Chasm.

Seriously, fucking Chasm?

So we have all been hearing the same old, same old, all week long, about me. Nonsense about how I'm a paper champion, I don't deserve to be champion, some such horseshit about silver platters, and you know what? I was curious. I was genuinely curious, people, what could I do?

Here I was, gone for two months (about a month shorter than James Raven), which I guess is pretty shitty for most of you.

I missed you all too. Mwah.

Robbie blows a kiss to the camera.

Now, universe, I do agree, I got some shit I gotta do to win y'all back, to prove I haven't lost a step, to show that I deserve this here Universal Championship, that I am the danger I claim to be, that I am well received when I step out the door and know myself to be the most notorious motherfucker on the globe.

So I am defending my Universal Championship.

Well, not the first time. I already pinned Peter over my title a while back, so I guess I didn't just get handed the damn belt by Twitter's favorite star, I actually fought over it.

So I put my name out there, to remind the XWF that I was defending my title, because I guess part of being Universal Champion is nurturing the feels of a bunch of cranky little boys who aren't man enough to reach out and take something they want?

Heh, no wonder I'm resented. Bigger balls, no excuses, just doing my thing, and by keeping to that simple regimen I make some of you look horrible.

But not as bad as you make yourselves look.

Bob Main is sitting on the sidelines, knowing without a shadow of a doubt, he will NEVER be a contender for the Universal Championship. He wants no part of this, of the scrutiny, of the life you have once you're Universal Champion.

And hey, it isn't like I disappeared for two months after LOSING my title.

That looks suspiciously like...

Robbie sniffs the air.

...butthurt.

Bob got a hernia when he lost the Hart Title way back. Sure, he's regained it, but watch what happens when he loses, and he will lose it for sure, again.

Bob goes on hiatus.

Because Bob needs to lick his wounds.

I took time off after successfully defending my title.

See how there's a difference? One being you look like a massive, sad-sack, sorry-for-himself, poor-sport piece of trash, the other being I look like an asshole?

Well, to be fair, I always look like this.

And call me an asshole all you want.

At least they call me.

We got Jimbo Caedus over here, who swears that I betray everyone. Like James Raven is "everyone", and besides that, you don't know dick about what went down between me and Raven. He wanted his exit from the Motherfuckers, he got it.

How is that betrayal?

Maybe Raven should have been careful what he wished for.

But you, heh, you ain't stopped competing for a year. You're still going strong.

Then why the fuck is it when I go out to defend my title, fucking Chasm is the one who's willing to step up to the plate and try to take this belt away from me?

Hahahahahahahahahahaha.

What a pair of fucking ass sucking , can't even step up to follow through on their own words, and you know why?

Even they don't believe the bullshit they're spewing.

Robbie rolls his eyes.

So let me educate you fools on what it takes to be Universal Champion. There's some kind of confusion in the air about what it means to be the man around here, at least when it comes to a few of you.

To be the Universal Champion, you need to walk into a ring with a referee and either pin the champ or make him tap out.

It's not rocket science.

And it has nothing to do with how hard you work.

Now, sure, there's some work involved. The hours of training I go through daily to keep myself in peak condition.

Robbie slaps his massive power gut.

You have no idea how many crunches you have to do to get a power keg like this.

There's the days on end you spend on the road, promoting matches, getting yourself into a position that maybe, just maybe, someone on high will recognize that you're worth the time and effort, and that you'll get your shot.

It has nothing to do with pissing and moaning about how you deserve a title shot. Go ask Gilly how well that works.

Except for the time it worked, so yeah, sometimes there's a little raising hell about it. There's that scenario where you have to point out that you are the one who should get the title shot, that you've paid your dues, that you'll go up against any kind of adversity to get it. Rattling the chains to get the dog to come out and try to bite, if you will.

So, I listened.

I paid attention to every little word that the two whiney little babies had to say.

"Waaah, waaah, Robbie Bourbon is a bad person, because!"

"Waaah, waaah, Robbie Bourbon is a lousy champion, because!"

I heard so much bitching and complaining, I even placed a phone call with Tampax to see if we could get Bob Main and Jimbo some help since they couldn't help but make a ton of noise while bleeding out of their fucking vaginas.

Then James Raven shows up! Holy shit! Not that I thought I saw a ghost, it's more like looking in the closet, trying to find a decent shirt for court, moving a set of clothes, and finding a pair of shoes from two thousand and one you never thought you'd see again. Soaps! I miss my fucking soaps, coolest thing in the world when I was younger, I could grind on anything, freestyle walking, but nowadays, just a past fad, a trend that didn't take off, something not worth keeping.

A nostalgia kick over a set of kicks.

And wouldn't you just fucking know it, more whining, more bitching.

"Waaah, waaah, you had a silver platter handed to you!"

Would you look at me?

Do I look like the type to refuse any type of platter?

Thought as much.

Oh, wait, am I just blatantly asking questions out loud and foregoing an answer since I can jump to my own conclusion?

Thought as much.

Sorry, universe, I sound like a massive douche doing that. Yeesh, you know when you consider that James Raven is so high up on the XWF top 50 superstars of all time, it really, really, makes the value of the XWF top 50 superstars that much smaller.

Anybody else feel like taking my spot up there at number 24? I'll trade it to you for a piece of gum, or a shoe lace, or maybe a paper clip. I don't know, something that's actually valuable.

But now that James Raven is finished diminishing the stocks of Hell Knows Where and any other pointless, second rate promotion that just is not (nor ever will be) the XWF, he's back to, well, make the whole promotion worthless in the process.

Oh fucking goody.

So I gave the three of them EXACTLY what they wanted.

I posted up, and had to lead someone into challenging for the Universal Championship, because they didn't have the balls to challenge for it.

And fucking Chasm is the guy who stepped up to take me on?

Jimbo, where's that work ethic at? Where's that consistency, week in, week out, beating everybody's asses like it was going out of style? Bob, where's that fire, that passion, that need to oust my 'oh so awful' self from being the High Holy Hypocrite of the XWF? James, where's that vendetta, that angst, that need to prove to everybody that Robbie Bourbon got away with punking you out on national television and then PPV so hard you had to leave the fucking company to give your career a chance to recover?

The fact is, they don't really exist.

They're make believe.

They're nonsense.

Three men full of wishful thinking, hoping beyond hope I bite for their hype, feel something ugly over it.

How does it feel to be a bigger piece of shit than Chasm?

Hahahahahahaha.

Fucking Chasm? Seriously?

You each had an opportunity to jump right out and put your money where your mouth was. Instead you sat on your fucking hands, then switched with each other, farted, switched back, farted again, then all had a good whiff of what your asses all smelled like, contented with the fun you were having all while not being shit.

Robbie slings the Universal Title belt over his shoulder and slaps the plate.

Meanwhile, I'ma keep doing me. I'ma keep being the biggest, baddest Motherfucker on the block, the one the little doggies all want to bark at; iconic, moving when I want to fucking move, and when I get to moving you get out of the way whether you like it or not. I'ma walk with the Motherfuckers, Bearded War Pig and the Engineer. I'ma bring a door mat down to the ring with us at War Games so we can wipe our feet off, because after we get done walking all over Apex like the dog shit Apex is, Vinnie would be pissed if we walked in the back and tread that all over the place.