Threaded Mode | Linear Mode

~~Ronnie Cage~~ · (12-18-2016)

Why would you speak if you don't know?

Ronnie Cage is wearing gym shorts and a tank top, even though it's fucking cold outside. He's out for a run with earbuds in his ears. He's listening to something really fucking loud. Surprisingly, they're not southern, and they're not old. The band is called PUP, and they're a punk rock band, from Toronto, Canada. The music gets interrupted by a text from Brandon. "Yo. Ronald. Check this shit. Grab some water wings, 'cause this shit will make you go off the deep end." Ronnie stops running and leans against a nearby wall. He opens his text messages and reads the above, then he sees "..." then a link, then another link. Brandon must be sending videos of what their opponents have been saying about their match. Ronnie clicks on the first one. His left fist clenches, and his face starts to turn red. He clicks the next one. With each video, Ronnie's anger builds, until finally, he snaps. He picks up a metal newspaper box and throws it through a shop window.

"What the fucking shit? Ah'm so sick of these fucking people. And here, Ah thought, we were fucking dysfunctional. But these six fucking pieces of shit take the fucking cake.

First of all, Drezdin, buddy. Have yew been living under a fucking rock? David and Ah are not only not rookies. We're fucking undefeated. Three and fucking zero. It's not a huge number, but it definitely doesn't make us rookies. Everyone knows Brandon got fucking robbed at Wild Card Weekend. He deserved that fucking win. Listen, Ah'm sorry about yore father died. Wait, no, Ah'm really not. Who the fuck gives a shit. Yore father died, crah me a fucking river. Also, Ah dew hope yew come down from that fucking acid trip yew must be on. Nami's a fucking chick bud, or did yew not notice her triple Z fucking tits? Yore already making excuses fore losing. Oh, boo fucking hoo. Don't even fucking show up fore this match. Please. Ah'm begging yew. Yew'll just make this bloodbath last longer than it has tew.

Ah don't know who broke up with who, but as far as Ah'm concerned Ah wouldn't blame either Liyanna or Drezdin fore breaking up with the other. But, having said that, yore both so fucking brainless and crazy, that the tew of yew deserve each other. Go find a padded cell, and lock yoreselves in there tewgether. Just get Liyanna a fucking muzzle. Ah think she needs it. She's worse than a rabid fucking dog that needs tew be put down.

Snow, Broken Hart, Kid Kool. Ah don't even know where tew begin.

Snow, maybe being tossed intew that wall rattled yore brain a little bit. Ah actually didn't say a fucking word in that bar. David did. And Ah'm sorry, did he offend yew? Did he hurt yore pride? Believe me, after tonight's match, yore gonna wish that was all that hurt. Yew talk about crushing mah nuts? Yew dumb fucking dyke, dew yew even know where mah testicles are? Have yew ever seen a pair? Bah the way? Randy Savage is dead, and Ric Flair is old, or is yore head so far up yore own ass that yew forgot that. So if Kid Kool has the fight of a dead man and an old man, Ah don't think that's much tew be worried about. Plus, with the amount of coke, or is it crack? Ah thought crack was smoked, and coke was snorted? Who cares, right? It'll fuck yew up either way, and with the amount Ah have see him dew, he ain't gonna be pretty fore very long.

Don't yew worry. Havoc will no longer hold back. Ever. They will have tew fucking pull yew off the mat with a fucking crowbar. Yew will be unrecognizable.

Broke Back. Hah. If that wasn't the best yew could come up with, Ah'd actually laugh. But that's just sad. Yew sad lonely bitch. Ah thought dykes were sensitive enough tew not use homosexuality as an insult. Ah guess yew must hate yoreself fore not liking men. That's fine. Maybe we can beat that out of yew. David and Ah are best friends. Brothers. Ain't nothing sexual about that. Ah really couldn't give less of a shit whether southerners like yew better than they like us. This isn't a popularity contest, it's a contest tew see who's better at beating the living shit out of the other person, and Butch? That's us. Yew talk about puttin' differences aside. Sure doesn't look like it! Does it make yew jealous that both yore partners have companions, and that yore all alone? Ah mean, what woman would want yew, when they could have one of us? Ah may not be Brad Pitt, but Ah am definitely a better option than yew.

Broken Hart, pal. Ah think yew misunderstood me. Ah didn't say yew were smart. Ah just said yew were smarter than that white trash piece of dyke shit, Snow, and that drug addicted buffoon, Kid Kool. But really, that isn't saying very much at all. My dead uncle's turds are smarter than those tew. Yew respect me? That's nice. Ah'll respect yew when yore dead.

Ah'm sick and tired of having tew explain tew yew fucks about how we're going tew beat yew. Ah'm done talking. It's time tew put yew in the fucking ground, and Ah've already marked yore graves. Yew'll share a final resting place with a thousand other nameless fucks that the world forgot about.

Listen here, XWF. Put whoever yew want in front of us, and we will mow them down. Unknown Soldier, Doc D'ville. Yore days as tag champs are numbered. Robbie Bourbon, Chris Chaos. Peter Gilmour. We have tangled with the best. But then we came here. Yore all just autopsies waiting tew happen. Cause of death: Havoc. When we have burnt this place tew the motherfucking ground, we'll move on. Until then. There is no one we fear. No one who is safe. The death toll will rise, and rise, and motherfucking rise some fucking more. Shit, we'll kill more people than cancer."

Ronnie's phone buzzes again. It's an alarm telling him that he has to go back and get ready for his match, and that if he hadn't heard from Brandouche yet, he should find that douche-y motherfucker and make sure he's not pissing away his money.

"One more thing, XWF. Remember this. Brandon? He's Just Plain Better than all of yew fucking fucks. David? David's the Personification of fucking Perfection, and he's coming fore yew sorry sons of bitches. This. Us. We're fucking Havoc, yew sorry sacks of shit fucks. And there's no way in fucking hell yew could possibly be ready fore it."

Threaded Mode \| Linear Mode Why would you speak if you don't know?
Author	Message