Threaded Mode | Linear Mode

Morbid Angel · (08-13-2014)

Peter.

I've learned a lot listening to you this week.

I knew you couldn’t read. In fact, I’m confident that the first book you were handed as a child you ate. And I assume based on your gut that you’ve been doing the same with every piece of reading material that you’ve ever come into contact with.

That said, I didn’t know your lack of reading comprehension could carry over to give you FUCKING HEARING PROBLEMS.

Because I dropped a promo a couple days ago that had a very specific message.

And you seemed to hear something… entirely different.

Although to be fair, your lack of comprehension again, might have to do something with the fact that you have no idea where you are or who is around you at any time.

Case in point:

Quote: I've known you ever since I joined the XWF back in 2010

Actually, I joined the XWF in 2012. Where I made my debut. I have no idea how you’d know me since 2010. Unless you’re just making things up. Like how you murder people. You’ve been here, what, four years? The closest you came to murdering someone was DARK SHADOW, giving him a piledriver from the top of a cage.

And you must have found a way to fuck that up, because he still got up after the match so you could give him a handshake.

And then attack him. Because Peter Gilmour has the mental capacity of a seven-year old and thinks that’s what makes guys look tough.

Fucking up death-dealing maneuvers and deceitful post-match ambushes.

Quote:You call me delusional and think I'm not going to show up tomorrow night.

I didn’t say that, Pete. I know you’re going to show up tomorrow.

Because as terrified as you are of taking on someone… Hell, ANYONE, fairly, where you’re in a position to lose something valuable.

You’re also terrified of losing that valuable thing.

I’m not saying you won’t show up.

I’m saying you haven’t showed up mentally.

Hell, look at you. It’s the day of the match and you still haven’t.

Ranting about a bunch of illogical bullshit, like the movie Waterworld, Eli James the #1 contender for the Universal Title not being good by the Peter Gilmour standard, calling me a homosexual when I’ve managed to wrestle for two years in this business without ever shoving a dildo down someone’s throat. Or feeling a need to confess that another male wrestler had sex with me. Because I haven't

Quote:You call my tag title defenses "honorable" I've defended my belts with pride Mark.

…

First off: No. You haven’t.

To defend your belts with pride.

YOU HAVE TO FUCKING DEFEND THEM.

Peter.

LISTEN.

TO.

THE.

FUCKING.

WORDS.

COMING.

OUT.

OF.

MY.

MOUTH.

Your tag title defenses aren’t honorable BECAUSE YOU HAVEN’T DEFENDED YOUR FUCKING TAG TITLES FOR TWO MONTHS.

I STEPPED UP TWO WEEKS IN WITH A CHALLENGE AND YOU DECIDED INTO INSTEAD OF ACCEPTING IT OR NEGOTIATING WITH MANAGEMENT FOR A DIFFERENT DAY, TO INSIST THAT YOUR SCHEDULE WAS FULL…

WHICH IT WASN’T.

AND THEN HOPE WE WENT AWAY…

…

Black did. Because fuck him.

I didn’t.

I called your defenses honorable to mock you. Because in your first promo, YOU called your non-existent title defenses ‘honorable.’ Because you’re STILL a delusional IDIOT.

Quote:You then try to say my promo was boring and redundant. Bringing up me challenging Tommy Gunn's doofus nephew is supposed to scare me?

…Seriously, are you just making shit up now? I didn’t call your promo boring and redundant.

In fact, I stated the opposite.

It was all over the place. Targeting people that you weren’t taking on tonight. People like Tommy Gunn’s nephew who you’re still calling a doofus.

Quote:You're still a has been and always will be Slater's bitch. And I'm not talking about the guy from Saved by the Bell. You know who he is don't you?

Bringing up Tristan Slater, who hasn’t been in this company for two years, who I beat easily the last time we met in the ring… And… The television show Saved By the Bell… for…I don’t know, some reason?

Sorry, Pete. Are you a big fan? Did you, in the middle of your promo about how you’re an unstoppable juggernaut that will LITERALLY, Let me emphasize, LITERALLY send your opponent’s to ACTUAL CHRISTIAN HELL and AGAIN will LITERALLY rip your opponent’s balls off…

…Seriously, Pete, just come out of the closet. We all know already, this isn’t even a gay joke. Just look in your heart and realize that when you’re in a ring with two other men, you think about touching their balls.

This isn’t even funny, other people mean this as a joke, I just wish you’d be honest with yourself and stop aching inside…

Did you suddenly remember your favorite Saved By the Bell moment and just have to shoehorn that in too? Did AC Slater’s wacky misadventures suddenly mak

My point, Petey has been, and is still, that you’re unfocused. That you’re too mentally slow to realize that you’re being played

You’re swinging at enemies that won’t be showing up tonight. You’re wasting words, and subsequently wasting thoughts, trying to shake off Tommy Gunn and his child nephew.

Trying to take pot shots and side swipes at Tax, Joseph Page and Tristan Slater.

Trying to shit on a federation that no one has cared about for 1.5 years.

Did you know Tax became the World Champion there? Twice? The guy who couldn’t win ANY belt here? The guy who had a .500 winnning record?

World Champion in the fed you keep feeling the need to bring up?

Were you aware of that fun fact?

I don’t think so. This is the first time anyone’s heard it because again NO ONE GIVES A SHIT ABOUT THAT PLACE.

And yet, you’re still talking about it. I told you that you were and you still couldn’t help yourself.

You dropped about 2400 words in that abomination of a retort you decided to record.

600 of them were about me. You talked more about Chronic Chris Page than you did about me.

You spent more time attacking a man that hasn’t been seen in the XWF since October 2012.

Than the man who is scheduled to take you in less than 12 hours.

What did I say Pete?

I said that you were swinging at shadows while your real opponent was slithering in your blind spots…

Leaving you blindly swinging at imaginary enemies… As I crawl up your leg…

Unhinging my jaw.

Preparing to devour you whole.

If you’d stop writhing and screaming, you might notice it.

But, let’s face it, we just made very clear.

That attention to detail isn’t really your strong suit, huh, Pete?

In fact, you really seem thrown off by my choice of partner. It’s as if picking a guy calling himself Mr. WGWF as a tag team partner really got inside your head.

Because I knew it would, Pete.

Why else would I bring in a back-up partner like the one I did?

To throw you off your stupid game, to make you paranoid so even while Madison was whispering sweet nothings into your ear…

You still couldn’t help yourself from throwing yourself wildly off a cliff. Like a lemming. Or a lost child.

You’re desperately screaming at ghosts in the rafters while a real challenge is standing across from you in the ring.

Coming closer.

Preparing to wrench open your fucking neck… and twist your arm backwards until it breaks.

…See, that’s another thing you forgot to bring up this week, Pete.

Technique.

Game plan.

What you’re going to do Wednesday night to counter-act my plans.

In fact, you spent most of this week stumbling head-first into all of the mental traps that I’ve set for you.

Every single one.

See, that’s the problem, Pete.

You’re such a strange mixture of overwhelmed by how many people want to shut your stupid fucking mouth and overconfident that my partner and I won’t mount a serious enough challenge to take your belts…

That you spent a small chunk of time talking about how boring and similar to Kevin Costner movies my promos were.

And literally didn’t utter a word. Not even an errant thought.

You didn’t even accidentally stumble upon…

How you’re going to manage to beat me in the ring. How you, a lumbering clumsy oaf was going to manage to counter tactical ruthless efficiency in the ring. Every thought, every move, every muscle twitch designed to wear you out slowly, to negate your defenses, to render you helpless…

I called Mastermind sub-Gilmour talent but at least he fucking stayed on point, talking about how he was going to tackle taking me on in the ring.

He never tried to pull out his fucking AC Slater Fan Fiction in the middle of a promo…

Short answer to that question, Pete? How are you going to beat me?

You won’t.

You can’t.

You never have.

You never will.

You’re shooting 0 for 2 on that front.

You seemed to watch and misinterpret large chunks of my promo trash talking what a massive blubbering chimp you are.

But one thing you seemed to avoid like the black plague as a conversation topic was how we’ve met with a belt on the line twice.

And both times you failed.

I managed to address that point.

And I’ll do it again.

You can’t beat me, Pete.

It’s not in the cards.

Peter Gilmour can do a lot of things.

Beat up an eight year old? Maybe.

Sling homophobic slurs? With the best of them.

Engage in suspect homosexual language and activity, threatening his opponents with groping that will send all parties to Hell, presumably because of the verse in Leviticus that says a man should not lay with another man?

It’s all I’ve ever known you to do.

But beat Mark Flynn?

Heh.

Nope.

Again, Gilly.

Against anyone else, Madison might be right. He might be able to pull two dead horses across a calm river just to prove to the world he can… Just to prove he’s that strong…

But this time Pete?

Daddy Madison can’t.

You fucked up too many times this week… You’ve gotten too heavy, fat with all the maggots laying eggs in your dead horse stomach.

And the waters are getting faster…

White water fucking rapids in the form of Pest and Mark Flynn…

Are going to drown your manager…

And send you and your ‘can’t beat Hank Lane’ partner…

Back to the bottom.

Where you belong.

And as the blood rushes from the side of your skull. As you dizzily stumble on your knees into my grip…

As I pick you up for The End…

Hold you in the air for several seconds, higher than you belong…

Just like John Madison did for you…

And then drop you straight on your fucking head.

Just like your mother did for you as an infant…
I want you to be aware. I want you to know in your fucking heart of hearts.

Tommy Gunn’s nephew didn’t beat you.

John Black didn't beat you.

Tristan Slater didn’t beat you.

Some bullshit fed that hasn't gotten airplay since 2012 didn’t beat you.

Not even Mark Flynn beat you.

Pete.

You beat you.

You beat yourself.

Like a fucking idiot. Running your forehead into a wall over and over, until you blacked out.

Like a cow wandering blind onto a killing floor.

You let all these things pile onto you and consume your mind. To drag you away mentally from the task at hand.

Your first tag title defense.

All I did?

Was play you like a fucking fiddle.

And walk away with your gold.

Thanks, Pete.

Thanks for fucking up.

Threaded Mode \| Linear Mode A Lesson in Beating Peter Gilmour (RP #3)
Author	Message