MATCH PROMO Gawdverbs Out Now


The Gawd
Staff member
Answers World Champion
EAW Hall of Famer
Bridgeport, Connecticut
First things first I would like to give a shout out to Big Papi David Ortiz. We love you and we're rooting for you in your recovery, get well as soon as you can you big lovable bastard not even a couple of bullets can stop you you heard? I'll be certain to send you a copy of my new book in the gift basket. You’re welcome back to the Ryan Adams estate any time bro, remember that.

Secondly, GAWDVERBS: A Machiavellian's Guide To Un-Fucking Yourself is officially in stores RIGHT FUCKING NOW. GET UP. RUN. PUT THE CONTROLLER DOWN, PUT THE JOINT DOWN, Go buy it NOW BITCHES before it's gone. I'm warning you. This ain't Harry Potter but copies are flying off of the shelves quick and believe me when I say that when they're gone they may very well be gone forever. It's not a game out here. People seek the keys to success and fulfillment now more than ever before. 'Living', for most of you, has become as unfruitful and banal an experience as ever in today's generation. My literary magnum opus contains the invaluable tools needed to escape the clutches of entropy in which your failures for parents have decided would be a life suited for you because they were too weak and haggard to accrue power for themselves. As a result they've left nothing to pass down to you. Stay away from the Star Wars. Luke, I can be your father.

Just got confirmation from my publicist a couple of minutes ago that the pre-orders for GAWDVERBS have reached a total of ONE MILLION. Just another instance where I have won the game before it's even started. GAWDVERBS is not only guaranteed to smash first week numbers out the gate, but I'm already platinum before the doors even open bitch. That's called controlling the conversation before it even starts. No matter how badly publications want to rip my master class penmanship apart they're going to have to sulk and sit with the pertinent fact that my prophecy carries more weight than their propaganda. That's God.

For as much as I enjoy pontificating about myself GAWDVERBS is anything but an autobiography. It isn't the life and times of Ryan Adams vol. 1, it's about how you can improve your life and make better use of your time. GAWDVERBS is about you becoming The Gawd of your own world. Every human being emits an aura that resembles a sphere and in many ways everybody lives in their own miniature world. We're all given eyes yet we all hold different views. Your sphere is simply your own world in the way that you perceive it, and what you choose to make of 'your' world sometimes reflects on the much greater, external reality in which everybody else outside of your sphere inhabits. The world I've conquered. Everybody has a narrative that drives them within the confines of their sphere, whether it makes you a God-Emperor or a Grave Worm in your own mind, the actions taken as a result of that narrative within the sanctum of your sphere will, more often than not, determine how much greater your impact on the external reality we all coexist in truly is.

Delusion begins to metastasize when your internal narrative is no longer in alignment with the external byproduct, or results of, said narrative. You can be an 'Ascended Master' in your mind by day all you like but when you're a minimum wage earning menial task employee by day and an anime avatar having Reddit troll by night, your self ascribed monikers mean shit fucking all now don't they? Your actions and lack of proactive lifestyle validate exactly how much of a waste of space most of you truly are to begin with. Every day is a fantasy where you envision in your minds what you wish you could do, when you know it's what you should do. You should get off of your lazy ass and leave your miserable bitch of a wife. Burn those excess pounds. Eat a steak and run up a fucking hill. You already know the answers to every problem that you have but you would sooner mentally masturbate and let the big strong wrestlers get on TV to live vicariously through them. Just trade the game station and the funko pops in for enough money to buy my book and make a real investment in your own future. Fair deal? Shhh don't get upset! Don’t get emotional. Get proactive. GAWDVERBS in stores now.

Been a lot of losers attacking me online these days. Nothing but hate threads all over social media and especially Reddit. I wouldn't know of course because I haven't even read it. Why do you think they call it Reddit. Get it. No person with a modicum of value in their being would ever even think twice to logging on to such a cesspool unless they have absolutely failed at life in all respects. Every person in the history of mankind who has ever so much as had their IP address access the servers that host the domain itself is AUTOMATICALLY DISQUALIFIED from entering the Kingdom of Gawd. If you have ever so much as read a single post from that troll haven of dickless spineless cowards, the magick witchcraft spells cast over my magnificent work of literary genius will cause the pages to immediately combust the moment it enters your hands. Every cashier to every Barnes & Noble, WalMart and Target across America have been trained to spot a Reddit user solely in preparation of the release of my book, and they will be forced to turn you away at the risk of losing their jobs. Go ahead ask one of them. They’ll tell you. "Is GAWDVERBS for sale here?" If you've ever been on Reddit EVER, they'll say no. I made sure my good friend Jeff Besos immediately downloads malware on every device that has ever browsed Reddit in the history of web accessible devices. Pretty freaking easy since AWS basically owns and runs the internet. And anybody who purchases or has purchased my flawless piece will immediately have their orders cancelled expeditiously if they've posted, or lurked, or browsed on there. I'm coordinating with foreign governments as we speak to assign task forces to persecute those who visit

"But Gawdddd what's the big deal???!! There’s so much useful information on there!"

Laziness. You know where else has useful information? OUTSIDE. In the real world. By meeting and talking to other people. A concept, yeah, I know. You should try it.

Listen to me. The only useful information you will ever need in your life rests in the divine pages of GAWDVERBS. There's nothing you can learn in your textbooks, college courses, Youtube tutorials, lecture study halls or podcasts that will benefit you more than the wisdom that I have to impart on you. There's nothing your parents can tell you, they've failed you already, that's why you're here in the first place and not a millionaire. "But I'm only 19!!!" So? Do you know how many 17 year olds make 50k a month just off of drop shipping and e-commerce alone? I guarantee you there are kids half your age who make more money than you to stream themselves playing the same video games you sit up at night to play alone by yourself in the dark. Face it you've already lost in life, accept it and let The Gawd fix it. You can allow impotent worms such as Darkane to slither into your ear and drag you off course with his feckless nonsensical bile, and his Tarah Nova style badly manipulated works of photoshopped horse shit that looks like it was made by a tech savvy drunk and stoned 8th grader. That's your prerogative if you choose to do that. But if you're even halfway competent, taking groundbreaking live lessons from a being whose dominated everything he's ever sought out to do in life is probably first priority to you. If you were given the opportunity to walk through Manhattan with Ray Dalio and Warren Buffet - men who've consulted with me for life advice by the way - and get a verbal crash course in economics and investing, would you allow some shifty hillbilly homeless bum to drunk stumble his way over to you and jeopardize your once-in-a-lifetime opportunity? "Youze really listenin to this economics jibber jabber? Y'awlls better lizzen to me instead!! *spits tobaccer* Say yous thinkin' you could invest in mah moonshine fund by any chance???"

Would you truly allow some toothless crackhead fiend from the gutter like Darkane who was shot out directly from his mother's birth canal and landed in the nearest dumpster like the abortion that he should have been make even so much as an imprint on the limited time of your day, let alone steer you away from the golden ore equivalent, finite wisdom that only I can bring you?

Of course you wouldn't STUPID, USE YOUR COMMON SENSE, don't give that BUM Darkane a single solitary second of your precious time, because he's as full of shit as the rest of my detractors both in Elite Answers Wrestling and outside of it. Spewing nothing but bullshit platitudes and empty threats because it's all he can possibly conjure up to work with, which basically makes this asshole a glorified Mark Michaels with a post-walkout stimulus package and - to Jamie's astute observation - a botched Dark Demon aesthetic. That's why when he debuted in this fucking place in the first place people thought it was Demon trying to slip through the cracks, no I shit you fucking not. The problem is Jamie O'Hara himself isn't going to be in a much better standing when I'm done with him, and it gets no worse for anybody than the fate soon to befall the so-called God-Emperor, and it gets no worse for any three people on the roster than the three helpless lambs being lined up for the slaughter the moment my penetrating gaze bursts through their self-imposed bubble when, like a raging bull seeing nothing but the color of gore, I SPEAR through the sanctums of their inner fucking sphere and handily destroy all concept of the world as they know it. I'm in the prime position to do it the way I've always done it too, that is single fucking handedly. I killed a brand full of birds with one stone, best believe I can slice the heads off of these aimless wandering clucking flock fowl with one swing of my mighty blade; even if the fowl is as boorish and as foul stench and as lowly in stature as Darkane.

And the results to come are so shockingly obvious that the only mystery here is why it isn't apparent to the rest of you. Because from what I'm told it's a few of you oblivious dickheads still holding out hope that Jamie O'Hara can fill DaddyGawds britches when he and those other two clowns are only good for running their mouths like bitches. Case in point - him and that smelly homeless bum Darkane came sprinting out the gate with irrelevant prepared statements on Friday morning talking from behind the curtain like pussies when they had an ENTIRE PRESS CONFERENCE LATER THAT SAME DAY to say whatever they wanted to say about me to my face, like grown men with big balls prefer to do. That of course is all because "prepared statements" are the only time Jamie and Darkane are truly in their element.

I could give a fuck about your prepared statements. I've been prepared my whole career. The last 12 years have been a statement.

Poorly woven together awkwardly recited lines from some junkie piece of trash who has not once, not even once been able to leave a mark on me aren't going to make a mark on the narrative between us, let alone put a chink in The Gawds armour. I find it funny Darkane, for how fundamentally flawed your way of thinking is, you certainly know how to profess your hokey philosophies in an awfully convincing fashion -- not convincing enough to make anybody with a triple digit IQ believe you, but convincing enough to convince me that you truly believe in your own bullshit. I can't help but find myself unmoved by this shitheap regarding 'evil'. What are you? Four years old? Simpleton. There's no such fucking thing as 'evil'. Goodness and grace operate in the same form as light. Evil is definitively the same as darkness. Darkness does not exist and evil is completely man made. It's simply the absence of qualities such as altruism, good nature, humility, grace, and other qualities that granted have their time and place - but exist not in times of war. I get so many of you pea brained idealistic fucks who jump in my mentions and refer to me as "evil" and as "dark" like I go out of my way to meet some quota to the devil. You want to play that caricature? I'll let you have a ball with it Darkane. Be my guest. You can be more 'evil' than me if you'd like, because I'm more concerned and only concerned with being more rich and successful than you. That is actually tangible, that can actually be measured. "Evil" is an opinion. Your opinion doesn't matter. Hegemonic order is an undeniable reality. And the greater your lust for success is, the less you begin to see qualities antithetical to that of 'evil' in your behavior. So be it. I don't care. Kindness is a tool of value, but in times of war mercy is often a waste of time. Someday you will understand your state of captivity, and that many of you - so many of you - are living in a perpetual war. War is being fought against you and over you, for you and everything you love and own whether you're willing to acknowledge it or not. I am unthreatened, unchallenged, unperturbed by you Darkane because I stack up favorably against you in every measure that is tangible. Your try hard spiel about being more wicked is passe to those who understand that wickedness is an effective tool used to vanquish all enemies that stand before them. Which is funny, because while attempting to delineate your name brand from everybody else's by taking the out of pocket approach, you're no different than the rest of the vermin putting money in my pocket.

For as against the grain as you love to portray yourself as being I find it quite ironic how you fall in line just like every good little bitch who uploads their Pain for Pride videos to talk shit about their opponents at the strategically timed start periods. 16 videos conveniently firing off in the span of 16 minutes and lo and behold Darkane is one with the flock. How counter culture. That's because Darkane is still the same puppet on strings now as he was one year ago when EAW gave you the #DarkaneTimes coined phrase to run with. Oh my I'm sorry were we supposed to pretend you were original enough to actually come up with that himself? Mister "DEDEDE's only here to peddle his snake oil book" wasn't so anti establishment when the establishment gave him the booster seat that he needed to make his irrelevant ass profitable. All it took was fishing his charred rat looking disgusting skinny-fat ass from the entropy of midcard hell, only to deliver you to the public with a refined moniker and an entire merchandise campaign placed conveniently behind you to keep a lowlife like you profitable. Amusing to me how willing you ingrates are to get up on your high horse and talk down to me when you need a fighting high horse to meet me eye to eye level. Elevating yourself mounted on hypocrisy and double speak but you won't acknowledge every dollar I've ever made your stinking asses. When Darkane had nothing but sitting alone in four cornered rooms staring at candles and riddling whatever Robert Frost-meets-Paramore scene bitch musings that he can muster up inside of his dizzy fucking head, EAW concocted his number one claim to fame and handed him a past-his-prime tomato can on a silver platter for a World Championship match. And somehow that's got him confused into believing he belongs on a stage like this against a being like me.

I suppose I'll just have to take the blame for all of that.

Because had I stuck to my original convictions last year, you had better believe it would have been me standing across from you in that ring at the Pain for Pride Festival, and it would have been as much of a cakewalk for me as Scott Diamond was for you.

And then Jamie O'Hara wouldn't be allowed to cling to dear life with the talking point of me being supposedly "past my prime" as though he's making some groundbreaking revelatory declaration that everybody else secretly knows but are all too afraid to mention. No Jamie, just because you're the only person running with that garbage take doesn't mean you're the only person with the guts to say it. Your assertion that I've declined says much less about your temerity, and actually says far more about the desperate state that you are in. And I can smell the scent of desperation from a man’s pores, in my sleep, under a rock, from a fucking mile away. Being able to sense the dangers of a desperate individual is what has brought me to this dance in the first place, hell it's the reason why I've made it to see my 12th Pain for Pride. The only reason why Jamie is the one man in all of Elite Answers Wrestling running with that completely asinine narrative is because he is at the absolute bottom tier when it comes to playing mental chess. He projects, and continually shows his own hand by projecting his fragility and his marked insecurities. So much so that his strengths become more and more obvious of being illusions, especially when viewed from the prism of my scope from heaven.

I can see it slipping.

Your grasp on reality but more importantly your grip, that is, from the ledge representing your status in this industry as a supposed top ledge. Because it's as clear as the summer day is long that the illusion of being the greatest means more to you than anything else in this world. Your woman included. That's why you're the hypocrite swearing revenge for the beatings I've unleashed upon Cameron Ella Ava as punishment for her insolence, when you didn't hesitate unleashing the exact same level beatings so long as it protected your status as the so-called Ace. But while she wishes death upon me to this day she has found a way to forgive you for the same atrocities, because she understands as well as you understand that the illusion of you being the face of this company can only be promulgated with you as the World Champion. So much so that your EAW career here, in your eyes, is meaningless without without your world title.

Let's face it. The only reason why you claim that I've fallen from grace ever since I last held the Answers World Championship is because the only value you see in your own career comes your reign and the undeserved hype that's placed around it.

It's the calling card you can plop down on to the table at any moment's notice and save face even in the midst of stagnation and dare I say regression. But how dare I say it, because the pinnacle at which you once stood at, the summit which was once your stoop to squat over like a Gargoyle and gaze over the kingdom that was supposedly yours to rule over... it wasn't truly the pinnacle at all now wasn't it? The Land of Elite could never be your land to truly hold sovereignty over. Not as long as I exist. Which is the true foundation for the resentment that you carry against me. You understand good and fucking well that no matter how high you think you've climbed up the mountain, such heights are minuscule compared to the summit of Mt. Olympus, where Gawd resides unbothered and rules unabated, and you fucking know that in the pit of your stomach O'Hara don't you. So you latch on to your undeniable illustrious title run and you tether your hopes to the prospect of reclaiming that level of success, but what good is chasing the proverbial dragon if you're too busy running from your own demons?

Demons. In the form of dark clouds hovering over you.

The hex over your head from knowing, from the beginning, that you have always existed in my shadow.

And because of me your day in the sun DOES NOT EXIST, CANNOT EXIST, AND HAS NEVER EXISTED. All it was was an artificial spotlight beamed over your head by the machine that you produce for. Your so-called spotlight was simply one of the numerous neon lights on the marquee above the grandest stage of all, a light that somewhere along the lines began to flicker. Maybe the first flicker came a year ago when you wanted to quit like the bitch that you are. Maybe the first flicker came when I drove away the group of people who competed in shitty hour long spot fests and cared more about their Game of Thrones aesthetic than they did winning matches. Either way at some point a year ago the seams began to show O'Hara, and like every last bulb that exists on the marquee eventually the bulb begins to burn out. And guess what? Your light is just another bulb on the marquee that bears my name. When one of you pawns are no longer able to serve your primary function you will be discarded and the next pawn (see: Noah Reigner) that emits a similar enough hue will be screwed into place to replace you without a second thought. No matter what you do, no matter what fair weather unimportant opinions you have of me are, at the end of the day it will be my glory that is exalted to the end of fucking time. And you know it.

You just act like you don't for the cameras. In one breath just one week and some change ago you told me you didn't believe the hype about me in the first place. Yet in seemingly the next breath, the first chance you get to open your mouth and promote this mythical 'dream match' that will never see the light of day, you're calling me the greatest to ever do it. I supposed the schizophrenic cocksucker is right at least once a day. You're damned right O'Hara, when you face me at Pain for Pride you're facing the greatest to ever live on the biggest stage you can ever compete on. The problem however is that you - as well as the bootlicking brigade from a dead regime that met its expiration at MY HANDS, have no earthy idea of what objective greatness actually looks like. You, just like the last regime you existed in so comfortably, believe the status of "greatest of all time" can change on a mere whim. And when I blotted the old "guard" (and I use that term advisedly) out of the pages of history you were looking for the next thing smoking out of my company. Because I ripped away your comfort zone from you. And your World Championship, as well as your edge, slipped from the 'ledge' hanging off the ledge. And my mercy - ONLY MY MERCY - is the reason why you didn't plummet into the abyss along with your illustrious reign and the shit fuck all that it's amounted to since then.

And let's talk about your so-called illustrious reign. AKA 11 months of punching down on peasants on a brand that only derived the ratings that it derived because of my name value. 11 months of being overshadowed by Mr. DEDEDE vs Chris Elite, 11 months of playing second fiddle to the incestuous circle jerk culture resulting in Showdown dominating the interests of the EAW fanbase and RoViper taking precedence above the World Heavyweight Championship itself. But I'm supposed to fall to your feet and worship the ground you walk on like the rest of these puppets backstage and in the board room do, like I don't see through the stat sheets with my infallible eagle eye vision, with the same 2020 vision that can see myself as still the Answers World Champion by the turn of 2020. Oh somebody should have told you, #GawdFuckingSeesAll. And every last dragon that you've ever claimed to have slain in this fucking company, Gawd's already fucking slayed them all. Riddle me this: name a single man or woman that you've vanquished in your World Heavyweight Championship reign of dominance that I haven't already beaten. Go ahead Ace you have all the time in the world. I'm supposed to revere you as an equal or view you as a peer when out of your 11 month reign of 'dominance' 9 of them weren't even memorable, except for when you beat on your own bitch. It's a good thing my unmistakable intellect can recall every detail with a fine tooth comb from your run, I know my competition more than they could ever dream of knowing themselves, and most importantly i know the field enough to know who is even worthy to be deemed as my competition or not - and Jamie O'Hara - YOU ARE NOT WORTHY.

That's why you'll never get to have your Pain for Pride headlining dream match against Mr. DEDEDE. And I know exactly why you want it so desperately bad, regardless of whatever your cool exterior may lead people to believe. It's because defeating me where it matters the most would silence the doubt in your head and in the minds of millions. It would take away the second-guessing of anybody with the gall to call you the greatest. And most importantly, if you fail (which you will fail) you'll get to rely on the same moral victories that everybody else uses as a crutch every time they last more than five minutes against me. If I had a nickel for every time I heard "I took Mr. DEDEDE to his limit!" I'd be rich enough to walk Bill Gates' wife on a leash. You mask your desperation with hate, justifiable considering all I've done to trifle with the ones you love closest to you. But it's clear that your hate isn't towards me. You simply hate the idea of me. You hate the idea that I am the best... because you're not. You hate the idea that I'm the greatest... because I am. And when you succumb to my awesome might come Pain for Pride and fail to deliver, yet again, another one of the foolish promises in which you were never capable of fulfilling in the first place, I can only imagine how warranted your hatred will be then. Because the public will finally see you the exact same way that I see you. They'll see through you. Just like I see through you. Like the flamed out, dead bulb of luminosity that you once were.

The prospects of it ignite me. The blood in the water excites me. It lights my fire, it evokes a certain feeling of euphoria that only Pain for Pride season is capable of rousing from within me. Nothing in the world can remove me from the trance that I'm in right now, because my trance comes not from stupefying fear, but rather a fixated lascivious glare. A look filled with lust, almost libidinous, most certainly hedonistic, as I am completely hellbent on feeling the cold embrace of gold as it meets my skin, glimmering, unaffected by my Midas touch. The unmistakable feeling of leather hugging my body. The way it's regal hue accompanies my royal hubris. Gold and black to match my blackened heart and golden aura. It's calling my name, it has summoned me yet again to the stage of history.

It can be said that all the world 's a stage, that all prominent figures in this world are merely actors carrying out the bidding of the divine playwright. I know, sounds like nonsense doesn't it. But there's value that can be derived from this mindset. It's beneficial in many respects to view the people you meet in this world as players simply fitting the role appropriate to your liking. So long as your own role is that as the protagonist. I said months ago that it doesn't mean a damn to me if I am the villain in your story so long as I am the hero in my own. In my theatre, on my stage, I am the knight in shining armour, and to the likes of Jamie O'Hara and Theron Nikolas, World Championships are the centerpiece to their story. In my story, World Championships are an integral prop, certainly, but they are not the centerpiece. POWER is the centerpiece. The World Championship is akin to a crown. It is a symbol of regality and of excellence, and it is a symbol I hold with great merit and high regard. However in the empire known as the Land of Elite, Extreme, Merchants, Beasts, it is not the crown that carries the power, it is the power divested in the king. And if you truly wish to be a God-Emperor in this land, you have to go through the king.

But as the saying aptly goes..... you come for the king, you best not miss.

And I've got to say Theron, the swing of your blade was off by an embarrassingly wide margin. It didn't even so much as graze me let alone phase me. At Ides of March Caesar himself had his back turned towards you and you still couldn't finish the job. How laughably pathetic. That mistake is going to cost you dearly. Yet the price you will pay still pales in comparison to what you truly owe me. Your betrayal ushered in a new phase Theron, and that's about as consequential as you'll ever be in my play, on my stage. And you may have gotten the last few months to brag about how you supposedly played me, but the only thing you've played is your part in my story.

In my story, I allowed you to remain close enough in proximity to deliver a mortal wound upon me that would have immortalized you in the process. But it was a self fulfilling prophecy with a self defeating premise. Because you have no concept of what it is like to ever deliver the execution style silencing blow, ever in your motherfucking life. All the heads that have come to roll in the name of "God-Emperor Theron Nikolas", yet you have never so much as actually severed another man's head from his body with your own hands. I have done the grunt work for the duration of your rulership, and I supposed it's my fault for allowing you to believe that I'd be your personal grunt worker who answers to you. In all actuality I have been the judge, the jury and the executioner. You have been nothing more than a figurehead in a tin crown. I have conditioned you into submitting to your role as the sacrificial golden calf that is fattened up and venerated, unable to fend for itself, unaware of its true purpose, self-righteously indignant and overly indulgent in that sedentary position on your throne as the placeholder ruler that you unknowingly are. That is until your day of sedition is mutually agreed upon, and your date of expiration comes unbeknownst to you like a thief in the night. That's your story in a nutshell Theron. And you've played your part perfectly to your own credit. A lethargic, complacent embarrassment of a champion who's become fattened off of the spoils of the land that you were made to believe you rule, when you don't so much as dictate the patch of soil beneath your boots. And if it weren't OBVIOUS how inconsequential you are in the grand scheme, take no further look than the 2018 EAW Awards results. The Academy took the same position the rest of the world has already taken when it came to your standing. Which is why you didn't so much as sniff a single trophy, and why the biggest moments of your career were rewarded and accredited to their rightful owner.

And naturally you were the loudest one bitching and crying like the thumbsucking petulant child that you are. On national TV comparing yourself to a man who melted down and rage quit an industry that had moved on from him ten years ago. All while melting down because the Awards ceremony gave you back everything you yourself put in. I guess it's an appropriate comparison. Go back and watch Dynasty vs Showdown 2010 and see if you can find any similarities to Mak since you claim to be the modern day version of him. I'll humor you with that much. He was EAW's uncrowned king, he was EAW's # 1 legend in his own mind, and a decade later you've successfully followed in his footsteps as the solipsistic manchild God-Emperor in your own mind. Nobody reasonable gives a shit about your gripes because you've been handed more in a season than most people earn in their entire careers; and it's one thing to manipulate the system, it's another to lash out against the hand that is spoon feeding you. In your case it's just a recipe for disaster. For me it's the perfect opportunity to cash in on my investment, by cashing out on you and taking everything you've """"earned"""" for myself.

Most people would allow their emotions to influence and cloud their better judgment. Bending over backwards to give you more than you could have ever asked for out of life could be seen as altruistic by some. It's certainly what I've done for you in spades. For me it was merely a business decision. Your betrayal only signifies a business opportunity. It's why I'm not approaching Pain for Pride with the sense of bloodlust that most people would expect from me. You don't serve me any further use an ally, at this point you're a walking liability. A World Champion EAW doesn't know whether to put in the main event or the opener of its biggest events of the year because you've been dragging yourself through 3/4ths of your lackluster reign to the point where no one knows if you'll even be fucked to drag yourself to the ring on any given night. It's gotten to the point where other board members are telling me in no uncertain terms that they'd rather have me as the champion than you. Sounds like they're going to get their wish. Surely you had to have known your day of reckoning would come and that a penance would be due to be imposed upon you for the transgressions you've carried out, in the form of defiance against me.

My intentions are clear and are stated in zero uncertain terms. I'm willing to lay out every last one of my keys to victory. I can be openly transparent about them because in life, such as in chess, an opponent sees the threats. The target on my back is large because my stature is greater than anything else you could possibly conceive. It is the equivalent of the sun in the sky. In life, and in chess, and on the stage of the world that I have set, my opponents can see every piece. Every single move I make. Victory doesn't require secrecy or shadowy intentions. Stealth is never the aim in my code of combat. Victory is all about positional play, and if you're intelligent enough to grasp the the advantageous position that I have set myself in, that already puts you ahead of the rest of the competition. The question now begs: What the fuck are any of you going to do about it?

My downfall has been imagined by beings tantamount to gnats, incalculable hours wasted on plotting my demise. Yet the day has never arrived. Broken dreams are all that remain in the trail I've left behind me, as I storm through the uncharted territory where I and I alone dwell in solitary preeminence. There is no big secret. No skeletons in my closet. No false bravado. I am absolutely the real deal. My credibility and authority will do nothing but swell in exponential growth as I expose you and the rest of the world to my brilliance.

I am the greatest human being to ever exist in human history.


Rewind five seconds and listen to that again.

You are on a lower level of dirt compared to me. Zero hyperbole zero sales pitch zero ad copy. Don't even fucking buy my book, just accept that fundamental truth and you'll have already thrust yourself ahead of those who surround you. I am the greatest human being to ever lace a pair of wrestling boots, and nothing will stop me from accomplishing exactly what I set out to accomplish come Pain for Pride. Don't believe me? By all means approach me and challenge me. PHYSICALLY PROVE ME WRONG or shut your mouth before I shut it for you. I could squeeze the lifeforce out of your body with just my hands. Clasp my huge Kawhi Leonard sized hands around your puny necks, and send you to oblivion. That is because I am combat ready even in times of peace. Challenge me. I welcome war. I was born for war. I am the supreme leader of earth. ACCEPT YOUR INFERIORITY OR FACE CERTAIN DESTRUCTION. YOU WERE ALL FUCKING WARNED. TEST ME NOT.

Buy my book.

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