Lobolito never knew what hit him.
Newsflash: it was me, and I just kept on hitting the punk. There’s something satisfying, you know, about landing some blows, seeing the glaze of pain in your opponent’s eyes, listening to their labored breathing, their whimpering and sobbing.
Although when they don’t really resist much, it’s disappointing. I can’t speak for other wrestlers–or viewers–but I get bored with matches that are just beat downs. And when you get bored, well, that’s when you make a mistake. That’s when your victim gets a chance to make his own move.
And I’m always up to see what the punk has to offer.
Nice! If I weren’t so flexible, this would have been pretty fucking painful. But I didn’t submit, so the punk made a heel move and grabbed my crotch and squeezed.
I can respect that, you know? It’s what I would have done. But you know what they say about payback…
And again–props to not letting me get my breath and get back to speed before moving in on me again. Maybe the punk has some potential.
Always go for the balls again when in doubt.
But you’d better fucking finish me off, punk.