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"You got this, Punk! Best in the world! Go show 'em!"
Punk smiled to himself. That's right, he was CM Punk now, not Phil. Phil was the poet, the philosopher, the wise sage who would lead round table discussions on the abject discrimination of mutant society in graphic novels. Punk, on the other hand, was the savage, the warrior, the champion who had defeated all challengers and become the BEST IN THE WORLD. He glanced at his opponent across the octagon with the same regard as one may give to an insect or a docile and malnourished retard child. Mickey Gall, poor bastard, he had no idea he was simply a stepping stone on Punk's road to glory, an insignificant nothing, a footnote for when they review the history of the greatest UFC fighter that has ever lived, the BEST IN THE WORLD, CM PUNK.
That would show Paul. Heh, Paul, he had always been so full of envy and jealousy. He always had old man Vince's ear, spreading lies and whispering poison, and through his machinations, had ultimately denied Punk his birthright, the main event at Wrestlemania. Punk almost felt bad for old man Vince, being surrounded by incompetent cronies and yes men but it wouldn't matter soon anyway, the company was sinking fast and will probably go out of business in a year or two. Then they'll come crawling on their knees to him...
"FIGHT!"
Punk focused back to the present, it was time. His feet shuffled forward, moving in rapid and almost imperceptible manner as he propelled himself forward. This was his secret technique, a culmination of 2 years of hard work and intense training, a technique that allowed him to close distance faster than the human eye could process. He could imagine the terror inside Mickey, seeing him teleport across the cage in an instant. Punk almost felt sorry for the kid, he hadn't intended to unleash his most powerful technique on him but he felt it would be a greater mercy to end this quickly and spare Mickey the embarrassment. He cocked his fist back...
Punk smiled to himself. That's right, he was CM Punk now, not Phil. Phil was the poet, the philosopher, the wise sage who would lead round table discussions on the abject discrimination of mutant society in graphic novels. Punk, on the other hand, was the savage, the warrior, the champion who had defeated all challengers and become the BEST IN THE WORLD. He glanced at his opponent across the octagon with the same regard as one may give to an insect or a docile and malnourished retard child. Mickey Gall, poor bastard, he had no idea he was simply a stepping stone on Punk's road to glory, an insignificant nothing, a footnote for when they review the history of the greatest UFC fighter that has ever lived, the BEST IN THE WORLD, CM PUNK.
That would show Paul. Heh, Paul, he had always been so full of envy and jealousy. He always had old man Vince's ear, spreading lies and whispering poison, and through his machinations, had ultimately denied Punk his birthright, the main event at Wrestlemania. Punk almost felt bad for old man Vince, being surrounded by incompetent cronies and yes men but it wouldn't matter soon anyway, the company was sinking fast and will probably go out of business in a year or two. Then they'll come crawling on their knees to him...
"FIGHT!"
Punk focused back to the present, it was time. His feet shuffled forward, moving in rapid and almost imperceptible manner as he propelled himself forward. This was his secret technique, a culmination of 2 years of hard work and intense training, a technique that allowed him to close distance faster than the human eye could process. He could imagine the terror inside Mickey, seeing him teleport across the cage in an instant. Punk almost felt sorry for the kid, he hadn't intended to unleash his most powerful technique on him but he felt it would be a greater mercy to end this quickly and spare Mickey the embarrassment. He cocked his fist back...
