Threaded Mode | Linear Mode

Matthias Syn · (08-01-2025)

“Some men rob you with a six-gun - others with a pen” - Woody Guthrie

Chains sway like severed spines. Barstools rusted to the floor, a jukebox short circuits in the corner, playing nothing. Matthias Syn waits in the dark, carving thunder into splinters.

Them No Good Bastards are what happen when you microwave nostalgia and feed it to the r3tarded twin you keep chained in the attic.

Go ahead and clip that for discord. Score it low because Syn said r3tard again. I don't play to the fucking judges anymore, I play to the voices that never stop screaming while I sleep. This isn't an audition for your singles push that nobody asked for, or for your breakout star moment. I'm here to bury you with words and carve my fucking name into your ribcage.

Thunder Cuckles. Notorious power bottom and Bobby Bourbons fucking gimp. Lips stitched to his dick like a fuck sock that thanks you after. Your legacy isn't a time capsule, TK - it's a fucking miscarriage in a Tupperware bin.

Pity fapping to titles you won from teams that no-one talk about anymore. I can't roll my eyes hard enough.

I do appreciate you keeping MY Revolution title warm. The title that I was never pinned for. I'm taking it the fuck back and if they'd have given XXXVI, a real threat to those tag titles at Leap of Faith, someone like Matthias Syn, instead of that fucking sentient fleshlight Oz, those Anarchy tag titles wouldn't be around your wastes either. You think those are safe? Wrong - I'm collecting everything that you hold dear. And I fucking loathe tagging. I'll do it just because.

You and Bourbon built a shrine to your midcard careers and filled it with trash - like, actual trash - and had the balls to call it history. A coffee cup. A torn poster. A fucking Porky's DVD. That's your Hall of Fame? I've seen more dignity in a hoarders meth trailer.

You're so fucking brain dead and out of touch that you dropped a Tiny Tim reference in 2025 and expected applause. Jesus Christ. Watching a TNGB promo is like getting waterboarded with a hobos piss while your stepdad explains the "good ol' days" between strokes.

You treat every belt that you've ever won like a cum-stained concert t-shirt, shove it in a trunk and then tell anyone who will still listen that its a fucking monument.

dismissive wanking gesture

You don't carry championships - you dry fuck them for 15 minutes then blame the booking when they die of shame. If I poured bleach into your time capsule, I'd be doing future generations a fucking favor. Your whole gimmick is drunk grandpa and racist uncle accidentally form a tag team, and for some reason the company keeps letting it headline.

You dream about being dangerous, TK. I wake up already guilty. I'm not a villain because I cheat - I'm a villain because I mean every fucking word that I say. I say the quiet parts out loud and then turn that shit up to eleven because I want to commit war crimes on this microphone and leave chalk outlines in the ring. You're a small dog barking at a grizzly bear right before its neck gets snapped.

Your entire world is a community theater production of Deliverance, directed by a guy who smells like hot dog water and has PISS SLUT tattooed in Times New Roman across his lower back.

TNGB doesn't make history. Thunder Knuckles doesn't make history. You cosplay it. You waddle into matches wearing the bones of better men and pretend you earned any of it. You call yourselves legends the same way that obnoxious cunt, racists call themselves patriots. Loud, dumb and terrified of progress. The Revolution Title didn't get healed, Cuckles. It got Stockholm Syndrome. You broke its spirit and made it live in your fucking double wide.

Swivel chairs. Time capsules. Beer jokes and Porky's references like you're shooting live from the back of a Golden Corral.

It's the same goddamned story every time: Here's a broken memento from some team we beat in 2023 and haven't shut the fuck up about since.

Bobby nods. TK screams. You both laugh. Cut. Bravo. The TNGB promo formula. Take two low-IQ, inbred hillbillies, add a third grade reading level and shake until something vaguely racist falls out.

It's not lore. It's early onset dementia playing out in real time. Fucking BORING! This company props you up like it owes you backpay. Every match booked like a make-a-wish appearance for a dying act that peaked during the TRL days. They love your bullshit because it's easy. Push the beer soaked nostalgia gutter trash, let them talk about legacy, let them carry belts that they never elevate.

You think this saloon match is your fucking house? You think chain ropes and studded leather are your playpen? I'm gonna make it your crucifixion. You think I give a fuck that Bourbon lurks in the wings? Let him come out. I'll staple his gums to the bottom rope with a fucking brad nailer, then fishhook your eyelids to the turnbuckle while I whisper parables into your ear as the blood pools in your boots. I will chain-whip your legacy until the studs tear out chunks of your fucking birth certificate, then hold the Revolution title up like a desecrated relic, dripping with the liquified past of two mouth breathing fossils.

This isn't a match. This is a purge. And when it's done? Your names won't be whispered with reverence. No redemption. No bootleg sequel. Just silence. And the sound of the Revolution Title breathing again. With my name engraved in its bones.

Say goodbye to the belt, TK. Say goodbye to the gimmick. Wave goodbye to the goddamn timeline. Because Matthias Syn isn't stepping into a Thunder Knuckles Saloon.

I'm burning it the fuck down with everyone still inside.

STATIC

Threaded Mode \| Linear Mode Every Bastard Dies Screaming
Author	Message