Though, I guess I can’t be all mad. Now, whenever my knees get shaky from the booze, I can chalk up the instability in my gait to your vicious assault back at March Sadness. Still, it’s a cruel thing, to rip an old man’s knee to shreds, just to win a wrestling match.
History dictates I must challenge you, the man that put me on the shelf, now that I’m allegedly fit for active competition again. Honor dictates I must challenge you, since not only did you force me to submit, and shriek out in pain, but you went one step beyond, and tore my ligaments to ribbons.
I know my history, but what honor I ever had, it disappeared at the bottom of a bottle years ago. Still, I’ve got a little bit of pride left, and that still stings every time I see you, almost as bad as my knees ache when a rain storm is brewing.
And let me tell you, kid, a big storm is coming. See, I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention, but I’ve been working on my skills, at least when I’m capable of higher motor functions.
I took out some people at that Backyard Barbecue Brawl. I made Blaster Robinson’s arm pop in the Opening Scramble match. Can you believe it, because I sure couldn’t. Me, not only submitting a guy like big Blaster, but popping his arm?
That’s why I’m not issuing a normal challenge, Credit Lewis. I’m challenging you to a Submission Match. Your leglocks versus my armlocks. Winner gets a steak dinner, loser gets a week’s worth of hospital jello. Let’s go, kid.