So that was kinda interesting.

You drop one never-was in record time, and expectations change a bit. I came in here and told everyone I was going to fucking kill them – those might've even been my exact words, but don't quote me – and when I follow through, now I've got the “pressure” of a second match that I should've expected against a cagey vet who specializes in being one of the world's foremost experts in blathering on for a half hour without actually bothering to say one fucking thing.

The pressure is on. Maybe Mason's met his match, right? I've been in this game for... well, I guess cumulatively only about a month and a half, but nonetheless, I've run through people like Jeffrey Dahmer at a little league game in my time, and for the first time ever, I actually have nothing of note to say about someone.

Is my run over?

Is it time to hang them up?

Fuck that shit. The reason I have nothing to say about this clown is that you can walk down the streets of fucking Buttfuckegypt, South Dakota and find about sixty people more authentic and interesting than EJ Slayer. I swear to Christ, if he only knew how many times I've faced his fucking ass in my day; it's just not often that they're considered legitimate threats to take me down. No matter, rewind and reset because it's going to be a long night. And, contrary to what he thinks, I don't think I've got any problem with that.

Contrary to what you think, I don't need to – and have never needed to – put much effort into dispatching carbon copies of people like yourself. Just like you think you know my type, I know your type like the back of my fucking hand.

It's not that you're not talented (at least, in a relative, small fish in a fucking puddle sense); it's that you're not interesting, original, or noteworthy. It's not that you can't speak the language, it's that you have absolutely nothing noteworthy to say. It's not that you're not a good fighter, it's just that you're highly likely to get skullfucked by someone who has any kind of a clue about how to dispatch meandering, ordinary cannon-fodder.

I get it; you're a legend in your own mind. But, you've never been more than middle of the pack – and I know that after having never even bothered looking up your resume. It's no surprise that every fucking time we get a glimpse into the life of a mediocre like yourself, you're always at funerals or watching someone die; nobody really wants to get involved with you, because quite frankly, being in the same room with you for too long is bound to be depressing. It's like watching that kid in high school who you know is going nowhere – not the pothead or the special ed kid, though, the one who you know tops out at middle manager of a company that sells diet pills.

You're the fucking master of your domain, man. I get that. I respect your hustle, but holy fuck, I wouldn't want to be you if it meant I could bang 17 year old Disney Channel poon twelve hours a day.

Maybe I'm in a bit if a slump; I wouldn't be surprised, would you? But if I ever look like EJ Slayer, if I ever max out in my life as a ho-hum pseudo-misogynist with no prayer at being anything more than an afterthought first round casualty, please fire a hollowpoint into my brain and tell my kids it was for my own good.