Oz lays exhausted after showering and getting dressed. He looked up to the ceiling of the locker room, grinning as his servants brought a custom looking wheelchair as he sees the camera crew coming in and he groans as he gets up to sit straight up. 

"Two out of three ain't bad. Two X-Treme Title defenses. Three left."

He groans as some of his body started to pop like his body was connected to firecrackers. 

"I chose my path. I chose my challenges. I showed my students what they can do when they put their minds into the hard work aspect of this business. 

I destroy bodies. I breathe in suffering. Sleep.

Repeat.

Graves can talk all the shit he wants, but he isn't the one showing how huge his fuckin' balls are. 

Three matches. Three different ones. Compared to me, every single one of you on this roster or ANY OTHER is BENEATH me. Until you people start people recognizing that the work horse of this fucking entire company, the motherfucker who has been through thick and thin, is ME! 

I am a pillar of the XWF and it's high time you people start recognizing that. 

And I am making a declaration here and now, until I say otherwise, for the next few shows I am requesting THREE matches. I don't give a fuck who the opponent is. 

I'm going to make you people recognize that whether I hold a title or fucking not: I! AM! HIM!"

He gets into the chair.

"Time to go back home. Mind your feet. I don't need a goddamn lawsuit."