You think this ring is a playground for your little internet trends? Look at you, Cabron. You walk out here wearing ears, whiskers, and a tail, purring like you’re something to be amused by. You call yourself 'Gen Z.' You think you’re 'otherkin.' You want the world to look at you, validate you, and pretend along with your little fantasy. You live in a world so soft, so desperate for attention, that you can simply wake up one day and decide you are a house pet.
Where I come from, fantasy doesn't exist. In my world, you don’t get the luxury of choosing your identity. Your identity is forced upon you by the dirt you are born in and the monsters you must outrun. You don't get to sit around inventing new ways to be special. You survive, or you disappear.
Your entire generation is infected with the same disease. You are terrified of being ordinary, so you invent these ridiculous personas just to feel seen. You trade real strength for online validation. You measure your worth in clicks, likes, and digital applause from strangers who are just as lost as you are. You cry about your 'safe spaces' and demand that the world bows down to your delusions. You demand respect not because you earned it, but because you put on a costume and asked for it.
While you were filming videos for your phone, crying about your feelings, and begging for a thumbs-up, I was working for men who don't care about your pronouns, your anxieties, or your identity. I’ve looked into the eyes of real predators. Not internet trolls. Real, cold-blooded monsters who would hollow you out and forget you by dinner. And let me tell you something, Cabron... you are no predator.
You play the part of a cat because you've never had to face a real wolf. You live in a world of absolute luxury where you can pretend to be an animal because you've never actually had to fight for your next meal. You want to act like a creature of the night? Fine. But you forgot the number one rule of the jungle: the moment a pampered house cat steps out of the living room and into the tall grass, it becomes prey.
At Turbo, your little online fan club cannot save you. There is no block button in that ring. There is no comment section to validate or comfort your tears. I am not here to play with yarn, and I am certainly not going to play along with your game. I am a professional. I am here to do a job. I am going to put a collar on you, I am going to clip your claws, and I am going to make you realize exactly how fragile human bones really are when they meet concrete.
Enjoy your nine lives while you can, kid. Because when that bell rings, the internet goes black. And I am the one who puts you to sleep.
Time To Meet God.