"First of all, I wanna congratulate Peter on his meteoric wins over Robbie Bourbon, and Cadryn. They were wildly impressive. His current winning steak is unmatched. His lengthy reign as Universal Champion is something we should all admire, and strive for. His reign as Hart Champion, equally impressive. But, I think the most impressive part is that despite being a former universal champion, management decided to let Peter go for the Hart title again, since every other Universal Champion is banned from going for that, or the Television title. I think that speaks volumes about his career, skill, and status here in the XWF. I hope one day I, too, can be as prolific and recognizable as Peter Gilmour. I don't think so, though, because I don't possess his level of skill. I'd also like to take a minute to say that Peter Gilmour's wife is not actually a pig in a wig and lipstick, I'm not sure who started those rumors, but they need to quit. Let's not be insulting pigs here, come on, people. We're better than that. Pigs have feelings, too.

We should also take a minute to praise Peter for his terrific victory over Robert Main, which I know all of us predicted, but he still deserves some credit for it. Robert Main is a top level competitor, and the fact that Peter was able to beat him should be all the reason we need for Peter to be in the top fifty of the XWF. There's no reason Peter should be number 32 on that list, especially given his current run. Let's take a minute to appreciate his 16 times losing the Xtreme Title, that's impressive. He's managed to make 16 other people better champions, and we brush over that? This isn't fair. Peter Gilmour deserves respect and admiration for this stuff. I, no doubt, will go on to become one hell of a bombshell champion because of Peter. That's all I can hope for in life, to be made a better champion because of Peter. Nevermind the fact that I've already defended my belt successfully two more times than he did. He inspires me to be better than I am, by virtue of his track record.

Let's ignore the facts that I'm just some guy in a mask who keeps a lizard with him, and has a pocketful of crickets, or an anus full of eggs. We'll also ignore the fact that I literally don't pay much attention to my opponents because of how little I care about them, or that I manage to constantly, and without rhyme or reason, exaggerate or straight up make up every facet of my life, and the events around me. Ignore how oblivious I seem to how absurd the world thinks I am, because that's not fun. Ignore how I ignore the truth in favor of a good story, because that's just not something worth addressing. If you ignore all of that, you're faced with one reality. I'm still that good in the ring, and I have every intention of winning this match. I don't care about Peter's plans, nor do I care about whatever story he'll tell us with his overblown theatrics and tough guy antics, or the stupid shit he'll undoubtedly say. I just don't, and no matter what he tries to say about me, there's every chance it was said by me already. Peter doesn't understand the difference between China and Japan. He thinks Samurai are Chinese, because when you're a racist who idolizes Hitler, details like this don't matter.

Of course, trying to explain this to Peter will probably result in my head turning into cabbage. Of course, Peter will refute this, but being honest, I won't pay attention to that, cause Peter. Expecting me to pay attention, or Peter to be right about this is like expecting Tuxedo Mask to do more than throw a rose when he shows up, it just won't happen, fam. Sorry, but not sorry. I'm getting bored of this though, so I'm going to probably go for a run and get nachos. So, bye guys. I've got less important things to do, but they're just probably going to amount to more than prepare to face Peter."

The stupid neighbor kid, who's bike I stole is holding the camera on me, waiting for my signal to stop recording. He's like 17, and about my height, with light brown hair. It's shaggy and unkempt looking. He's assured me that isn't an an indicator that he has Scurvy, but I can't be certain. Instead of giving his scurvy having ass the signal, I decide to bolt out of the rundown warehouse we were filming in. Running past the worn down textile equipment, coated in a decade's worth of dust and rust, I notice that there's a pile of poop on the floor. I wanna stop and collect it, but that would mean being exposed to Scurvy boy, and I can't risk that. I finish my run out of the factory, and end up by the kid's bike, it's a Harley, but it says Yamaha on the side. He's chasing me, so I hop on his bike and peddle away. Rushing passed the factories still operating, the motor chugs and puffs, and we're clear of Factory Row after a minute.

It's a lovely day outside, there's rain and storms raging ahead. I can hear the thunder rumbling, and it gives me the strangest boner. The buildings on the side of the road turn into a blur as we go passed, and then I see it. The nacho shack. It's not really a shack, it's just a building that serves food, and some of it's nachos. I pull into the parking lot, and park the bike. Mike comes crawling out of my helmet, and perches on my shoulder as we walk in. The place is packed, and covered in Mexican decorations, like paintings of giant mice doing things like riding in cars, and eating pizza, purple blob creatures dancing with kids, and videos of the mice singing Karaoke with a group of kids. There's even a big mouse walking around giving things to the kids playing games in the arcade section.

I walk up the counter where you order, and wait for someone to come over to make me my food. It's some little brunette girl, she's probably about 17 as well, so I might try and hook her up with Scurvy kid, but fuck him and his Scurvy having ass. I mean not actually, because he's a kid, but he's got Scurvy, and that makes me nervous, even if he denies it. I debate asking the counter girl, but just as I'm about to, Scurvy boy pops into the Greek restaurant I'm in.

"Bruh, why'd you run? You owe me $40 for filming that."

"I don't want Scurvy. Do you want Nachos?"

He walks up to me, and punches me in the stomach. I double over, and can feel the blood pouring to my anus. It tickles, and I let out a small fart of joy. He grabs my helmet and lifts it up to face him.

"Dawg, I don't have Scurvy, and I want my money."

I laugh a little. He seems confused by this.

"Do you have my money?"

I laugh and laugh. He drops his elbow on my back, and I laugh harder.

"Oh, Sammy boy. I don't have your money on me. I don't carry money, you know that. Buy me nachos, and I'll get you your money."

He drops another elbow on my back before walking up to the counter. The girl working it looks at him before glancing at me, and then at the register.

"Do you have Nachos for this headcase?"

"We're a Chuck E. Cheese. We don't do nachos.Why would you come to a child's pizza place for nachos, sir? I can get you a pizza, if you'd like."

I just returned to my upright position, and turned around to face the two of them staring me down. I know what they expect. Mike comes crawling out of my pocket, and into my palm. He licks at my thumb, which tells me to extend my hand for them to see, which I do.

"Howdy, ma'am. My name is Esteban Reyes Ricardo Arnez. But, you can call me Grande Ricardo, and this is my pet dragon, Mike. Together, we're going to tackle the wrestling world. This is my neighbor Patrick, he's a good kid. He might have Scurvy, but he does need a date for Saturday night. Would you be his date?"

She looks at him, and then at me, and at Mike, before finally going back to Joseph, and blushing. I can see her blush, despite her attempts to cover it up. She can't cover that up from me! I can smell it in the water, like a shark. I SHALL CALL HER ON IT!

"Bethany, do not try and hide that blush. No, ma'am, you were born with it, it's not Maybeline, and I can believe it's not butter. Do you take this Scurvy Pirate to be your Saturday night date?"

I would wait with baited breath, but I don't know what that means. I hope she answers, though, because I think maybe she'll get him to eat oranges, and oranges will stave off his Scurvy. I'm holding my breath until she answers. It's been long enough, like 5 seconds. I might lose consciousness.

"Sure, I guess. My name is..."

"Your name is Stephanie, and he'll pick you here at 9pm. He rides a Honda bike, but it says Ducatti on the side."

Chet comes over, and punches me in the kidney.

"My bike was a Yamaha, and you lost it. You owe me for that also."