The Ghost of Death By Me Has Told You Exactly Who He Is

A man who calls his opponent a fart sucker and appeals to some television prank program as the frame for his understanding of competition has already told you everything you need to know about the quality of his mind.

The Ghost of Death By Me, you stood in front of a camera and informed me that I lack the vision to assess a competitor, that I cannot see the full picture, and yet the fullest picture you have managed to paint is one of insults borrowed from a schoolyard and a smirk you clearly practiced in a mirror.

You said I do not belong in the ring with you. I find that an unusual claim from a man whose most detailed argument is that ground work is for losers, as though the history of this worksite could be argued away by volume and a television reference.

I have built every inch of what I am on a floor that did not want me standing. I do not require your blessing, your championship, or your estimation of what a jobber looks like, because when this match is finished, the accounting will be plain and public and permanent.

Come to the ring on time, Death By Me. That is the only courtesy I intend to extend.