I fancy myself a storyteller. Let me take you back to the beginning of August. A bold, brash, cocky motherfucker named Grayson Stinger told you all that you needed to watch out. That he was here not on a quest to prove he was better than you, but show you that it was already a fact. He sent out a message telling you all to watch yourselves. He had the cash to get whatever he wanted, and he had no qualms crushing your lives and dreams. He set his sights on capturing the XWF by any means necessary.

In reply came a voice of indignation and immaturity. Someone that Stinger knew was not on his level athletically or intellectually. This voice told him that he was nothing. That there had been countless others like Grayson Stinger who had come in, flashed their cash, and left once beaten for the first time. That Stinger was nowhere even near THEIR levels. This voice belonged to Mr. Frodo Swaggins. Frodo had no faith that Stinger was worth the skid-mark in his boxers.

Frodo, I tried to be nice to you. I tried to have good relations with you. You hated me, and I shrugged and thought we could coexist peacefully. We would never need to interact, we would never need to fight. But now, you re worth absolutely nothing to me. Your little insults, your constant talk about your own dick and having others suck it, and your just overall fifth grade attitude around here have no effect on me. You could disappear from this company without a trace and I wouldn't shed a single tear or waste a single thought on you.

I lost my first match Frodo, but I'm still here. I've reinvented myself and I'm here to stay. I don't need to flash my cash anymore, I can prove my worth with skills. Yet you still never give me a chance. You insist on being a pain in my ass, and I just don't get why. It really doesn't matter though because I know I'm simply better than you. You can come onto every board (like I know you will for this match) and throw out your little insults and make your little dick jokes but you can't leave a single mark on my face. All your talk is good for is to entertain me while I'm in the bathroom.

On Monday night I have just a single, solitary objective. I don't need to win; in fact I don't even want to. All I want to do is knock every single tooth in that disgusting mouth of yours either down your throat or into the fifteenth row. I want to show you how wrong you were on that fateful day in August. That will be my true Christmas present. That will be the only present I need for the rest of my life.

I can't wait Frodo. I simply cannot wait.