Oh Brother
Jun 12, 2016 13:16:50 GMT -6
"Mr. God" Benjamin Atreyu, Spencer Adams, and 1 more like this
Post by Wentworth Updegraff Jr. on Jun 12, 2016 13:16:50 GMT -6
The sound of Wentworth’s shoes slapping against the cement floor is the only sound in the otherwise empty gym beneath Updegraff manor. He moves through a row of elliptical machines, before taking a seat on one of the padded weight benches. Leaning forward, he watches as sweat drips from his nose, and stains the floor beneath him a darker gray. He lets the moisture fall, watching silently as if in a hypnotic trance. He does this until there’s almost a tiny puddle forming beneath him. His attention is ripped away when he hears his brothers loud voice echoing down the stairwell.
Hunter:Naw naw naw. That ain’t how this one’s goin’. You want the TV champ, you’re gonna be payin’ TV champ money, you feel me?... ‘Nilla, who you think you fuckin’ with? I’ll bring the mufukkin universe down on yo ass if you don’t show me the money!... Yeah yeah, you talk to them and get back to me.... Alright Uncle Blake, I’ll see you this weekend.
Wentworth rises to his feet, wiping the sweat from his forehead, and taking a swig of water.
Wentworth:What the hell are you doing?
Hunter:Oh yo, check this out, I been settin’ up a big autograph session for you. You know Uncle Blake though. Cheap ass mufukk.
Wentworth:You know, when I said you could be my manager, I didn’t actually mean I wanted you to do any of the business stuff. Just be at ringside in case Omega tries anything.
Hunter:Uh uh little bro. I got your back on all fronts, you feel me? Imma manage the shit outta you! I already got you a book signin’ next week !
Wentworth gets a look of extreme confusion on his face.
Wentworth:Hunter… I never wrote a book.
Hunter:That’s the beauty, man! People can bring in whatever book they want! It’s gonna be lit! We’ll get a smoke machine, some strobes, a little ecstasy. Make it the MAD joint, you feel me?
Wentworth:Do you even know what a book signing is?
Hunter:I figure it’s like a rave, but with books. No?
Wentworth:No. Look, if you really want to be my manager, there’s a lot you have to learn. It’s a big job.
Hunter:Well I’m ready, baby. The party train is pullin’ into the station, and I’m gonna do whatever it takes to get you on it!
Wentworth can only stare at his brother for a moment. He was used to Hunter being enthusiastic, but never about something that wasn’t doing serious damage to his central nervous system. After a few fleeting seconds of consideration, Wentworth reluctantly nods his head.
Wentworth:Alright… ok we’ll give this a shot. First thing we have to change is your clothes.
Hunter:Psssshhhh. Wachu talkin’ about? Andre Ecstasy fly as fuck, yo!
Wentworth:You can’t wear a tank top and baggy jeans if you’re going to represent me. We’re going to have to get you a suit.
Hunter throws his arms in the air, and keeps them there while pacing back and forth angrily.
Hunter:Aw hell naw! Naw!...Uh uh!
Wentworth crosses his arms, and watches his brother silently for a few minutes.
Wentworth:You said you would do anything. This is part of anything. It’s a suit, or you can be a bodyguard. Those are my terms.
Hunter stops in his tracks, clearly having a very violent battle in his own head. Wentworth swears he can almost see the devil and angel on his respective shoulders. Hunter even seems to look back and forth one time before shaking his head free of the argument.
Hunter:Alright… but I get to pick the suit.
___________________________
Wentworth and Hunter Updegraff make their way down the pristine sidewalk outside of the large, outdoor mall complex. The hot summer sun hangs high overhead, beating down on the tiny, enclosed shopping city. A couple of young squirrels wrestle around on one of the carefully manicured patches of grass. Only a few mid-day shoppers pass the brothers, but those that do stop to gawk at Hunter as he walks past.
Hunter:Man, this is why I hate Connecticut. Buncha haters can’t take it when a ‘nilla got a little shine to him. Sparkle sparkle, bitches!
Hunter’s final exclamation causes a mother to grab her pre-teen daughters arm, and drag her across the street into a Cheesecake Factory. Wentworth closes his eyes, and pinches the bridge of his nose, holding back a verbal flood.
Wentworth:Alright, let’s try to keep a low profile.
Hunter:What are we even doin’ here even? You don’t shop in places like this.
Wentworth looks up at his brother, a grin spreading across his face.
Wentworth:Don’t be so sure.
After passing a few more stores, Wentworth grabs his brother’s arm and yanks him down a narrow alley. They steps down a staircase at the end, and Wentworth pounds on a large, steel door. After a few moments, a small slot toward the top opens, and a set of eyes peer out at them, accompanied by a voice from behind the door.
Guard:I left the donuts on the counter overnight.
Wentworth:Do you want ants? Because that’s how you get ants.
The slot slams shut, and after a few more moments, the door eases open. Wentworth steps inside, and is immediately surrounded by rack upon rack of the finest Italian suits in all different cuts and styles. Wentworth inhales through his nose, taking in the scents that waft through the seemingly magical air around him. He spins around to see his brother looking absolutely terrified.
Hunter:I don’t… I don’t wanna accidentally fuck one of these suits up, man. They look like they cost more than my condo. God damn. I don’t even wanna talk too loud around them. Might make ‘em mad.
Wentworth:Would you get in here? You’ll be fine.
Hunter gingerly makes his way through the racks, careful to touch nothing. They slowly make their way through the forest of fabric, to a large, rectangular clearing. A long, mahogany table sits in the center of the clear space, behind it a short, Italian man with sagging skin works diligently on a suit, not even noticing the Updegraff brothers. His tiny hands are almost a blur as they fly through the stitching, sweat running down his brow in rivers. It is only when Wentworth clears his throat that the man looks up, his movements not slowing in the slightest.
Vincenzo:Wentworth. I did not hear you come in. You’ll have to give me a moment.
The man’s warm, Sicilian accent brings a smile to Wentworth’s face.
Wentworth:Take your time, Vincenzo. One does not rush a master craftsman. I’m here buying my older brother his first…
Wentworth trails off, as he notices that Hunter is no longer beside him.
Wentworth:God dammit. Hunter!
Hunter: Don’t come back here! Stay up there! I think I found somethin’!
Wentworth:Oh Christ…
Wentworth pinches the bridge of his nose again, a gesture he’s finding more and more common since reuniting with his brother. He looks back up at Vincenzo, who is chuckling, but who also never takes his eyes off of his work. Wentworth leans against a corner, watching with a small grin as the shrunken man moves quickly and diligently, completing each stitch with expert speed and craftsmanship. A minute or two passes before Wentworth hears Hunters voice from behind him.
Hunter:Aw hells yeah. Check it out, Went! Snidely Seat Wetter be lookin’ dope!
What Wentworth sees when he turns around doesn’t surprise him, but it still draws a deep sigh from his lungs. Hunter stands among racks and racks of suits, dressed in a monstrosity two sizes too large for him. The color is the first thing Wentworth notices. The swirls of purple and white are almost reminiscent of tie dye. The fabric is the second punch. Everything from the pants to the jacket, all the way to the wide brimmed fedora is made of corduroy. Hunter does a quick spin, and smiles at his brother.
Hunter:Waddaya think?
Wentworth: I think lethal injection is too good for whoever made that suit. No offense, Vincenzo.
The tailor answers without looking up.
Vincenzo:None taken. That one is not one of mine. It is a donation. I was going to scrap it for parts, but if your brother wants it, I am sure we can work something out.
Wentworth sighs again, and turns back to see Hunter already dancing around, and pretending to make his way down an invisible entrance ramp.
Wentworth:I don’t suppose there’s any point in suggesting we look a little longer?
Hunter stops in his tracks, and looks at his brother.
Hunter:Not even a little. You said any suit I wanted. Now, you said that. Ain’t no takin’ that back. Don’t be a taker backer. That’s whack as fuck.
Wentworth’s mouth hangs open, at a total loss for words.
Wentworth:Alright. Fine. Vincenzo, would you mind fitting him properly?
Hunter:Watchu talkin’ ‘bout, fam? This fits like a damn dream. Imma wear this out.
Wentworth:Yeah… yeah you are… aren’t you. Fine, whatever. Just do me a favor and get the camera on your phone out. I have an idea.
__________________
The camera comes on, and in front of it stands Wentworth Updegraff, surrounded by what looks to be a wall of suits. He smile at the lens, taking a walk through the hanging fabric as he speaks.
Wentworth:Hello there, Kyle. I want you to know I won’t be posting this video publicly. I wanted this one to be for your eyes only. It’s important that you hear a few things this week, before I beat you deaf on Sunday. You did a lot of talking this week, acting like you somehow know me. I want you to understand very clearly that you don’t know a damn thing about me, and that’s the biggest mistake you could have ever made. You might think you know, but I’m about to enlighten you real quick.
Wentworth turns to his left, absent mindedly stroking the silk on a black jacket that hangs next to him. He smiles, his mind wandering to another time and place for a moment. He lets it hover there for a bit, before continuing.
Wentworth:First of all, you want to claim that this is all some sort of act? The finely tailored suits. The perfectly coiffed hair. The bevvy of beautiful women in and out of my door at all hours of the night. You seem to think it’s all an act, or at least, that’s what you WANT to believe. I don’t think you really believe it, but damn do you want to. You know why? Because this is who I am, and it is something you could never be. The standard of sophistication isn’t just some nickname, it’s who I am, and it’s who you wish you were. It’s who most of the slobs who’ll be at the Warehouse on Sunday wish they could be. That’s why you spout the nonsense you do, it’s why the fans boo me, it’s behind every piece of negative press I have ever received. Jealousy is an ugly demon, but once it has its claws in you, it doesn’t let go.
Wentworth turns left, and has a seat on a bench, as one of the shop girls hands him a glass of red wine from off camera. He takes a sip, and brings his attention back to the camera.
Wentworth:You were right about one thing. When I hurt my knee, it sent me into a depression, and I flunked out of college. The MCL tear took everything from me, but at least I didn’t just give it all away. I did my research too, Kyle. You were set up to have it all. You were going to be a major league star… then you just handed it all over, because you’re a greedy little pig. Not content with being on the verge of a major sports career, you got sucked into the nasty little addiction that is gambling. You threw everything away by choice. You don’t deserve another shot at greatness. You gave it up with a smile on your stupid face. I had it ripped from my fingers, so you can kiss my ass.
And that’s another thing. Did you really think knowing how to hit a ball with a stick and jam steroids in your ass would qualify you for MY title? I was a national champion wrestler. You were a god damn baseball player. I don’t care how fast you can run, or how much tobacco you can chew. When we get on that mat, you’re in my world. You’re not out on the grass, you’re on the canvas. We bleed in this sport. We fight in this sport. We do not swing at a ball and then run 90 feet. We give everything every single night we are out there. There’s no pitching rotation. There’s no off season. This is one man versus one man, and in that arena, you just don’t measure up to my greatness.
He takes another sip of his wine, and sets it down, before leaning forward, and letting his smile slowly turn into a grimace of hatred.
Wentworth:I could have let that all go. I could have let your words roll off my back and into the gutter where you belong, and made this match just about holding on to MY television title. Then you did the dumbest thing you could have possibly done. You came after my brother. Now, people might have this image of me as some aloof playboy who doesn’t care about anything, and for the most part, they’re right. There is one thing, however, that I will defend with every last drop of blood in my body, and that’s my older brother. You came after him, and now the beast inside me that allowed me to win three state championships, the beast inside me that allowed me to take this TV title, the beast that’s going to rip you limb from limb woke up. You should have let it sleep, but you couldn’t, and that’s why you’re walking out of Lazarus with nothing but broken bones.
Wentworth finished his drink, and sets it on a nearby table, before standing to his feet and walking through the aisles upon aisle of jackets with gold and silver buttons.
Wentworth:One of the things you wouldn’t stop talking about was all the stuff you were GONNA do. You’re GONNA beat me. You’re GONNA be TV champ. Well let me tell you a little about what I AM. I AM the television champion, and there’s a reason for that. I’m the greatest pure wrestler UCI will ever see, and I’m happy to put that on the line week after week so I can continue to embarrass annoying little fuckboys like you. I represent the elite class in UCI and in all of wrestling. I AM everything you want to be, but never will. That includes TV champion. You can grab at it all you want, but you will never take the title from me. You may be a world class athlete, but I’m just too good at what I do.
Wentworth continues walking up a set of concrete stairs, and through a door that leads to momentarily blinding daylight. Once the camera adjusts, Wentworth stands on the sidewalk, and delivers the rest of his speech, glaring into the camera.
Wentworth:There is no mistaking this one. If you step into that ring with me, I will destroy you. I will drag you through hell and make you wish you had never been stupid enough to challenge me. I don’t care who you beat before, you haven’t beat me, and you never will. That’s the only thing that matters. You can be as good as you want, but on Sunday you will walk away from the warehouse knowing for sure that you will never be as good at anything as I am at wrestling. When, not if, when that happens, I want you to let it stew in your brain. I want you to dwell on it, and consider the very real possibility of getting the hell out of my sport. You don’t belong here, and on Sunday, I am going to make that fact perfectly clear. Sleep tight, Kyle. This is going to hurt.
Wentworth gives the camera a polite nod, before walking off and letting it fade to black.
Hunter:Naw naw naw. That ain’t how this one’s goin’. You want the TV champ, you’re gonna be payin’ TV champ money, you feel me?... ‘Nilla, who you think you fuckin’ with? I’ll bring the mufukkin universe down on yo ass if you don’t show me the money!... Yeah yeah, you talk to them and get back to me.... Alright Uncle Blake, I’ll see you this weekend.
Wentworth rises to his feet, wiping the sweat from his forehead, and taking a swig of water.
Wentworth:What the hell are you doing?
Hunter:Oh yo, check this out, I been settin’ up a big autograph session for you. You know Uncle Blake though. Cheap ass mufukk.
Wentworth:You know, when I said you could be my manager, I didn’t actually mean I wanted you to do any of the business stuff. Just be at ringside in case Omega tries anything.
Hunter:Uh uh little bro. I got your back on all fronts, you feel me? Imma manage the shit outta you! I already got you a book signin’ next week !
Wentworth gets a look of extreme confusion on his face.
Wentworth:Hunter… I never wrote a book.
Hunter:That’s the beauty, man! People can bring in whatever book they want! It’s gonna be lit! We’ll get a smoke machine, some strobes, a little ecstasy. Make it the MAD joint, you feel me?
Wentworth:Do you even know what a book signing is?
Hunter:I figure it’s like a rave, but with books. No?
Wentworth:No. Look, if you really want to be my manager, there’s a lot you have to learn. It’s a big job.
Hunter:Well I’m ready, baby. The party train is pullin’ into the station, and I’m gonna do whatever it takes to get you on it!
Wentworth can only stare at his brother for a moment. He was used to Hunter being enthusiastic, but never about something that wasn’t doing serious damage to his central nervous system. After a few fleeting seconds of consideration, Wentworth reluctantly nods his head.
Wentworth:Alright… ok we’ll give this a shot. First thing we have to change is your clothes.
Hunter:Psssshhhh. Wachu talkin’ about? Andre Ecstasy fly as fuck, yo!
Wentworth:You can’t wear a tank top and baggy jeans if you’re going to represent me. We’re going to have to get you a suit.
Hunter throws his arms in the air, and keeps them there while pacing back and forth angrily.
Hunter:Aw hell naw! Naw!...Uh uh!
Wentworth crosses his arms, and watches his brother silently for a few minutes.
Wentworth:You said you would do anything. This is part of anything. It’s a suit, or you can be a bodyguard. Those are my terms.
Hunter stops in his tracks, clearly having a very violent battle in his own head. Wentworth swears he can almost see the devil and angel on his respective shoulders. Hunter even seems to look back and forth one time before shaking his head free of the argument.
Hunter:Alright… but I get to pick the suit.
___________________________
Wentworth and Hunter Updegraff make their way down the pristine sidewalk outside of the large, outdoor mall complex. The hot summer sun hangs high overhead, beating down on the tiny, enclosed shopping city. A couple of young squirrels wrestle around on one of the carefully manicured patches of grass. Only a few mid-day shoppers pass the brothers, but those that do stop to gawk at Hunter as he walks past.
Hunter:Man, this is why I hate Connecticut. Buncha haters can’t take it when a ‘nilla got a little shine to him. Sparkle sparkle, bitches!
Hunter’s final exclamation causes a mother to grab her pre-teen daughters arm, and drag her across the street into a Cheesecake Factory. Wentworth closes his eyes, and pinches the bridge of his nose, holding back a verbal flood.
Wentworth:Alright, let’s try to keep a low profile.
Hunter:What are we even doin’ here even? You don’t shop in places like this.
Wentworth looks up at his brother, a grin spreading across his face.
Wentworth:Don’t be so sure.
After passing a few more stores, Wentworth grabs his brother’s arm and yanks him down a narrow alley. They steps down a staircase at the end, and Wentworth pounds on a large, steel door. After a few moments, a small slot toward the top opens, and a set of eyes peer out at them, accompanied by a voice from behind the door.
Guard:I left the donuts on the counter overnight.
Wentworth:Do you want ants? Because that’s how you get ants.
The slot slams shut, and after a few more moments, the door eases open. Wentworth steps inside, and is immediately surrounded by rack upon rack of the finest Italian suits in all different cuts and styles. Wentworth inhales through his nose, taking in the scents that waft through the seemingly magical air around him. He spins around to see his brother looking absolutely terrified.
Hunter:I don’t… I don’t wanna accidentally fuck one of these suits up, man. They look like they cost more than my condo. God damn. I don’t even wanna talk too loud around them. Might make ‘em mad.
Wentworth:Would you get in here? You’ll be fine.
Hunter gingerly makes his way through the racks, careful to touch nothing. They slowly make their way through the forest of fabric, to a large, rectangular clearing. A long, mahogany table sits in the center of the clear space, behind it a short, Italian man with sagging skin works diligently on a suit, not even noticing the Updegraff brothers. His tiny hands are almost a blur as they fly through the stitching, sweat running down his brow in rivers. It is only when Wentworth clears his throat that the man looks up, his movements not slowing in the slightest.
Vincenzo:Wentworth. I did not hear you come in. You’ll have to give me a moment.
The man’s warm, Sicilian accent brings a smile to Wentworth’s face.
Wentworth:Take your time, Vincenzo. One does not rush a master craftsman. I’m here buying my older brother his first…
Wentworth trails off, as he notices that Hunter is no longer beside him.
Wentworth:God dammit. Hunter!
Hunter: Don’t come back here! Stay up there! I think I found somethin’!
Wentworth:Oh Christ…
Wentworth pinches the bridge of his nose again, a gesture he’s finding more and more common since reuniting with his brother. He looks back up at Vincenzo, who is chuckling, but who also never takes his eyes off of his work. Wentworth leans against a corner, watching with a small grin as the shrunken man moves quickly and diligently, completing each stitch with expert speed and craftsmanship. A minute or two passes before Wentworth hears Hunters voice from behind him.
Hunter:Aw hells yeah. Check it out, Went! Snidely Seat Wetter be lookin’ dope!
What Wentworth sees when he turns around doesn’t surprise him, but it still draws a deep sigh from his lungs. Hunter stands among racks and racks of suits, dressed in a monstrosity two sizes too large for him. The color is the first thing Wentworth notices. The swirls of purple and white are almost reminiscent of tie dye. The fabric is the second punch. Everything from the pants to the jacket, all the way to the wide brimmed fedora is made of corduroy. Hunter does a quick spin, and smiles at his brother.
Hunter:Waddaya think?
Wentworth: I think lethal injection is too good for whoever made that suit. No offense, Vincenzo.
The tailor answers without looking up.
Vincenzo:None taken. That one is not one of mine. It is a donation. I was going to scrap it for parts, but if your brother wants it, I am sure we can work something out.
Wentworth sighs again, and turns back to see Hunter already dancing around, and pretending to make his way down an invisible entrance ramp.
Wentworth:I don’t suppose there’s any point in suggesting we look a little longer?
Hunter stops in his tracks, and looks at his brother.
Hunter:Not even a little. You said any suit I wanted. Now, you said that. Ain’t no takin’ that back. Don’t be a taker backer. That’s whack as fuck.
Wentworth’s mouth hangs open, at a total loss for words.
Wentworth:Alright. Fine. Vincenzo, would you mind fitting him properly?
Hunter:Watchu talkin’ ‘bout, fam? This fits like a damn dream. Imma wear this out.
Wentworth:Yeah… yeah you are… aren’t you. Fine, whatever. Just do me a favor and get the camera on your phone out. I have an idea.
__________________
The camera comes on, and in front of it stands Wentworth Updegraff, surrounded by what looks to be a wall of suits. He smile at the lens, taking a walk through the hanging fabric as he speaks.
Wentworth:Hello there, Kyle. I want you to know I won’t be posting this video publicly. I wanted this one to be for your eyes only. It’s important that you hear a few things this week, before I beat you deaf on Sunday. You did a lot of talking this week, acting like you somehow know me. I want you to understand very clearly that you don’t know a damn thing about me, and that’s the biggest mistake you could have ever made. You might think you know, but I’m about to enlighten you real quick.
Wentworth turns to his left, absent mindedly stroking the silk on a black jacket that hangs next to him. He smiles, his mind wandering to another time and place for a moment. He lets it hover there for a bit, before continuing.
Wentworth:First of all, you want to claim that this is all some sort of act? The finely tailored suits. The perfectly coiffed hair. The bevvy of beautiful women in and out of my door at all hours of the night. You seem to think it’s all an act, or at least, that’s what you WANT to believe. I don’t think you really believe it, but damn do you want to. You know why? Because this is who I am, and it is something you could never be. The standard of sophistication isn’t just some nickname, it’s who I am, and it’s who you wish you were. It’s who most of the slobs who’ll be at the Warehouse on Sunday wish they could be. That’s why you spout the nonsense you do, it’s why the fans boo me, it’s behind every piece of negative press I have ever received. Jealousy is an ugly demon, but once it has its claws in you, it doesn’t let go.
Wentworth turns left, and has a seat on a bench, as one of the shop girls hands him a glass of red wine from off camera. He takes a sip, and brings his attention back to the camera.
Wentworth:You were right about one thing. When I hurt my knee, it sent me into a depression, and I flunked out of college. The MCL tear took everything from me, but at least I didn’t just give it all away. I did my research too, Kyle. You were set up to have it all. You were going to be a major league star… then you just handed it all over, because you’re a greedy little pig. Not content with being on the verge of a major sports career, you got sucked into the nasty little addiction that is gambling. You threw everything away by choice. You don’t deserve another shot at greatness. You gave it up with a smile on your stupid face. I had it ripped from my fingers, so you can kiss my ass.
And that’s another thing. Did you really think knowing how to hit a ball with a stick and jam steroids in your ass would qualify you for MY title? I was a national champion wrestler. You were a god damn baseball player. I don’t care how fast you can run, or how much tobacco you can chew. When we get on that mat, you’re in my world. You’re not out on the grass, you’re on the canvas. We bleed in this sport. We fight in this sport. We do not swing at a ball and then run 90 feet. We give everything every single night we are out there. There’s no pitching rotation. There’s no off season. This is one man versus one man, and in that arena, you just don’t measure up to my greatness.
He takes another sip of his wine, and sets it down, before leaning forward, and letting his smile slowly turn into a grimace of hatred.
Wentworth:I could have let that all go. I could have let your words roll off my back and into the gutter where you belong, and made this match just about holding on to MY television title. Then you did the dumbest thing you could have possibly done. You came after my brother. Now, people might have this image of me as some aloof playboy who doesn’t care about anything, and for the most part, they’re right. There is one thing, however, that I will defend with every last drop of blood in my body, and that’s my older brother. You came after him, and now the beast inside me that allowed me to win three state championships, the beast inside me that allowed me to take this TV title, the beast that’s going to rip you limb from limb woke up. You should have let it sleep, but you couldn’t, and that’s why you’re walking out of Lazarus with nothing but broken bones.
Wentworth finished his drink, and sets it on a nearby table, before standing to his feet and walking through the aisles upon aisle of jackets with gold and silver buttons.
Wentworth:One of the things you wouldn’t stop talking about was all the stuff you were GONNA do. You’re GONNA beat me. You’re GONNA be TV champ. Well let me tell you a little about what I AM. I AM the television champion, and there’s a reason for that. I’m the greatest pure wrestler UCI will ever see, and I’m happy to put that on the line week after week so I can continue to embarrass annoying little fuckboys like you. I represent the elite class in UCI and in all of wrestling. I AM everything you want to be, but never will. That includes TV champion. You can grab at it all you want, but you will never take the title from me. You may be a world class athlete, but I’m just too good at what I do.
Wentworth continues walking up a set of concrete stairs, and through a door that leads to momentarily blinding daylight. Once the camera adjusts, Wentworth stands on the sidewalk, and delivers the rest of his speech, glaring into the camera.
Wentworth:There is no mistaking this one. If you step into that ring with me, I will destroy you. I will drag you through hell and make you wish you had never been stupid enough to challenge me. I don’t care who you beat before, you haven’t beat me, and you never will. That’s the only thing that matters. You can be as good as you want, but on Sunday you will walk away from the warehouse knowing for sure that you will never be as good at anything as I am at wrestling. When, not if, when that happens, I want you to let it stew in your brain. I want you to dwell on it, and consider the very real possibility of getting the hell out of my sport. You don’t belong here, and on Sunday, I am going to make that fact perfectly clear. Sleep tight, Kyle. This is going to hurt.
Wentworth gives the camera a polite nod, before walking off and letting it fade to black.
