12-23-2024, 10:19 PMBeavie Wrote: You know what? To add some fun to this, I'm going to request it be done by a man who knows how to address his enemies. Is this too much? Probably. Is it fun?

Yeah. So with that, Eddie Kingston!



COLD WORLD

"Nah, nah nah. Listen here. You talk about who disrespected the great French-Canadian Claude L'Castor?

"How about we start with the team who chose to draft a centerman in a draft full of them right before the hottest goaltending prospect in San Diego?   You see, they skate around in their bright orange jerseys, looking like a team of fruit roll ups, and they don't have any good iced drinks in their arena. You can't expect someone to play in San Diego in the hot sun in a bunch of goaltender gear and not sweat their asses off. 

But at least their arena is near a beach and not in the middle of nowhere like the Canadian Tire center for the Highlanders.   You think you're tough? With your Braveheart wannabe [explicit]? Oh, buddy, your freedom isn't going to be the thing to worry about when you have to drive home in the dark after a game.

But then there's Joe Primeau and the Vancouver Whalers.   Oh? You mad I'm dissing the Believer dude? THIS IS REAL! IT'S REAL! The dude is from Montreal and doesn't even go to the Quebec's IIHF, and instead is chasing music hits, but Claude already knows him well and he'd leave Vancouver again in a heartbeat!

As for the Detroit Falcons? Well, they're already six feet under this season, and the Waleye, they got a fish?   Good luck shedding that Elk curse and we'll see you in another 20 seasons when that doesn't work and you move to Halifax or something. Though speaking of, Nevada we got a fish dude in our locker room. Dude slaps.

Carolina?   The Kraken? Sorry someone stole your gimmick. First some dudes in a reality we can't mention, and another where San Diego steals your colour. 

Oh speaking of, why do we have teams in Yukon and Alaska ? Claude is freezing his [explicit] off. That travel, ain't good for you. Newfoundland , you ain't safe there on the East Coast. The half hour thing? Terrible! Maine, you get a pass, barely. But I'm watching you.  Then there's Great Falls and Kelowna.   You can't point those on a map. Why do they have teams and my homies back in Yonkers, New York ain't got a team?

Then we get Colorado. Claude tried some of the green stuff there, it was medical, in the form of a creamm recommended by his doctor for his elbow after it faced 20 shots. Gave him a rash! Don't go anywhere near there!

How about we end at home with Quebec City. You see, when you force a man to stare down the barrel of 50 shots a game, they can't stand it. But worst of all, he had some poutine at the concession stands as his cheat day, missing home, trying that good old home cooking, and he goes to open it up, and it is shredded cheese! There are some crimes you can't repent for! You disrespected not just all of Canada, but the entire province of Quebec!" 

**Eddie Kingston leaves and Claude sheepishly walks on**

"Ahem, uh, Bonjour. I would like to apoligize for the language of Mr. Kingston. Most of that was not real. The man did, as we call 'Working ourselves into the shoots.' Though, I did have a bit of a rash, uh, my doctor is managing it. Then, uh, the Quebec City team's poutine, I learned, they had to use shredded as a substitute because of a supply issue. I was given a refund, and it is all good now. But please, stop shooting the puck so much. I need a break. merci beaucoup." 

The crowd erupts into a chorus of boos as “Better Than You” blares through the speakers. Maxwell Jacob Friedman steps out onto the stage, donning his signature scarf and an arrogant smirk. He strides to the ring, microphone in hand, soaking in the jeers with mock gratitude. Once in the ring, MJF leans against the ropes, raises the mic, and speaks.

MJF: Cut my music, Cut my music! Shut your mouths, you uncultured inbreds—Maxwell Jacob Friedman is speaking, and you’re going to listen.”

The crowd boos even louder, and MJF smirks, pacing around the ring.

MJF: Now, before I get to the reason why I had to grace you people with my presence tonight, let me clear something up. Some shmuck from Montreal—and believe me, I had to Google that dump to make sure it was real—paid me, the AEW World Champion, to come out here and say a few words. And honestly, I wasn’t going to do it, but then I thought, ‘Max, who better than you to talk about this?

The crowd chants, “You suck! You suck!” as MJF rolls his eyes.

MJF: Oh, boo all you want! Deep down, you know I’m the salt of the Earth, and you’re lucky to even be breathing the same air as me. Now, apparently, this is about some hockey netminder named Claude L’Castor. Yeah, L’Castor—sounds like a French dish that leaves a bad taste in your mouth. And get this: he’s got beef with some other guy named Joe Primeau. Don’t know him, don’t care. But here’s the kicker: Eddie Kingston—Eddie ‘I live in my mom’s basement and scream into the void’ Kingston—decided to run his mouth on behalf of L’Castor. Eddie, buddy, listen: the last thing Claude L’Castor needs is you fighting his battles. The guy’s a goalie, right? Aren’t goalies supposed to block stuff, like insults and failure? Oh wait, he can’t even do that right!

MJF adjusts his scarf, sneering into the camera.

MJF: Claude, let’s talk, man to… whatever you are. You think you’re some big deal because you can stop a puck? Congratulations, you’re essentially a glorified wall. But here’s the thing about walls—they get knocked down. And when it comes to your rivalry with Joe Primeau, from what I hear, he’s the wrecking ball coming straight for you. See, I’ve dealt with people like you my entire life—guys who think they’re untouchable until reality slaps them in the face. Claude, you’re not untouchable; you’re just unremarkable.

The crowd jeers, but MJF ignores them, leaning casually on the ropes.

MJF: And Eddie Kingston, let me make this clear: you stepping in for Claude is like putting a band-aid on a broken leg. It’s not going to fix anything. Claude L’Castor’s problem isn’t Joe Primeau, and it sure as hell isn’t me. His problem is that he’s too busy living off hype instead of delivering results. Sound familiar, Eddie? Yeah, I thought so.

MJF turns back to the hard camera, directing his final words straight at Claude.

MJF: So, Claude, I hope you’re listening from your little frozen tundra up there in ''Laval''. Because while I may not care about hockey, or you, or whatever irrelevant beef you’ve got with Joe Primeau, I do care about this: when you step into the spotlight, you better be ready to prove you belong there. And from where I’m standing, Claude, you don’t. Now, do me a favor: take that mask of yours, hang it up, and go find a new hobby. Because you, my friend, are not on my level. And frankly? You’re not even on Joe Primeau’s.”

MJF throws the mic to the mat with a smug grin as the crowd erupts in a mix of boos and scattered cheers. He exits the ring, waving dismissively at the audience, as his music hits once again.