C. Mortgomery Byrnes
What the fuck am I doin’ anymore?
Why the fuck am I even here?
This tooth I took from Arthur Pleasant, can’t pawn it for shit. Why the fuck am I even holdin’ on to this fuckin’ thing? It’s absolutely worthless. Reminds me of the time that I made an ashtray for my mother when I was in, musta been sixth grade, yeah, it caught fire. Hey, not all of us are Bob Vila, alright?! I was like nine. Gimme a break!
Speakin’ of breaks, I think I need one. No offense to Tony Gamble, he’s been a true inspiration for degenerates. He’s a prick. A massive prick. But he’s smart as a whip, that one. He knows that from a purely personal standpoint, optically speakin’, I hate his fuckin’ guts. But professionally? I learned quite a lot from that pocket paisan. Not like this would be good bye or nothin’, just a whaddyacallit, “til next time”.
And then there’s Arthur Pleasant. Fuckin’ douchebag with his shitty, fangy chompers and cattle prod. Yeah. this might be my last match for a while but I am makin’ everyone a promise. And not of them phony ass reality TV promises from the “Survivor” or “Big Brother”, either. Oh no. This a straight from the fuckin’ heart. That prick so much as comes near me with that Mister Zappersberg, I’m gonna snatch that fuckin’ thing away from him, shove it up his hemmerhoidal ass, and fry that fuckin’ asshole from the inside.
Don’t think I’m just breakin’ balls or talkin’ shit. I’m fuckin’ committed. I’m gonna crack that motherfucker’s skull, drop his pants, lube up the end of that, what is it, like a cattle prod, with some accelerant, force it up his sphincter as far I fuckin’ can, and push the fuckin’ button.
And I ain’t stoppin’. That fuckin’ thing’s battery will need to fuckin’ drain before it stops. I hypetheorize that there might be a chance that one or more of his organs, maybe a bladder, an intestine, a fallopian tube or whatever will either melt away and leak from his asshole. That would be fuckin’ hysterical. Better than “Who’s On First?”. Abbott and Costello, not, absolutely not Laurel and Hardy. They weren’t funny at all.
They call it “Ultraviolence”? There ain’t nothin’ more “ultraviolent” than fryin’ a fuckin’ prick from the inside out.
This might be the last match for a while but that don’t mean I’m just gonna roll over like a cat with a bone.
And as I leave the ring covered in the blood, Arthur Pleasant’s, not mine, I will bask in the adoration of the fans, adoration that Tony Gamble only dreams of. Only his dreams involve the adoration of two big boobed blondes in a tub of jello. I will give the fans what they want, a slight little wave and then I’ll turn around and kick an unconscious Arthur Pleasant in the dick.
So with that, I bid you all a fare fondwell.