What a Man Cannot See, He Cannot Claim

The Ghost of Death By Me has called me a fart sucker, a mental midget, a jobber, and invoked the language of a television prank program from twenty-odd years past -- and I mention all of that not because it wounds me, but because I want the people in attendance at the Reject Wrestling Federation to understand precisely the caliber of mind standing across from me when that bell rings.

You said, Death By Me, that an entrepreneur must see the full competitive profile of his opposition. I agree with you entirely. So let me offer my assessment: a man who opens his mouth with that volume of noise and that absence of substance is a man who has confused the size of his voice for the size of his ledger. Those are not the same column.

You said I will be on the ground. Perhaps. The ground is where the work gets done. It is where submissions are applied, where leverage is established, where a man either holds what he has taken or surrenders it. I am comfortable on the ground.

You came to this worksite with insults borrowed from a decade you clearly miss and a confidence that has not yet been tested by someone who arrived here without inheritance. I built what I have. I intend to add to it.

You will not be counted out, Death By Me. I will not allow that. I want the full duration of what this ring offers, and I want you to understand -- slowly, deliberately, one hold at a time -- exactly what it costs to underestimate a man who does not require your approval to proceed.