Post by The Ace on May 29, 2016 20:37:42 GMT
I am a survivor.
I have been since my very first time stepping between a set of ring ropes thirteen years ago, and it is only because of some cruel twist of fate that I have to acknowledge the rather tragic irony that the man who imbued me with such a stout sense of survival is himself struggling to survive.
Everybody knows Spike Kane lives and breathes this business, much more so than I ever have or ever will.
What Roberto Verona claims to be after only five years, Spike Kane has cemented over twenty, so I'm sure you'll forgive me Bertie if I take more than a little exception to the idea that you are the very essence of professional wrestling. If that moniker belongs to anybody around here, it belongs to Michael Kane, not Roberto Verona.
I'm sure it doesn't matter to you Roberto, because as far as you, Mike Laszlo and damn near everybody else around here who isn't a member of my immediate family, Spike Kane is just another example of a man whose shoes I could never even begin to fill.
But it matters to me.
Not filling his shoes, no, I stopped trying to do that ten years ago and even if I still wanted to, the tough son of a bitch isn't dead yet. I've been accused of many things in my life and in my career, the one thing I have never been, the one thing I will never be accused of is being premature.
As easy as it would be for me to stand here and try and turn this whole thing into some giant tribute act to my dying mentor, that bastard has stolen enough of my spotlight over the last dozen years for me to give him this too.
The Ace shakes his head.
No.
This is my moment, this is my right, and this is my time.
No more playing substitute, no more sitting in reserve. I've had enough of being the solution to somebody else's problems. I've had enough of being The Ace in somebody else's pocket. I've had enough of being the knight to somebody else's king, and I've had enough of being the architect of somebody else's empire.
I did it for Adam Knite.
I held my tongue, swallowed my pride and accepted the substantial paycheck that my wife and I were offered to be embarrassed one more time by Knite-Fox family. I did it then because I knew even before I walked through the curtain and down the ramp on that night that May 19th 2013 would be the absolute last time that I allowed anybody to ride to glory on the back of The Blonde Stallion.
I made a promise after the match, a vow as solemn and as binding as any other that I've ever made to myself or my wife.
I vowed that night, right then and there whilst I was sat on the steps inside the Cowboys Stadium in Arlington, Texas that if I ever found myself on a stage as great as that of the greatest show in our industry again that I would never just roll over and die.
And as luck would have it, here we are again, Roberto.
Night of the Immortals.
I couldn't ask for a single greater opportunity than this if I tried, and for that reason alone, I have absolutely no intention of letting it slip away from me, not without one hell of a fight, at least. If either of you want this night from me, you're going to have to take it from me, because I promise you that for as long as I am on my feet inside that ring on Sunday, I will not be denied my place among the very best in this business.
There are so many professional promises that I have made in my career, and I'll be the first to admit that when push came to shove, I've never really shoved back and as a result, I've never been considered as great as I could have been, that's why this isn't one of those promises, gentlemen.
No, this, this is a personal one. This is the kind of promise I only make to my wife, my kids and my closest friends.
I've come too far to be denied my chance at redemption now. Especially by the opportunist who's just hoping for a short cut back to the top of the mountain, or by the egomaniac who sits at the top of it. Each of you are, in your own ways, utterly complacent and a little too comfortable going into this match, and why wouldn't you be?
Both of you think you know exactly what I will bring to the table.
It's an indisputable fact that even at it's highest, the value of an Ace is finite, known, predictable, and it's that exact value, that exact quality that you've counted on for far too long now, Roberto. You've used that value to turn the cards in your favour in every game you've ever played in that ring.
You've bought so many things from me over the last three years Roberto. Your money has bought my dignity, my loyalty and my nice little part time Legends deal, but even a pocket as deep as yours has its bottom, and I make absolutely no apology to you or anybody else around here for no longer wanting to sit idle in it.
For everything your money has bought, there are things I will never sell, not even to you, Bertie. Things I will never part with, things you will never be able to afford, and near the top of that list are the rare and precious moments like this.
Moments of a lifetime.
If there's one thing I've learned in my thirteen year journey here, it's that chances at immortality are even rarer than chances at happiness, and I'm finally at a point in my life where I really appreciate that. I understand it enough to realise they shouldn't ever be squandered or traded, not even in the name of my very best friend.
I've already proven just how much I'm prepared to give up to you, Roberto, but even I have to draw the line in the sand somewhere my friend, so here it is.
This far, no further.
The ink from your pen will no longer blot my professional legacy or put a strike through my personal ambition.
Kathy, Soli and Min deserve to see me at the top of the world just as much as I deserve to be there, and as far as I'm concerned that really is more than enough reason for me to demand so much more from you this time around than mere money.
This time I demand your Imperial Championship.
This time I demand your position as the absolute best professional wrestler in the world today.
This time I demand no less than I deserve.
I will no longer let you dictate my legacy Roberto, but I will still let you be an integral part of it, because as your friend, it really is the least I could do.
The Ace pauses, only to offer his long term friend a smirk. The kind of smug smirk that he knew often riled up his opponents.
If you play with fire, you're going to get burned, it's inevitable, and as a man who prides himself as much as you do on preparing for every eventuality, I really have to wonder just how well prepared you really are against the inevitability of finally being burned by all those fires you've taken personal credit for starting over the last several months.
You stoked the embers of my desire at Metamorphosis, and for everything that has stayed the same in the months that have passed since, the one thing that has invariably changed is the way I see you, Roberto.
You will always be my friend, but that's not the thing that blinded me on that night, no, I was blinded by the same smoke screen that everybody else who has stepped up and ultimately failed to take the richest prize in our sport from you, the one thing that truly sets you apart from every other wrestler in this company, the one thing you've always relied on.
Your success.
You've achieved so much of it at this point and left such an indelible mark on this business that it's easy for anybody to forget that you've only been a professional wrestler for five years, and I didn't realise just how much of a kick to my professional pride and work ethic that really was until just now.
In those five years, you've taken to this business as naturally as a duck takes to water, and you've stitched your name into every fibre of this industry, both as a competitor and as a corporate figurehead. It's easy then to understand exactly why it is that you feel so God damned untouchable.
There is no doubt that Roberto Verona has already ensured his immortality in the world of professional wrestling, and whilst others may foolishly try to take that away from you, or at the very least downplay its significance in the grander scheme of things, I won't.
I'll do the only thing I can do.
I'll do the very best thing a man can do when his very best friend is looking down on all creation from a mountaintop, enjoying the closest thing to absolute Godhood that he will ever come to know in this life.
I will remind you of just how human you still are, Roberto.
I will remind you of just how liable to fall you still are, Verona.
But most of all, I will remind you of just how mortal you still are, Champ.
The Conway family are sat together. Domino is taking a nap on Kathy's lap as she strokes her daughter's hair, and Solitaire is playing Lego Batman 3: Beyond Gotham on the Playstation 4.
It is obvious from the sweat stains down the front of his black "Motorhead: England" tank top, and the half empty bottle of water in his right hand that Jake had either just finished another round of intensive training for his rapidly approaching Imperial Championship rematch at Night of the Immortals.
"Penny for your thoughts," said Kathy.
"I was just thinking about the promise I made you three years ago at NCW's last ever show," said Jake, with a sigh.
"The one where you promised me working for Simon De Montford and Roberto Verona would be nothing like working for Leonard Fox and Kelly Knite?"
Jake nods, slowly.
"How's that working out for you?"
Jake is about to respond, in particular to the ever so subtle but unmistakable hint of sarcasm in his wife's voice that his ears had become fine-tuned to during eight years of marriage, when the doorbell rings.
"Saved by the bell," proclaimed Jake, jumping to his feet, "I'll get it."
Jake walks out of the room, and answers the door.
"Britney!" exclaimed Jake, taken completely by surprise at the sudden appearance of his first ex-fiance, "My God, what the hell are you doing here? I haven't seen you since..."
"Oh who remembers?" said Britney, cutting him off. "Do you know where I can reach Spike Kane?"
"Who is it, honey?" calls out Kathy from the other room.
"Just an old...friend. I'll just be a minute," replies Jake, over his shoulder, before turning his attention back to the dishevelled blonde standing at his door.
He gestures for her to step back outside and closes the door behind himself, before speaking again.
"Now why on God's green Earth would you possibly want to see him?" asked Jake.
"To forgive him for what he did, to tell him I finally understand why he did what he did," said Britney, clutching the small golden crucifix that hangs around her neck.
"How can you say that?" said Jake, "It's been twelve years and even I still don't understand why he did what he did to you."
"Everybody deserves forgiveness, Jake," reasoned Britney, "Especially when they're dying."
"Trust me, this is not a wound you want to re-open, Britney."
"You mean you don't."
"You're damn right I don't," admitted Jake, "This is not a road I need to go down right now, and neither do you."
"It's alright Jake, I can forgive him for the both of us if you want."
"No!" exclaimed Jake, "What I want, what I need, is for you to drop this whole absurd notion and go home. He doesn't deserve your forgiveness or mine."
"So you're saying you won't help me find him?" clarified Britney.
"No. I can't help you," said Jake, "I'm sorry."
"No Jake, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come here. God bless you and your family," said Britney, before turning and walking away.
Jake watches her leave and takes a deep breath. The door opens behind him and Kathy leans against the frame, arms folded across her chest.
"Old friend, huh?" asked Kathy.
"Dont ask," said Jake, stepping back inside, locking eyes with his wife, "Just please, don't ask."
Kathy fought her natural curiosity to press the issue any further the moment she saw the look in his eyes, and simply nodded slowly.
"Thank you," said Jake, kissing her on the cheek.
He walked back into the house and Kathy sighed, shaking her head as she closed the door leaving the past outside, where it belonged.
Mike Laszlo.
Whilst others have a tendency to dismiss you as just another loud-mouthed piddly ass on the roster, I know how much you pride yourself on being a straight shooter, and because I have a certain amount of respect for doing what it is that you do and the conviction with which yo do it, I'm going to be as straight with you as I possibly can about all of this.
You see sunshine, as much as I take great personal offence to this idea that Roberto Verona created me, not least because I just found out that the only man who could still truly take credit for that after all these years is apparently dying of lung cancer, I take even greater offence to the idea that I'm only in the position that I am right now because you were on the shelf for so long.
You give yourself far too much credit if you truly believe any word of that to be true, but then I suppose somebody has to, because nobody else not named Alexis Caffrey ever really has, but hey that's just how it goes when you're happily married, doesn't it? As the old saying goes, it takes one to know one, and I know as much about who you are Mike as you know about who I am.
If I've always been Verona's right hand, then you my friend have always been his left.
Just as necessary perhaps, but nowhere near as dominant or dependable for when he really needed to make a point.
If I've always played second fiddle, then you've always played third, Mike.
You may have managed to distance yourself from just how much you once reminded people of a younger me with a bottle of dye and a plethora of ill-advised tattoos, but the fact remains that even at your very best, I will always see you as my substitute, and a rather poor one at that.
You're the back up plan for the back up plan, a stand in for the stand in. You're the one guy who Roberto Verona knew he could pencil in fairly reliably to take my place on all those Monday Nights I refused to work when I decided that it would be a better use of my time to just stay at home and make love to my wife or take my kids out for ice-cream.
It's a role you've excelled at, one you've truly taken to over these last few months especially, maybe a little too well actually, because here you are again Mike, the third man in the match, the spare wheel of a bicycle that was running just fine without you.
But be that as it may, part of me is actually still thankful that you popped up to state your intention to finally cash in that Joker in the Pack contract when you did, because now I get to show the world that when I defied the odds against me at High Stakes to become only the third man in the history of the Imperial Wrestling Federation to win the annual Roulette Match, it wasn't a fluke by any stretch of the imagination.
I earned my right to challenge Roberto Verona at the showcase of the Immortals for the most coveted prize in our business, not by picking up a pen and finally filling in the date on a contract just before it runs out. A contract that I've just been sat on for an entire year no less, no.
I didn't have that luxury.
I didn't wait for the mountain to come to Mohammed.
I went out there and made my date with destiny, and when I did, I didn't just circle it on my calendar and sit back on my laurels whilst my wife brought home the bacon for at least five months.
No, I earned my right to immortality by proving just how utterly superfluous twenty-nine other bodies were to my ultimate goal.
At this point, what's one more, hey Mike?
You're just another body in this match, Mike.
Another odd for me to overcome, nothing more, nothing less.
You've been to the top once before. You've had your chance to slay one of the giants of the industry already, and we all remember what an absolute pig's ear you made of that God given opportunity.
So excuse me if I won't just step aside whilst you waltz right back into the main event of the biggest show in this company's history, only to piss it all away again.
I've never much cared what you did with your time Mike, bur I'll be damned if I let you waste mine.
I have been since my very first time stepping between a set of ring ropes thirteen years ago, and it is only because of some cruel twist of fate that I have to acknowledge the rather tragic irony that the man who imbued me with such a stout sense of survival is himself struggling to survive.
Everybody knows Spike Kane lives and breathes this business, much more so than I ever have or ever will.
What Roberto Verona claims to be after only five years, Spike Kane has cemented over twenty, so I'm sure you'll forgive me Bertie if I take more than a little exception to the idea that you are the very essence of professional wrestling. If that moniker belongs to anybody around here, it belongs to Michael Kane, not Roberto Verona.
I'm sure it doesn't matter to you Roberto, because as far as you, Mike Laszlo and damn near everybody else around here who isn't a member of my immediate family, Spike Kane is just another example of a man whose shoes I could never even begin to fill.
But it matters to me.
Not filling his shoes, no, I stopped trying to do that ten years ago and even if I still wanted to, the tough son of a bitch isn't dead yet. I've been accused of many things in my life and in my career, the one thing I have never been, the one thing I will never be accused of is being premature.
As easy as it would be for me to stand here and try and turn this whole thing into some giant tribute act to my dying mentor, that bastard has stolen enough of my spotlight over the last dozen years for me to give him this too.
The Ace shakes his head.
No.
This is my moment, this is my right, and this is my time.
No more playing substitute, no more sitting in reserve. I've had enough of being the solution to somebody else's problems. I've had enough of being The Ace in somebody else's pocket. I've had enough of being the knight to somebody else's king, and I've had enough of being the architect of somebody else's empire.
I did it for Adam Knite.
I held my tongue, swallowed my pride and accepted the substantial paycheck that my wife and I were offered to be embarrassed one more time by Knite-Fox family. I did it then because I knew even before I walked through the curtain and down the ramp on that night that May 19th 2013 would be the absolute last time that I allowed anybody to ride to glory on the back of The Blonde Stallion.
I made a promise after the match, a vow as solemn and as binding as any other that I've ever made to myself or my wife.
I vowed that night, right then and there whilst I was sat on the steps inside the Cowboys Stadium in Arlington, Texas that if I ever found myself on a stage as great as that of the greatest show in our industry again that I would never just roll over and die.
And as luck would have it, here we are again, Roberto.
Night of the Immortals.
I couldn't ask for a single greater opportunity than this if I tried, and for that reason alone, I have absolutely no intention of letting it slip away from me, not without one hell of a fight, at least. If either of you want this night from me, you're going to have to take it from me, because I promise you that for as long as I am on my feet inside that ring on Sunday, I will not be denied my place among the very best in this business.
There are so many professional promises that I have made in my career, and I'll be the first to admit that when push came to shove, I've never really shoved back and as a result, I've never been considered as great as I could have been, that's why this isn't one of those promises, gentlemen.
No, this, this is a personal one. This is the kind of promise I only make to my wife, my kids and my closest friends.
I've come too far to be denied my chance at redemption now. Especially by the opportunist who's just hoping for a short cut back to the top of the mountain, or by the egomaniac who sits at the top of it. Each of you are, in your own ways, utterly complacent and a little too comfortable going into this match, and why wouldn't you be?
Both of you think you know exactly what I will bring to the table.
It's an indisputable fact that even at it's highest, the value of an Ace is finite, known, predictable, and it's that exact value, that exact quality that you've counted on for far too long now, Roberto. You've used that value to turn the cards in your favour in every game you've ever played in that ring.
You've bought so many things from me over the last three years Roberto. Your money has bought my dignity, my loyalty and my nice little part time Legends deal, but even a pocket as deep as yours has its bottom, and I make absolutely no apology to you or anybody else around here for no longer wanting to sit idle in it.
For everything your money has bought, there are things I will never sell, not even to you, Bertie. Things I will never part with, things you will never be able to afford, and near the top of that list are the rare and precious moments like this.
Moments of a lifetime.
If there's one thing I've learned in my thirteen year journey here, it's that chances at immortality are even rarer than chances at happiness, and I'm finally at a point in my life where I really appreciate that. I understand it enough to realise they shouldn't ever be squandered or traded, not even in the name of my very best friend.
I've already proven just how much I'm prepared to give up to you, Roberto, but even I have to draw the line in the sand somewhere my friend, so here it is.
This far, no further.
The ink from your pen will no longer blot my professional legacy or put a strike through my personal ambition.
Kathy, Soli and Min deserve to see me at the top of the world just as much as I deserve to be there, and as far as I'm concerned that really is more than enough reason for me to demand so much more from you this time around than mere money.
This time I demand your Imperial Championship.
This time I demand your position as the absolute best professional wrestler in the world today.
This time I demand no less than I deserve.
I will no longer let you dictate my legacy Roberto, but I will still let you be an integral part of it, because as your friend, it really is the least I could do.
The Ace pauses, only to offer his long term friend a smirk. The kind of smug smirk that he knew often riled up his opponents.
If you play with fire, you're going to get burned, it's inevitable, and as a man who prides himself as much as you do on preparing for every eventuality, I really have to wonder just how well prepared you really are against the inevitability of finally being burned by all those fires you've taken personal credit for starting over the last several months.
You stoked the embers of my desire at Metamorphosis, and for everything that has stayed the same in the months that have passed since, the one thing that has invariably changed is the way I see you, Roberto.
You will always be my friend, but that's not the thing that blinded me on that night, no, I was blinded by the same smoke screen that everybody else who has stepped up and ultimately failed to take the richest prize in our sport from you, the one thing that truly sets you apart from every other wrestler in this company, the one thing you've always relied on.
Your success.
You've achieved so much of it at this point and left such an indelible mark on this business that it's easy for anybody to forget that you've only been a professional wrestler for five years, and I didn't realise just how much of a kick to my professional pride and work ethic that really was until just now.
In those five years, you've taken to this business as naturally as a duck takes to water, and you've stitched your name into every fibre of this industry, both as a competitor and as a corporate figurehead. It's easy then to understand exactly why it is that you feel so God damned untouchable.
There is no doubt that Roberto Verona has already ensured his immortality in the world of professional wrestling, and whilst others may foolishly try to take that away from you, or at the very least downplay its significance in the grander scheme of things, I won't.
I'll do the only thing I can do.
I'll do the very best thing a man can do when his very best friend is looking down on all creation from a mountaintop, enjoying the closest thing to absolute Godhood that he will ever come to know in this life.
I will remind you of just how human you still are, Roberto.
I will remind you of just how liable to fall you still are, Verona.
But most of all, I will remind you of just how mortal you still are, Champ.
The Conway family are sat together. Domino is taking a nap on Kathy's lap as she strokes her daughter's hair, and Solitaire is playing Lego Batman 3: Beyond Gotham on the Playstation 4.
It is obvious from the sweat stains down the front of his black "Motorhead: England" tank top, and the half empty bottle of water in his right hand that Jake had either just finished another round of intensive training for his rapidly approaching Imperial Championship rematch at Night of the Immortals.
"Penny for your thoughts," said Kathy.
"I was just thinking about the promise I made you three years ago at NCW's last ever show," said Jake, with a sigh.
"The one where you promised me working for Simon De Montford and Roberto Verona would be nothing like working for Leonard Fox and Kelly Knite?"
Jake nods, slowly.
"How's that working out for you?"
Jake is about to respond, in particular to the ever so subtle but unmistakable hint of sarcasm in his wife's voice that his ears had become fine-tuned to during eight years of marriage, when the doorbell rings.
"Saved by the bell," proclaimed Jake, jumping to his feet, "I'll get it."
Jake walks out of the room, and answers the door.
"Britney!" exclaimed Jake, taken completely by surprise at the sudden appearance of his first ex-fiance, "My God, what the hell are you doing here? I haven't seen you since..."
"Oh who remembers?" said Britney, cutting him off. "Do you know where I can reach Spike Kane?"
"Who is it, honey?" calls out Kathy from the other room.
"Just an old...friend. I'll just be a minute," replies Jake, over his shoulder, before turning his attention back to the dishevelled blonde standing at his door.
He gestures for her to step back outside and closes the door behind himself, before speaking again.
"Now why on God's green Earth would you possibly want to see him?" asked Jake.
"To forgive him for what he did, to tell him I finally understand why he did what he did," said Britney, clutching the small golden crucifix that hangs around her neck.
"How can you say that?" said Jake, "It's been twelve years and even I still don't understand why he did what he did to you."
"Everybody deserves forgiveness, Jake," reasoned Britney, "Especially when they're dying."
"Trust me, this is not a wound you want to re-open, Britney."
"You mean you don't."
"You're damn right I don't," admitted Jake, "This is not a road I need to go down right now, and neither do you."
"It's alright Jake, I can forgive him for the both of us if you want."
"No!" exclaimed Jake, "What I want, what I need, is for you to drop this whole absurd notion and go home. He doesn't deserve your forgiveness or mine."
"So you're saying you won't help me find him?" clarified Britney.
"No. I can't help you," said Jake, "I'm sorry."
"No Jake, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come here. God bless you and your family," said Britney, before turning and walking away.
Jake watches her leave and takes a deep breath. The door opens behind him and Kathy leans against the frame, arms folded across her chest.
"Old friend, huh?" asked Kathy.
"Dont ask," said Jake, stepping back inside, locking eyes with his wife, "Just please, don't ask."
Kathy fought her natural curiosity to press the issue any further the moment she saw the look in his eyes, and simply nodded slowly.
"Thank you," said Jake, kissing her on the cheek.
He walked back into the house and Kathy sighed, shaking her head as she closed the door leaving the past outside, where it belonged.
Mike Laszlo.
Whilst others have a tendency to dismiss you as just another loud-mouthed piddly ass on the roster, I know how much you pride yourself on being a straight shooter, and because I have a certain amount of respect for doing what it is that you do and the conviction with which yo do it, I'm going to be as straight with you as I possibly can about all of this.
You see sunshine, as much as I take great personal offence to this idea that Roberto Verona created me, not least because I just found out that the only man who could still truly take credit for that after all these years is apparently dying of lung cancer, I take even greater offence to the idea that I'm only in the position that I am right now because you were on the shelf for so long.
You give yourself far too much credit if you truly believe any word of that to be true, but then I suppose somebody has to, because nobody else not named Alexis Caffrey ever really has, but hey that's just how it goes when you're happily married, doesn't it? As the old saying goes, it takes one to know one, and I know as much about who you are Mike as you know about who I am.
If I've always been Verona's right hand, then you my friend have always been his left.
Just as necessary perhaps, but nowhere near as dominant or dependable for when he really needed to make a point.
If I've always played second fiddle, then you've always played third, Mike.
You may have managed to distance yourself from just how much you once reminded people of a younger me with a bottle of dye and a plethora of ill-advised tattoos, but the fact remains that even at your very best, I will always see you as my substitute, and a rather poor one at that.
You're the back up plan for the back up plan, a stand in for the stand in. You're the one guy who Roberto Verona knew he could pencil in fairly reliably to take my place on all those Monday Nights I refused to work when I decided that it would be a better use of my time to just stay at home and make love to my wife or take my kids out for ice-cream.
It's a role you've excelled at, one you've truly taken to over these last few months especially, maybe a little too well actually, because here you are again Mike, the third man in the match, the spare wheel of a bicycle that was running just fine without you.
But be that as it may, part of me is actually still thankful that you popped up to state your intention to finally cash in that Joker in the Pack contract when you did, because now I get to show the world that when I defied the odds against me at High Stakes to become only the third man in the history of the Imperial Wrestling Federation to win the annual Roulette Match, it wasn't a fluke by any stretch of the imagination.
I earned my right to challenge Roberto Verona at the showcase of the Immortals for the most coveted prize in our business, not by picking up a pen and finally filling in the date on a contract just before it runs out. A contract that I've just been sat on for an entire year no less, no.
I didn't have that luxury.
I didn't wait for the mountain to come to Mohammed.
I went out there and made my date with destiny, and when I did, I didn't just circle it on my calendar and sit back on my laurels whilst my wife brought home the bacon for at least five months.
No, I earned my right to immortality by proving just how utterly superfluous twenty-nine other bodies were to my ultimate goal.
At this point, what's one more, hey Mike?
You're just another body in this match, Mike.
Another odd for me to overcome, nothing more, nothing less.
You've been to the top once before. You've had your chance to slay one of the giants of the industry already, and we all remember what an absolute pig's ear you made of that God given opportunity.
So excuse me if I won't just step aside whilst you waltz right back into the main event of the biggest show in this company's history, only to piss it all away again.
I've never much cared what you did with your time Mike, bur I'll be damned if I let you waste mine.
Well howdy there pardner.