Can't Fix Stupid - Genesis PPV Promo vs Ian Dickenson

The camera comes on with a hand coming away from it and we’re inside a moving vehicle. The shot tells us the camera’s somewhere either on the dashboard or center console. The quality screams phone cam. Nonetheless, the driver, Morgan Payne looks from the lens to focus on the road as she drives. For once, however, it appears she’s not--no wait, here it comes: Newport in the mouth with a Pittsburgh Steelers lighter igniting the end of it. She snaps the lighter shut with a flick of her wrist and takes a deep drag as Young Flacs can be heard bumping from her speakers. There’s a very faint tug at the corner of Morgan’s mouth; a tiny half smirk as she reaches and turns the volume down so she can speak.

“Ian.”

She takes a deep breath and exhales the smoke from her lips, sending it out the crack in the top of her window.

“Shit, I dunno if you even gon’ watch dis. You might, you might not. I don’t give a fuck if you do, really, ‘cause so far anything I say either goes over your head or you got so much shit in your ears. I’mma speak on dis anyway and get it off my chest.”

She pauses for a drag on her cigarette, shooting the camera a quick cold glare before looking to the road again.

“Let’s be real, Ian. I bother you. Even when I ain’t flappin’ my gums at’cha or tweetin’ away back an’ forth, I bother you.”

A pause and a smile.

“Ya can deny it and play the cold shoulder, too focused to care bullshit all you want but I know it when I see it. My very fuckin’ presence drives you up the goddamn wall. Maybe even bothers your wife too. Hi, Ebony!”

Still watching the road, Morgan waves to the camera. She flips on her signal and adjusts the wheel, probably switching into another lane.

“Where was I? Ah right. I bother you, Ian, because...when it all comes dahn ta brass tacks?”

Morgan appears to check her mirrors and the road in front of her, making sure it’s clear. She then briefly leans towards the camera with her eyebrows raising, just long enough to say:

“I ain’t afraid of you.”

She winks with a click of her tongue before sitting straight again and turns her attention back to the road.

“I ain’t afraid of you and you don’t intimidate me in da slightest fuckin’ bit. For someone with da nickname, da Hawthorne Horror, I can’t imagine how much dat burns your fuckin’ ass up. You’re six foot plus, two fitty pahnds. You hide in the back of the arena show after show, standin’ in a fuckin’ dahk room with ya hair in ya face, huffin’ like a rabid bulldog about how you gon’ whup somebody’s ass. Wanna know what makes me not afraid o’you? Cause you try too goddamn hard to be “da Hawthorne Horror.” Da dahk rooms, da mean muggin, da stupid ass shit you say.”

Morgan twists her face up to look angry and menacing but it’s clearly her putting on an act. When she speaks, her tone is forced to sound low, deep and gruff. Her own impersonation of Ian Dickenson.

“Hrrrrnngggg….HRRRRNNNGGGG! Mooorrrrrgan Paaaaaaayne. I’m gonna walk out of that arena carryin’ my title….and your head on a pike. I’m gonna rip yer head off and shit in yer goddamn neck! Don’chu know what a fuckin’ hyperbole is?! RAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGH!!!!”

She switches back to acting like herself just as quick as she switched to acting like Ian Dickenson. Morgan puffs on her Newport and rolls her eyes.

“Yah, ahnno what a fuckin’ hyperbole is, jagoff. I remember when I used ta say stupid shit ta make people scared of fightin’ me. Yanno what? It didn’t work. Nobody gets scared of overexaggerated threats anymore, Ian. You’d have more luck intimidatin’ someone by tellin’ them some fucked up shit you can actually do in a match dat might fuck up their day, let alone their year or even life. Like say….”

She pauses for another drag on her cigarette, thinking for a few seconds.

“Say, if Danny MacNamara - another opponent I got this month - let’s say he tells me some shit like….”

It’s impersonation time again. This time Morgan puts on a more serious act, trying her best to put on an Irish accent with just a hint of unhinged in her tone.

“Aye Morgan...I’m goin’ ta snap every fuckin’ tendon in both yer legs and burn yer bloody house ta ashes.”

Morgan switches out of the impersonation again with her eyebrows raised at the camera.

“Dat shit might fuckin’ concern me! Why? ‘Cause dat motherfucka’ll do it!”

She reaches across with her left hand, careful with her cigarette and pulls her sleeveless shirt in to expose her right shoulder better. No longer is she wearing a bandage over her wound from Puerto Rico. It’s still red and raw. It looks tender as all hell but it’s almost healed where she had a pinch of flesh literally ripped out of her.

“See dis? Dat motherfucka BIT da fuckin’ shit ahtta me. He ain’t just sunk his teef in and draw blood. Nah, he took a fuckin’ piece o’me wif him when his homeboys pulled him ahtta da ring. I gotta face him before I face you, Ian. So who da fuck you think I’mma be more worried abaht? Someone who actually dug up a dude’s mother and sat her at his fuckin’ supper table...or a Cali boy who can’t stay focused long enough during a match wif someone literally a foot shorter and half his goddamn weight to ignore someone on da fuckin’ stage mockin’ da shit ahtta you because she fucked you ahtta winnin’ your first World Title?”

Morgan chuckles and shakes her head at the mention of Cass Baumer distracting Ian Dickenson during his and Morgan’s match several weeks back in New Frontier.

“Man, I ain’t asked her ta come aht there and do dat shit. Nobody asked her ta come aht during your World Title match against my girlfriend and DDT ya ass into da mat. See, here’s da thing Ian. I know damn well I coulda beat you on my own back then, and dat was a few months ago. Since then, guess what: I been trainin’ more an’ more. I been gettin’ better an’ better. Da fact dat you’re bigger than me? Dat don’t mean shit. I’m a small bitch. Da majority of my trainin’ goes towards handlin’ big ass motherfuckas like you. Usin’ my size to my advantage and yours to your disadvantage. I don't need to go on twitter to 'convince people I'm a badass', Ian. I've been trained by several wrestlers - fighters - who are multi-time champions. I talk shit 'cause I'm confident in my ability to step to you and beat you in the ring. I talk shit 'cause I've been trained in ways to outsmart and cause unbearable fuckin' pain to motherfuckas like you. I talk shit 'cause I know it pisses you off and when you get pissed off, you slip up and make mistakes. You like ta drag matches on and just keep hurtin' and hurtin' people. Dat's where you fucked up wif me last time and whatchu ain't realized is I can take da pain, jagoff. I can take da torture! I ain’t afraid o’meetin’ you at Genesis, Ian. I ain’t afraid o’fightin’ you in a fuckin’ Reaver’s Rules, Lament Configuration match, whatever da fuck Marcus Slayton wants ta call it. Thumbtack balloons, barbwire bats? Fuck it, add carpet strips and light tubes we’ll have ourselves a real fuckin’ party up in dat bitch.”

Morgan chain lights another Newport, smirking to herself. She snuffs the old butt out in her ash tray and drags on the new cigarette.

“What was I sayin’ abaht makin’ threats ya can follow through wif? I got one for ya. Ian, dis lil five foot four, angry fuckin’ cunt from McKeesport promises you da worse pain you prolly ever felt in your fuckin’ life. Liver shots and pressure points, my dude. I don’t need to bleed you like a pig to make you scream for mercy and beg me ta stop hurtin’ you. Oh, but I’mma still do it. Yeah, bet. I’mma take da first sharp object I can get my hands ahn, Ian, and I’mma dig it so deep inta yer fuckin’ trigimenal nerve dat’ll be when you give in and quit, IF ya don’t end up passin’ aht from da pain.”

Morgan turns the wheel, apparently getting off of the highway and coming to an offramp. She turns the wheel again and we can tell that she’s turning in somewhere before she appears to be looking for a parking spot.

“Either way, Ian...I’m walkin’ inta Genesis ready and fully willin’ ta fuck you up in da worse possible way and so fuckin’ help me, I WILL walk ahtta dat cage and ahtta dat show, carryin’ da Horrorcore Openweight Title on MY fuckin’ shoulder! ‘Cause I have come way too fuckin’ far in my training and I have worked way too fuckin’ hard to work on improvin’ who I am overall to lose to a piece o’shit like you!”

Morgan pulls into an empty spot at wherever it is she’s been heading. She puts the vehicle into park and kills the engine. Here, Morgan unbuckles her seatbelt and leans closer to the camera.

“‘Cause no matter what you put me through physically, Ian, I can guarantee I’ve had worse. I’m humble enough ta admit dat I got so many psychological scars dat I ain’t gonna bat a fuckin eyelash at anything you try and do ta me in dat ring. Mark my fuckin’ words, Ian Dickenson. I. Will. Not. Fucking. Say. I. Quit!”

Morgan snorts in anger before reaching up covering the lens with her hand as she ends the recording.