First you accuse me of being a poor sport, then you mistakenly call me the loser of my last two matches. O' Contrare, Sir.
I guess in the little leagues where you come from, everybody gets a trophy. But where I come from - if the scheduled team doesn't
show, they forfeit. I was scheduled to wrestle Saturyne. She tore a muscle in her back lifting heavy weights. Know what happens?
She can't make it so ipso factso I winso. What we had was just a friendly little scrimmage.
I don't need to tell you my accolades, because you've already listed them. Former half-Campeon, Cibernetico winner, King of Trios
winner, King of Trios finalist, Young Lions Cup finalist, current record-holder of apuestas in CHIKARA. I can go on and on, but let's face
it: I'm in a league of my own.
You want to step up to the big leagues, is that it? Think to yourself "Gee whizz I beat that Icarus fellow on my level bet I
can take him on his level. Sure bet I do, by golly." Well, bad news for you Stitch Face, 'cause on a scheduled night in a "real" match
against me, you're going to need a little more gumption to win, and I'm afraid you just don't have it.
This afternoon at the Trocodero I want you to bow your head with Coach Dugan in the locker room. I want you to pull
those socks up ridiculously high. Most importantly though, I want to see that look in your eyes. Oh, little Miss Petty, I want to
see that expression on your face. When you round those bases, you're in that final stretch rounding third, you look to home plate,
but you see me. You see that ball in my hand. Standing in your way. I want to cherish the succulence in that moment you lose your
hope and accept defeat. For you will know in the instant your eyes meet mine I'm not dropping that ball just so you can have your
moment with the Belles. When the point breaks and the dust settles, you sir will be OUT.