Waiting until the techs are out of camera shot, Hans launches straight in.
(Hans): There you go again Ronnie. Like clockwork, out comes the…
’I had respect for you’ jibe.
But let’s look beyond that, for your respect is not interesting, nor desirable to me in the least.
I’m glad that you can so easily separate what goes on between the ropes, with those that occur beyond it. Lord knows I can’t. But then, you injected me with something that could have killed me.
Something that may well yet do.
Something that you don’t show one shred of remorse for.
He snaps, anger boiling out, veins in his neck drawing taut, aggression shaping his posture as he gestures at the camera.
(Hans): So excuse me, for having a different perspective on the threats made to you Ronnie! F*ck you, for putting me in the position I am just now, where every phone call could be the doctors giving me the news that I dread.
F*ck you, for having the audacity to complain that I demean you, when your actions do more than I ever could. I make no claim to be a ‘good guy’, and never have since I returned to the HWA. But you’ll never find me assaulting someone in the bathroom, or humiliating their loved ones on the Havoctron, or… back to this again, stabbing them in the arm with a loaded injection of god-knows what, and not even caring that he might be signing their death warrant then and there, by his own actions, simply because he wants a gold belt around his waist…
Falling silent for a few moments, Hans swallows his anger down, the tension in his body still evident. He goes to speak, but catches his tongue, allowing his head to drop briefly, rising back up as he finally allows the words out.
(Hans): There’s something quite sad about that Ronnie. Another man’s life means so little to you in your pursuit of gold. We all face up to the prospect of injury. Every day, you just might land badly at training, and that’s you out for months. You might break a bone through sparring. Concussion can happen at anytime. I accept that. I can’t think of any wrestler that wouldn’t. But facing the prospect of death? No. And from the hands of an opponent who might very well seek it out intentionally? Who doesn’t care one jot that his actions are heinous? Who doesn’t even offer an explanation, and who merely brushes it off as ‘I do what I need to do’?
You may think that I act virtuous and clean. I disagree. I just have standards. A level of decency that won’t allow me to stoop to levels you, and many others, are all too willing to plunge to. I did acts that I’m ashamed of, yes, years ago. Does that excuse them, no, but that’s not the issue here. Come back when I’ve decided to follow your lead, and harass an opponent for months on end, both verbally and physically, interfered in matches, humiliated someone’s girlfriend in front of a live audience of millions… etcetera… etcetera…
He rotates his left index finger around, extended out, as he says this, slowing it down to match his speech.
(Hans): Etcetera… etcetera…
He sighs, folding his arms over his chest.
(Hans): You see nothing dignified in me, or have compassion for me Ronnie? I’d call you a liar if you did.
I’m sure I’ve said this before, but it bears reiterating.
You may have little respect for me Ronnie. I have none for you.
Despite you putting words in my mouth, allow me to say this. Your wife, Toya, I truly hope that nothing happens to her. You’re right; she’s not part of this world. She doesn’t deserve what should be aimed at you and you alone.
That said, I do hope whoever’s threatening you decides to leave us be at “Blood, Sweat & Tears”. I’ve got a lot of pent up anger towards you Ronnie. Time to let it out.
The scene fades out to black.
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