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Matthias Syn · (10-27-2024)

[Image: MV5-BMDUy-Zj-A3-MDct-Zjk0-My00-YTAx-LThm...-Gc-V1.jpg]

Bare minimum setting of the scene necessary. I don't need the cop out. Why waste words that I can use bludgeoning you over the head with.

Instead, imagine if you will, a setting where Matthias Syn is about to leave you in a chalk outline without even touching you.

Yawnathon Bacchus.

I see you for who you truly are, John. A man so redundant, so mind-numbingly verbose, that you believe that even a perfunctory performance can tip the scales in your favor. Thing about that is, the scales will always find a way to level out.

I'm what you wish you were. What you have strived to be for all these years. What you'd be if you could actually connect to an audience.

You came here to shut me up.

How does it feel knowing that you're upper managements fucking lap dog. Tasked to shut up the rising star.

I'm currently running the murderers row circuit. I see what they're doing. First it was Ned, then Flynn, Cypher, Game Girl, Adeyemi, Warstein, and Seb. Now you, Johnny. A veritable who's who of the industry's old guard. The XWF’s old guard. That's okay with me, Johnny. I want the old guard. I want the war horses so that I can put them out to pasture. Or worse.

You're nothing more than a scared little boy in a house of mirrors, only the reflection that you see this time staring back at you, has murderous intent.

I’m not going to suck your dick, Johnny like the rest of these clowns that see your name across from theirs on the marquee. I'm not here to put you over.

You see, they're intimidated by you. Not your frame, not your stature, you're a little fella. A David in a world of Goliaths. But you'd never paint yourself the underdog would you, Johnny? No, your ego would never allow that.

Jonathan Bacchus, the little man suffering through big man syndrome for the whole world to see.

A God complex. You're unoriginal, a bore. A fucking living, breathing, snooze fest but no one has the fucking balls to tell you. You're a copy. A reprint. Of every lonely, broken-hearted, Emo kid who turns to teenage poetry, black hair dye and "radical" politics that they'll never fully comprehend. Because they're never truly willing to go ALL IN.

You're nothing more than a frightened child who hides behind pretty words to mask the infinite pain of a youth filled with rejection. Yearning for validation no matter where it comes from.

Here we are. Broken men on borrowed time. Selling our golden years to a bloodsport every time that bell rings.

Yet you hide from the brutality. With your Rainbow baseball bat. Your need to promote inclusivity. You beg to be loved. To be adored, and you would bend over both literally and figuratively to make it happen. To get any kind of acknowledgement.

You're a whiny middle school girl with a college education.

You fashion yourself a radical leftist but we both know what that really means. You're a Hillary Clinton shit lib cosplaying as a Marxist, because it makes you feel edgy.

You're fighting against the "Man" one pink pussy hat at a time.

You're a caricature of what you believe yourself to be. An imitation yearning for adoration but looking in all the wrong places. So incredibly boring.

I listened again to your Leap of Faith promo. Your ode to Matthias Syn. Couldn't keep my name from crawling past your teeth. A diatribe to the man you have always wished you were.

Invoking Shakespeare to drive home a point about your clean conscience and your college degree. You're right, Yawny. My conscience isn't clean and there's no college degree proudly mounted on my wall, from Dick and Balls University.

"Signaling direct action in the street".

Get fucking real, Yawny. Getting gang banged in the heart of Oakland by a part time furry, full-time factory worker and his transvestite boy toy during an LGBTQ parade isn't the "direct action" you think it is.

Johnny fucking Back shots.

The X-treme Title that you have, holds no weight in your dainty little hands. Nothing about you is EXTREME, Johnny. No matter how hard that you pretend. You're not even cutting edge in your own daydreams.

You fall for their lies and propaganda and then pledge your allegiance to the same system designed to oppress everyone and everything that you pretend to stand for.

You're a fake, Johnny. You can dress it up in polished prose, rehearsed in bathroom stalls and bedroom mirrors, but I see through it. I see the frightened boy, masquerading as a martyr, who at the first sign of trouble would willingly bend at the knee to anyone who would just say that they accept him. That would validate his surface level worldview.

Matthias Syn is going to scratch that surface, Johnny. I'll show the world the scared little boy who is nothing more than a fucking foot soldier.

What does Ruby think of the self proclaimed queer using her as a shield to hide behind. You've made her a beard, Johnny. Do you even know who you are anymore? Or have you buried what part of the real you is left, so far down that I have to dig up the carcass and confront you with it?

You wanted this. You asked for it. Asked to come onto MY show, into my world. You're not capable. When I'm done with you on Anarchoween, the twink can slink back to Warfare. Think about the mistake you made. Challenging me on my home field. On MY show.

I'm turning your fucking lights out, Johnny and the memory of little Johnny Bacchus and his middling career can be burnt into the stars for the next generation of downtrodden emo kids to emulate in backyards and bingo halls the world over.

I am fucking Main Event Matthias Syn. And after Anarchy you can call me Matty two belts.

Static

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