What Stinky Owes This Worksite

I have sat with the arithmetic of these last several weeks, and I will not pretend the ledger flatters me. The Ghost of Death By Me stood across the ring, and I was removed from that title bout in two rounds -- two rounds -- which is a result I carry without excuse and without the comfort of blaming anyone but the man I saw in the mirror this morning. I do not deal in excuses. I deal in what comes next.

What comes next is Stinky.

Now, Stinky has taken to the microphone to say something about someone's mother, and I want to be precise about what that tells me: it tells me Stinky has nothing of substance to offer this territory, nothing to put on the table, and so he reaches for the oldest, cheapest currency available to a man with an empty wallet. That is the move of someone who has never built a thing in his life.

The audience in that building will have paid their fare and given their time, and they are owed an honest return on that attention. What I intend to give them is a technical accounting of exactly what Stinky is worth inside the ropes. That number is not large. I will demonstrate it with patience and with care, because that is the work, and the work is what I know.

Come to the ring prepared, Stinky. I am already there.