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+--- Thread: Oi! - The Promo (/showthread.php?tid=36559)
Oi! - The Promo - Griffin MacAlister - 03-31-2020
![[Image: EqdqqoS.jpg]](https://i.imgur.com/EqdqqoS.jpg)
"Oi! Oi! Oi!"
"Alright, all you fuckin' bastards, Griffin MacAlister here, with some words about my upcoming wrasslin' match."
"A fight that has been dubbed an 'I Quit' match."
"My opponent... Peter motherfuckin' Gilmour."
"A dude that I have quite a bit o' history with when it comes to this here company."
"We've been adversaries and partners, we were even in the same damn group. When Sebastian Duke formed The Brotherhood, both Peter and I were in it. Along with Tony Santos and Steve Davids."
"Worst decision I ever made, by far."
"And if you're waitin' for me to crack a grin and say... just kidding, don't fucking hold your breath cause it isn't going to happen. Nope. It's not happening. Nuh-uh. No ways. No how. I'm not going to do anything of the sort cause I'm dead fuckin' serious. That was the worst choice I've made."
"You see, this is how things went down."
"Duke cornered me after I smoked a fat ass blunt and was like... hey man, wanna join my team? And me, not thinkin' straight, at all. Seriously, my brain was off in the clouds somewhere, practically in orbit and not on this planet... I was so fucking high. I stood there and gave the whole concept, all of two seconds of thought. Right before I agreed to join forces, with that eyeliner and cape wearin' fucking goon. Next thing I know I'm meeting up with Peter, Tony and Steve at Snake Mountain. Where I discovered myself, watchin' Peter stuff his face with tray after tray of On-Cor chicken parm, while Sebastian stands at the forefront of the room, babbling incessantly like he was plotting some kinda diabolical, evil genius style, master plan."
"Half the fuckin' time I didn't know what the man was going on about. But that's how Duke was... he'd ramble on and on about stupid fucking bullshit. Stuff that don't even matter. He'd harp away on it. The same way some lonely, old man in a retirement facility, who never gets any visitors, would. Talking to hear himself talk. Rambling on for hours and not really saying much of anything. No joke. This man could spew thousands upon thousands of words, about something that any normal person, could convey in one sentence."
"And why did we even have those stupid as fuck meetings?"
"Why?"
"Why didn't he just shoot everyone a mass text message and call it a day?"
"I'll tell ya why. Because he had to make everything a huge production. Like he was a character outta some play. Giving Shakespearean monologues."
"Y'know what, I never woulda lasted through a single, one of those bullshit, crap fests... if I didn't get high as fuck before I entered the room. I would have pulled out my Colt 45 and blown my own fucking brains outta my god damn skull, fifteen minutes into the very first one. Either that or I would have taken out my gun, pointed it at Duke and started firing, till I ran out of bullets."
"Peter Gilmour would have been covered in more red sauce, than what his tray of chicken parm subjected his face and clothes to getting covered with and let me tell you, that man would be completely coated in that shit, five minutes into the first hour of those meetings. Like he was a zombie that just tore up some poor bastard. Walking Dead style. Peter Gilmour is a messy as fuck eater. Eats like a toddler, he does. Like the Cookie Monster devours cookies, that's how Peter destroys a tray of chicken parm. It's fucking weird and gross.You wanna lose weight, watch Peter eat a tray of chicken parm, you'll never want to eat again."
"Anyways, the point I was trying to make is that I found myself on a team, with Gilmour and it was terrible. But that's in the past. We're here and now, standing in the present and I don't need to worry about that garbage anymore. I do; however, have to focus on Gilmour cause we're set to fight in the not so distant, upcomin' future."
"On April 8, 2020... Peter and I will meet in the squared circle and brawl, till someone quits. Lemme tell ya something straight... no bullshit or jive, it ain't going to be me. Nah. No fucking ways am I going to quit. I'll die before that man gets me to utter those words and I'm not planning on dying any time soon. I'm a resilient motherfucker. Self preservation is not a new concept to me and I've taken out bigger, badder, more meaner and ten times even uglier sons of bitches, than Peter Gilmour. That man is not going to get the best of me. Not on April 8th and not ever in his god damn, misbegotten, sorrowful, shit show of a life. No sir. That will never be something that occurs. Not in this reality or a million fucking others. That will not happen."
"I've devastated that silly bastard multiple times in the ring. Every single time that we've clashed in the ring, I have stomped the ever lovin' shit out of him and damn near, virtually annihilated his goofy as fuck ass, beaten him close to death and this next fight, won't prove to be any different. He's basically a dead man, walking. For real. He just don't know it yet."
"After the 8th, he'll be walking to the unemployment line, while I prepare myself for my next fight. Of this there is no question. It's set in stone, fuckin' fact. Peter Gilmour, you better start practicing what you're going to tell your husband, after you quit on April 8th cause you're career here in the XWF is finished. Over. Done. Finished. Through. This I promise you."
"And if you notice, I ain't laughing. This is not a laughing matter. It's some serious shit, man. It isn't a joke or something for you to take lightly. Come the next edition of Warfare, I'm taking you down. See you then, you devil dong worshiping, creep."