What have I become? ...my sweetest friend...

Guys.

Guys.

I'm depressed you guys.

I'm depressed you guys because I had a false belief.

A false belief that Lindsay Troy...

...

Ha... seems almost silly to say, knowing what I know now... but I had a false belief that Lindsay Troy was a woman with a heart and a soul that had not been so hardened by the industry that so-called experts have labeled "professional wrestling" that she would appear to enjoy and even delight in the deaths of Toddrick and, more importantly, Miguel.

So now, here I sit... in my haven...

My... kennel, if yew wheel...

And my daily breakfast of kibble n bits just tastes a little bit more bitter.

My bowl of water, just slightly more sour.

Life itself seems to have lost its colour.

Note, I spelled "color" fancy.

Why not?

I'm about to die anyway.

I'd probably die soon even if I wasn't in that match... on account of how terribly hard I been beating on my muhfuckin meat. Got my thang lookin like ROAD KILL.

GOT MY HOG LOOKIN LIKE A DEAD POSSUM THAT GOT RAN OVER BY A JEEP WRANGLER.

But that's neither here nor there.

Now I know for a fact at least one muhfucka been wondering, now that we heard from Toddrick, what Miguel's feelings are on this.

Well the Mig says this.

The Mig says that come Ultra Violence, the Mig is gonna walk down to that elevated pallet, stand on toppa that sumbitch, get turned sideways, AND GET SKULL FUCKED INTO SAID PALLET VIA PILEDRIVER BY ROB WILLIAMS WHO ENJOYS HURTING ME ALMOST AS MUCH AS HE ENJOYS THE DULCET TONES OF HIS OWN CRYBABY TEARS WHILE HE SNORTS A LINE OF COCAINE OFF A DEAD HOOKERS CHEST!!!!!!!

...OKAY!?!?!

THATS HOW THE FUCK I FEEL.

AND WHEN ROB WILLIAMS

KILLS ME IN COLD BLOOD.

I ASK ONLY THIS...

...

That you all sing that song from Les Miserables at my funeral. Together. Holding hands. Like a proper family.

You know, the one thats like, "i dreamed a dream of dreams gone dreeeeeeeam... I dreamed a dream, of some dreamiiiiiiiing..."

I don't know all the words.

I don't have to know all the words.

You don't get to tell me what I can or cannot do.

Only Fred Dick gets to do that, and I put extra whiskey in his morning coffee so that he passes out. I also mixed in some laxative so he shits his own bed.

I'm a real evil bitch that way.

How do I end this? Perhaps I end it the same way my life ends.

At Ultra Violence.

At the hands of a man who would be literal homeless, gutter trash, except he knows how to fight, so he has seven figures in the bank.

Goodbye cruel world.

Also, I want raccoon hands at my funeral.

Open casket so everyone can see my hands doing the raccoon hand thing. Where their hands are up all cute by their face.

And bury me next to Toddrick.

We entered this fucked up world of professional wrestling together.

Might as well ride with my guy up to heaven.

Gonna find me an angel wife who makes buttermilk pancakes straight from the cow titty.

I hear they got shit like that up there.