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#MemeQueen Luca Torchwick · (09-29-2017)

Question: why the FUCK does DRAM look like the end-result of a 2014 Seattle Seahawks gangbang? That shit ain't rhetorical, I wanna know why this fuckin' dude looks like the lovechild of Richard Sherman and Marshawn Lynch. Right, re-introductions first and all that good shit. What's up, cucks? It's your boy Lucy Liuca coming at ya with that shit that makes dudes question their sexuality and shit. I know, I know, I sound like one 'a dem queers that just up and fucked off tryna settle back into the groove 'n shit, like I ain't been killin' it on the color(ed) commentary for the better part of like five months now but hear me out. Commentary Luca ain't nothin' like Wrestler Luca and I already hit y'all nerds wit' dat old school flow back right before 2016 when I usurped Vinnie Lane's spot as the guy who made Austin Fernando a star. Now I gotta do that shit all over again. Ahem, listen up bois, gurls, and genderfluid fifth dimension house plants: you just might learn a couple things.

Shit, it's been like almost a year since I last set foot in the ring as an active competitor. Almost a year since I waltzed into an arena whose reputation was build on the backs of legends, stars, icons, and got a bigger pop than any of them. I've made a fuckin' career out of stealing the shine that other people worked hard for, of swooping in and ripping it from the cold, twitching hands of anyone dumb enough to step to. Y'know, it's fuckin' cyclic in nature. It really is. I could step right the fuck up now, and with a few words of encouragement, I could get a whole new generation of up and comers to swing by the fuckin' storm drain like they're little Georgie Denbrough and I got their boat. Then one by one I rip their fuckin' arms off and leave 'em there for their friends and family to find.

But this time, I ain't doing that. Nah, I don't got any type of hunger that beating on the next generation can satiate. I'm happy for this new class, it's actually pretty likable.

I ain't here to suck my own dick for the umpteenth time under the guise of bringing everyone who doesn't know me up to speed with all the shit I've fuckin' done, I'll leave that for my boi Sammy. Because that's really what this is all about, ain't it? This is the match people have been wanting to see for a real long time. Hey, John, I think Vinnie's a little pissed about the date we set. We all know this is the money match people are dying to see. They've been waiting with bated breath ever since we first teased this match at the Dumpster Fire Seen 'Round the World. But we didn't do it on Pay-Per-View. So now the real main event is the second match on the card. I can't really blame Vinnie for being mad about it, I would be too if I was him. You wanna know a secret, though? Lean in real close, my dude, so I can whisper it to you.

I think people were even more hype for this than the match itself. This right here: the fuckin' promo. Yeah, singular. Not plural. Not the promos. The promo. What I say about you. And why wouldn't they be? I mean, we're friends ain't we? We're buddies. I'm pretty much an honorary member of the Kings. Y'all know how I treat my friends. Shit, I couldn't even say anything bad about Fernando. You won't catch me speaking ill of my little brother Equinox. Not one fuckin' word.

So how the fuck is Luca gonna approach spitting fire at a buddy?

How the fuck, indeed.

After all, it ain't like I'm poking Phantom Panzer with a stick to see how long it'll take for him to realize that, if he just shuts the fuck up and stops sperging the fuck out, I'll stop. I'm not bullying some Aspie. I'm spitting fire with John Samuels, certified fuckin' legend. I gotta class it up a little bit.

Maybe I should go with dat Swiss Army Knife approach and talk shit about THe Kings as a whole and beat that dead horse until its eyes pop the fuck out of its skull. Or bring up the race lift as if that's still relevant. Or try to pry at your accomplishments as if the hows and whys and what happened immediately afters really stick in your head and cause you to lose sleep. Maybe I should go for dat bland, retread of a retread shit.

Nah, I gotta personalize it a little bit. We may be friends, but this is a fuckin' competition. I gotta swing at you like only I can swing at you. It's gotta be done.

Hey, John! How does it feel knowing that in spite of everything you've ever done in your career, all the triumphs and heartbreaks, you're still just one step below me? See, and I don't know if you've realized this because it took me a little more thought than I normally give to it, but you and me are alike in a lot of ways. We came into the XWF around the same time (sure I had a head start of a couple months but really the further forward we go in time, the less individual months matter). We've associated with the same people. We've even had some of the same big career moments. Ain't that right, Titan? Of course, who could've predicted that two big names would return in masks at the same time? But it did, and on one faithful night in Auschwitz, I proved who the better masked legend was.

Of course, that wasn't the first time I whipped my dick out and established dominance. Nah, if we wanted to see the first time that happened, you need look no further than when Paul Heyman picked me to be the fuckin' catalyst for Madness in your absence. I took a modestly successful show in its own right and made it the fucking flagship show. I really never got to thank you for handing me a solid foundation, but I gotta ask: aren't you just the least bit resentful of the beautiful home I built on it? Don't you ever think that it should've been yours? Or, worse, do you ever think that you wouldn't have been able to get the job done? So you can point to your absence to explain that yeah, you totally would have had you been around.

It's okay. I believe you.

But goddamn, it's gotta sting a bit, coming up short to the dude everyone likes to roast for being a bag boy time and time again. We can fuckin' count it at this point:

You make Madness legit. I make it the best wrestling show in the world.

You make a triumphant return under a mask. With my own mask on, I beat you and ensure that you were the second best.

You go out and win the Universal Title. You've been King of the XWF back when it was a championship and not a yearly accolade. Still, your boy's one spot above you on the Top 50 list and never won either. I never needed those props. I still don't. I'll let you and Theo worry about those, seems like y'all need 'em more than I ever will.

You beat so many goddamn legends. So many icons. So many stars, past, present, and future. Yet, I'm the one guy you can't say you have a W against. Theo Pryce, Eli James, the Feders, good ol' Vinnie Lane, so on and so forth, all these guys you've force-fed your fuckin' boot but the one guy who's been able to slip your clutches is Luca Arzegotti: the goddamn Perpetual Prince. The scrawny, twitchy, coke-head who never took the wrestling business seriously as an active competitor is the one head you can't put up above your mantle.

Hell, I could trot out the list of superstars whose hype I've made fucking evaporate. I could brag about how I was the first guy to beat Eli James. I could suck my own dick about beating Evertrust and Sid Feder with a broken fucking ankle for about an hour but that's not what interests me right now, John. I'm interested in the inverse, fam.

You wanna know the illustrious list of one-hit wonders and nobodies who have beaten me, John? Do I need to drag that list out and really rub the salt in the wound? Or has the point already been made.

It's tragic, really. You're bound to care about this shit a whole lot more than me by default, man. I'm one of the few people who can say they don't give a fuck about their own legacy and genuinely mean it. Hell, I might be the only one. But even then, I might not be remembered for all the stupid things I did instead of focus up. I might not be remembered for fucking around in the tag team division and playing lackey in stables when I should've been competing for the top belt.

I think I might be remembered for being John Samuels, but better. Sure, maybe not in getting the big one but since when has that meant shit? Russell Wilson has a ring and Dan Marino doesn't. Barry Bonds never won a World Series. Peter Gilmour's a former Universal Champion.

But where it matters? The pieces are all there, fam. It ain't like you gotta do a whole lot forcing to get them to fit, either. Just gotta look at it from a slightly different angle. Maybe I should wrestle this match in blackface, just to really mimic the career beats. To show that I'm even the better wrestler to change race, if only symbolically.

I want you to know something, John. A really fucking big something. If this were anyone else, I wouldn't hesitate to do just that. There wouldn't be a tinge of hesitation but you, you're not anyone else. I like you too much to do that. This isn't about humiliating you, my man. You gotta know that. The last thing I want to do is make you look like a fuckin' idiot out there.

But you have to know why I gotta do this. Why I gotta drag all this out, bring it into the spotlight, and make everyone look. You called me out, man. You wanted this, I didn't go around asking for you to swing first. You just cocked back and I couldn't stop you from opening this can of worms.

You swung, man. Let the record show that John Samuels swung first. I wasn't about to start this fight, man. But I'll fucking finish it.

Because, there's an answer to some of those questions I asked a while back. You should be resentful of the beautiful house I built on your lot. You should be even more pissed that I let it fall into disrepair because I couldn't be bothered to maintain it.

Heyman wanted you to be his guy. But, nah. Kono Luca da.

You really should be mad that no matter what you've done, what you do, what you'll ever do, I'll find some way to surpass you without even consciously trying. That's the rub, I could say that all this happened because I've been trying to subtly, passive-aggressively one up you all these years but that just isn't true, man. It just sort of happened. That's the real tragedy here. I didn't even have to try to do this shit.

It's just, no matter what you do you're still there: the eighteen to my seventeen. And no matter how much you may like me, it has to eat at you a little. This fuckin' guy of all people is somehow just subtly superior, there's some intangible quality he has that just propels him just a little bit further than you on all trials like he's the fuckin' Energizer bunny and he doesn't know just when to stop.

I wish I could explain it for ya, man. I wish I could tell you what it is I have and you don't. But I don't even know. It's somethin' innate. Has to be, I haven't actively tried to improve as a wrestler since June of 2013. Maybe sooner. I don't even remember at this point. I plateaued early in my career, but it's always been enough to outshine 99% of this business. Please, don't feel singled out because your cock shrivels in shame when you try to stack up with me. It happens to the best of them.

Shit, man. There's a silver lining here if you squint hard enough.

Right now, you can push yourself as hard you can go. You can even beat me to get that monkey off your back. I'm out of shape, I've been commentating for the longest time and haven't even thought about getting into the ring until you decided to swing at me outta the blue. You can go harder than a motherfucker, win everything, beat everyone. You can accomplish everything you could ever accomplish in this business...

...then you can forever be remembered as the black Luca Arzegotti.

The seventeen to my sixteen.

The ten to my nine.

The two to my one.

When it comes to beating me, you're fuckin' OJ, man.

No matter how hard you try, the gloves just don't fit.

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