It’s a small screen we view Ron Wilkins from, as the picture crystallizes we realize that he’s filming himself on his iPhone, using that Facetime shit. It appears that he’s in an airplane bathroom. He appears to be breathing heavily and looks like he is seconds away from ripping the nearest person in half. He takes a deep breath and speaks into his phone.

That’s what you’ve got you insignificant little puke?

You’re going to call me bland?

Tell me you’re going to make me eat my own eyeballs?

Make me do it now pussy.

“Deerrrrrrrr, I’ll wait til our match, Venus isn’t in the 13th house.”

Fuck you, I’ll make you floss with the hair around my asshole that my shit rubs against on its way to the toilet before you make me eat my own eyeballs.

You whine and cry about me not mentioning your supposed “insult”?

Why the fuck would I?

You bring nothing…NOTHING to the table but some weird fetish/cosplay alien fan fiction.

Listen up and listen up well, I am going to beat the fucking shit out of you. I am going to have you so confused and overwhelmed that you won’t know whether you should cry over your shattered teeth or your fractured skull.

Bringing up my wife and kids?

Way to reach for low hanging fruit you fucking sack of shit.

I’m boring?

Mother fucker, you are only present in this match so there can be a quick fall early to keep the audience’s attention while the rest of the big boys get ready to do some smashing.

You are going to get hurt you fucking weak ass excuse for a wrestler, and it’s going to be me who does it. I want…nah, I COMMAND you to think about that for the next 18 hours. When you step in that ring with me one thing will happen, you’ll be in my world and I’ll drag you to deep water to drown. When we get there I’m gonna grab hold of your arm or your neck or your knee and I’m not going to let you tap out. I’m going to make you fucking beg me to let go of that useless appendage.

I’m going to make you realize that whatever extremity I have it’s mine, that I fucking own you.

Eventually your pleading and whining will annoy me and I’ll let go, allowing you to escape whatever hell I create for you.

But remember.

It will be on my fucking terms. You’ve fucked up kiddo. You kicked the Hornet’s nest.

I hope they have a good hospital on Gilligan’s Island…or wherever fruitcakes like you come from.

The screen jostles a bit as Ron grabs it. The last thing it sees is an extremely concerned stewardess as Ron swings the airplane’s bathroom door open. Ron brushes past her and reclaims his seat in the 747…with visions of shattered arms dancing in his head.

Send anyone you want, but don't send anyone you want back.