt, Therefor I Am
Welcome to the big times, Wolfman.
Don't get too comfortable.
It ain't gonna last long.
See, you ain't here to build momentum. You ain't here to elevate your own risin' star, and you sure as sh*t ain't here to take a leap and get yourself a big ol' win over the WFWF World Heavyweight Champion.
You're here to be made an example out of.
You might fancy yourself somethin' of a bump in the road for someone like me, but the fact is, I got myself bigger fish to fry than the likes of someone like you.
Still, everyone's gotta be here for somethin', right?
Now, don't let that sh*t go to your head too quickly, either. You ain't a fraction of the man Michael Kyzer is. If that one stung a little bit more'n your everyday, run of the mill person-to-person, it's on account of it not really sayin' much, seein' as the only thing you and Kyzer've got in common's the propensity for cheap shots on the cut'n run. At least Kyzer's got a bit of brass behind him to put a little backup on top of his sucker punch game. At least Kyzer's got the f*ckin' decency to hit a guy when he's still upright and breathin'.
Come to think of it, he's also got the stones to at least come at a guy his own size, to boot.
That sh*t feel good, beatin' down the daughter of the only man who'd ever seen an ounce of f*ckin' worth in you, Trev?
See, at least when someone like Kyzer comes out swingin' cheap, he's got the bare modicum of self respect to come out swingin' high. Far as I can tell, you've spent whatever it is you call your career playin' safe and sound. That's kiddie sh*t. Nerf ball.
B*tch fights.
Has beens, like Jon O'Deeves.
Losers, like the Ahriman kid.
Nobodies, like whoever else it is you might've gone and tangled with down the bottom of the f*ckin' card.
You're outta your element, and I ain't afraid to let you know that I'm gonna exploit that for whatever shred of worth I can beat the f*ck outta you.
See, I’ve been ‘round the block long enough by now to figure out this place goes through phases like some twit little f*ckin’ teenager what’s just figured out the word ‘rebel’ for the first time and thinks he’s got what it takes to find his way through the f*ckin’ world. I ain’t exactly as tenured as some of the other old f*cks runnin’ around these parts, but I seen enough to know that if it’s workin’ for one son of a b*tch, you can bet the damn farm that soon enough, everyone else’ll be runnin’ around tryin’ to ride that wave of momentum like they went and thought of it all by their lonesome.
I figure that’s why it is you see just about everyone - Kyzer, Frankie, the new goth lookin’ kid, you - runnin’ up behind the backs of the folk holdin’ ‘em down the most and hittin’ ‘em unawares like a f*ckin’ bitch these days.
But you, Trev?
Well, sh*t kid - you just happen to be one unlucky little b*tch.
See, you’re fixin’ to be the little b*tch that shows the rest of the little b*tches out back just how far that sh*t’s gonna get ‘em. Now, you may be thinkin’ to yourself, “sh*t, David - you’re right! I ain’t f*ckin’ nobody! Why come after me? Why...why not go after Frankie, what took your belt the only way he was ever gonna get his lousy little Lynnfield mitts on one, or Kyzer! Everyone’s afraid of Kyzer! Nobody’s afraid of me!”, and you’d be just about right on the f*ckin’ money, Wolfie, but hey - sh*t break, man. It’s gotta be you.
You’re weak.
Their biggest set of guns might be restin’ right up on their f*ckin’ gums, but guys like Kyzer and Frank? Well, sh*t, it may not be much, but guys like them can at least put up half a decent fight, and the kinda licks they’ll inevitably get ‘emselves in before they f*ckin’ drop aint gonna do much in the way of makin’ a point, but you?
Oh, ho, ho, Wolfman…..I can make one hell of a f*ckin’ point outta you.
Whatever sh*t you think’s brought you up to this point don’t mean sh*t next to the fights I’ve walked my ass out of. There ain’t a soul you’ve stared down that’d make me quiver in my Martens, and you sure as sh*t ain’t toppled anybody’d who’d have a saint’s chance in hell against the likes of me.
Look, I’ve been around the block. That f*ckin’ stunt you pulled ahead of SuperBrawl however far back that was now? I’d have sooner’ve slapped on a pair of white gloves and bought myself a bright red popsicle’n bought an inch of that sh*t you were sellin’.
Come New Day Risin’?
I’m gonna make your ass wish you wasn’t fakin’.
I dont know good luck 
