Now listen here you little cum slut. You're nothing but a guttural pig. You have no right to hold championship gold in this federation. Me? I'm the head honcho. I'm the big man on campus. I'm the dude who runs the block and calls the shots. Every time I do something, the impact is major. Every time you do something, people turn off the television. I'm already a double champion. I'm already the best in the business. Now it's time for you to pay your dues and give back what you stole.

The time has come for you to rectify for your sins and fess up to the facts. I'm better than you. I'm stronger than you. I'm more physical than you, and I can work the microphone better than you can. Every time you come out to cut a promo I feel the need to cut my wrists. Your voice may be grating and annoying, but it's WHAT you say that really drives me over the edge. You're not witty, you're not clever. You just sound like the boy with downs syndrome and AIDs who's make-a-wish was to embarrass himself on national television. No wonder they call you Wish, huh?

You're pathetic and easily forgettable. Once I win this belt people will not even remember who I took it from. All they'll care about is the jefe, the ultimate chapo, the original dirty dick soldier, Charlie Nickles.

I already forgot who the fuck you are. It doesn't matter. All that matters is that your belt is going to be around my waist in a few short hours and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it. You can yell, you can scream, you can even throw a hissy fit and call me mean names. It's not going to matter because you can't walk the walk, and when you try to talk the talk I feel the need to ram my boot down your mouth.

So we can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way. If you want to just lay down and accept defeat, no one would think any worse of you. They literally couldn't hold you in lower regard than they do already.

Or we could go the hard way. You could come step up to me and talk about how you're going to whoop my ass and how you're this and I'm that, blah blah blah and then at the end of the day the same decision will be rendered: victory for Charlie Nickles. Why go through the effort? The embarassment? The strife? You will be struck down and thrown from your perch regardless. Your championship belt is coming back to daddy. If you fight it, I will only make it worse for you.

So hand that shit over.


Charlie walks over to Tommy Wish, who has earbuds in and is listening to white boy rap music while smoking a shitty blunt. Charlie throws him onto his back before placing a boot on his chest and thereby going for the cover.

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