Ugh, where am I?

Yeah, haha, real funny me. I know that's the first question I have most days but I know where I am this time. I think. I open my eyes and wipe away the sand from the corners, before attempting to push myself up off the tattered, dirty ass green carpet I fell asleep on. A layer of dried saliva pins the side of my face to the carpet and I have to push harder to rip the two apart and when I finally do I feel a bit of the carpet peel off with me. Wiping my cheek, I look down at my hand to see a bunch of hair and lint stuck to it. Perfect. Best way to start the day. Ever. I blink a few times, losing track after like six or seven, and begin to walk over to the far end of the room, where I see a flight of stairs leading up. On the way, a Mexican flag hanging from the wall catches my eye; at least I'm in good hands and didn't wake up in some rape dungeon or something. That's always a positive. My head throbs and the back of my eyes hurt, but when is that not the case?

I reach the stairs and grab blindly for the handrail, catching it with my left pinkie finger and readjusting my hand to better grasp it before taking the ever important first step. Christ, how many ever so important first steps are there? Admitting you have a problem, telling your significant other you've been cheating on them since the first date, going to rehab. Shit, there's important first steps every fucking where. Fuck those things. Before I know it, I'm halfway up the stairs, and I can see light shining at the top. Am I dead or something? Worse yet, am I dead and is this how I walk into the light? I mean, I expected to end up in Hell anyway but I didn't expect Heaven to mimic my daily routine. Whoever thought of this shit is about as creative as the guy who ghostwrites all of TJ Wallace's trash talk. Granted, the guy probably finger paints with his own shit as a means of getting the words onto paper so in that regard I guess he's creative. Hell, maybe Kirk's the guy responsible for everything the Underground has been spitting since they all formed up like a Voltron. Wouldn't surprise me since the little I've seen of him confirms he has an IQ of like negative three.

The top of the stairs proves itself to not be Heaven when I get there. No, the light's only a product of an open window and the room on the right is the kitchen; where a vaguely familiar looking man looks over at me, his face turning into a confused scowl. He starts to speak to me but all his words come out sounding like the feral cries of a Mexican Sasquatch. Nothing at all resembling human speech. He stops speaking, giving me a reprieve from his death wails but he continues looking at me. Expecting me to call back with the same bullshit not speaking that he was using. Instead, I stay silent and stare straight ahead, over his head and at the wooden cabinets behind. Damn, those are some nice wooden cabinets I assume. Better than mine, but then again I'm pretty sure mine are moldy and if they aren't that; it's a rat's nest. Yeah, probably the latter the more I think about it. I should get someone to clean it. I should, but I'm probably never going to because that would require calling someone and yeah fuck that shit.

He clears his throat and glares at me, to which I just shrug and glare back. I lean against the wall and slide my hands into my pocket and he erupts into another fit of arm flailing and primitive growling.

"Huh? I don't speak cavemang, mang. You're gonna have to start making sense."

Oh, and now he's looking at me like I'm the crazy one. Yeah, fuck you too buddy.

He grabs for the fork sitting on the table next to him and chucks it at me, which I barely duck and it collides prongs first into the wall. Sadly, it doesn't embed itself in there which I guess makes him slightly happier than he would've been had it done that but he's still looking at me like I kicked his fucking dog or something. Now, after his attempted assault via flying dining utensils, I feel like I need to go kick his fucking dog to feel like I'm not being made to look like a bitch. Now, all I gotta do is find his dog. I push off the wall and make my way out of the kitchen, all the while he follows me, shouting, growing increasingly angry but still refusing to speak a human language.

I brush him off and storm through the house, closely followed by his bumbling, screaming ass. Finally, I make my way into what I can only guess to be his living room. There, I find some fat bitch and three little fucknuggets who I can only guess are his wife and kids, respectively. No dog, though. Fuck it; fatass will have to do. Fatass, currently lounging in the recliner watching some show on the TV that's speaking the same nonsense language as the guy, looks over at me with wide eyes and a dropped jaw, though I'm sure the only reason her mouth's open is because she was busy shoveling food into it like her name was Peter Gilmour. The children scatter, I think. I don't know. They were here one second and gone the next, like ghosts or some shit. I walk over to the recliner and tug on fatass' tree trunk like arm. Fuck, I don't think I can get her out of this chair. She's. Too. Fat.

Finally, I pull back with enough force to remove her from the chair and she struggles to stand on her own two feet. Luckily for her, she doesn't need to struggle any longer before I kick her as hard as I can in the stomach and turn to feral Sasquatch guy and stick out my tongue.

It's at this point that I realize he has a knife in hand.

And it's at this point in which I book it the fuck outta the house, jumping through the window and running off down the sidewalk and through a maze of alleys until I'm sure he's gone. Fuck, that was a close one.

Last time I break into someone's house to sleep in this neighborhood. I'm gonna give these guys a one star rating on Yelp. That'll show them.

---

C'est la vie.

Oh, shit. That's French and I've totally outed myself on not being a real Mexican ohemgee guise seriously!

Come the fuck on. I thought we were past this, amigos. But no, all these fucking on Team MacClay wanna talk about is how fucking Mexican I am like it's a bad thing. Because they're fucking racists headed by a racist. Why else do you think ol' Kirk had issues with Tigris in the first place? It's because the crazy broad is Iranian! Man, this ain't no post-racial society. Hell, the XWF ain't even a post-idiocy federation yet. Not as long as TJ Wallace is still living and breathing. Yeah, normally I'd be saying "so long as Peter Gilmour is alive and breathing" but no. TJ Wallace surpasses Gilmour in terms of sheer fucking stupidity and bullshit. Congrats, mang. It's a fucking accomplishment. Do you want your lifetime supply of lead paint chips before or after this match?

I mean, seriously, Teej? I'd figure you'd know the sting of racism well enough not to come out with racist slurs against a fellow minority-- oh wait! Your ass isn't even black. Nah, you're painted up like a fuckin' minstrel show and underneath all that make up you're whiter than milk, mang. Just give it up. Wipe the paint off, maybe it'll stop getting in your eyes and it'll lead to you failing a lot less. Okay, that's a fucking lie because you'll still blow either way but at least then you wouldn't have such a convenient excuse. Oh, and maybe stop biting things that've been said to you. You, and your fucking wet dreams about me claiming that I'd go gay for a prissy who paints himself up black? Nah mang, too straight for that shit.

But hey, he wants to bring up ancient history! Name drop all the old time names to show he knows his shit, except for the fact that literally all he knows is the names. Like, how I was the odd man out, being the man with the most consecutive days as European Champion. Right, that's being skullfucked by everyone in the XWF and you losing every single time you step into the ring is somehow succeeding. Fuck right off with that stupid, braindead shit, kid. And fuck off with your refusal to accept reality. Like, the little bit of footage that aired about me being flat out begged to come back because y'know, because you don't like it it somehow doesn't exist.

Fucking entitled white privileged cunt.

But hey, maybe he's right. Maybe the little engine that never could is right and I'm a washed up has-been being pulled out of retirement when I simply can't go anymore.

Better than being the already washed up never-was fighting so hard for his guaranteed losses, every single week. At this rate Teej, you won't even have a pension to soak up by the time someone stomps you into retirement.

Anywho, onto Knight. Who, as someone who's accomplished so much has every right to judge the way I live my life, even though my left fucking nut has done more than he will ever do. Gotta love these little bitches, eh amigos? Especially when they cosplay as something important like Knights and shit and can't even beat a dude who named himself CC Hollywood and Jesus Christ. Seriously, the Jesus Christ jokes write themselves because it's too good. Seriously. I love that. Thank you Jesus.

Mang, Knight, you got it mixed up. See, I ain't no like you, having to rely on shit you picked up from classes to speak my second language. Nah mang, English comes pretty easily to me, just like ass kicking though you're right. I'll be hella confused if I start to wonder why your ragtag band of asspirates was kicking my ass, considering how fucking impossible that will be. Seriously, do you even think this shit our before you start talking or do you just vomit words all over the place like your Tourette's addled BFF TJ Wallace. Seriously, tell me. Under that make up how white is he? I'm guessing like "haven't seen the sun in like three years" white but my amigo Guadalupe's leaning more towards only like not seeing the sun in two years. We got a couple pesos riding on it.

That make you happy? You done whining about how I only spent a sentence on you and didn't hand you relevance on a silver platter like MacClay handed you the TV title?

Good. It's the closest to stardom you'll ever get. Bask in it.

Oh lookie! Swann's here, in spirit. Seriously, dude's dropping voicemails and shit like he's cool enough to pull that off when he's about as memorable as that one episode of Supernatural. Hell, even this guy's "fans" were prolly scratching their heads and collectively wondering who the fuck he was until they remembered his name. Which was probably at the tail end considering this guy didn't even say anything that was worth remembering. Shit, I have to have it playing in the background to refresh my fucking memory amigos!

I mean sure, most of it was the same lame uninspired bullshit about me being Mexican that everyone else already said so he's pretty damn late to the party on that one but I'm sure he's used to that by now. But hey, since he's talking about how he's going to kick my ass, let me counter. Like you did to Ruben A. Mitchell, right? Come on mang, you didn't expect me not to end up doing mi research did you? Fuckin' losing and losing hard to Ruben like he was actually worth a shit and you're coming in here claiming to be able to come at me? Come on son, get real. Not in your fucking dreams. Hell, one of those stuffed animals that bears my fucking likeness would still have no trouble fucking destroying you, gringo. An inanimate fucking object could beat you. Hell, you practically already lost to one, seeing as though Ruben A. Mitchell is basically failure condensed into a vaguely humanoid shape.

Eat shit, .

And lastly, we look at Lane. Are we still claiming conspiracy, man? Or are you past that and are you apt to claim it was now just a race to see who would pin Mosier first? Funny how once I call you on it you change your tune real quickly. But hey, let's look at this conspiracy shall we? You pin Harrison, claim you beat me. I beat Mosier, and you flip the fuck out and rant about how it's all a conspiracy and that it's bullshit. Nice fucking temper tantrum honey, what did your fucking mannequin looking, more plastic than skin, cumdumpster forget to change your fucking tampon before you went out there that night? Pathetic, mang. Fucking pathetic. Here, let old timer Luca tell you a story. About the time I was screwed. And yeah, I was. See, Paul Heyman was not a fan of me being the European Champion, something about me making him feel insecure or some shit and so he got some fucking scrubs, not as big of scrubs as Wallace and Swann but scrubs nonetheless, to try and screw my ass out of the title. And for a brief moment he succeeded. Y'know what I did? I sucked it the fuck up, and won that shit back on the same night.

I didn't throw a bitch fit.

I dealt with business.

Because that's the difference between me and you. I deal with my shit. You cry. And then you cry moar.

It's kinda funny, actually. Know what? I was gonna try in vain to convince you to adopt the effective strategy but you know what? Nah fuck that. Keep on doing what you're doing buddy.

Sure as is more fun than Wallace stumbling over his ABCs, that's for sure.