We meet again, old friend. Perhaps you supposed you had won; that I’d gone soft, lost to pitiful undertakings and far more scrupulous preoccupations. I’ll not deny my neglect in letting fall many an opportunity for guiltless skirmish, my antagonistic nature appropriately squelched by the rabid call of posterity and domestication. I once laid my grave, a willing victim to the wiles of leisure and self-subterfuge.
Yet here we are. I many years aged and you still unblemished, taunting me with your youthful ambivalence. Think not that such an apparent advantage shall a swift victory unto you bestow. The cold nature of your unconsciousness wields not the stalwart power of the living spirit. Skill and dexterity have not been forgotten, even less the penchant for torment in this weakened soul. Though you may win, as the world turns, it shall be nothing more than the ultimate loss.
For while you remain forever cemented in the bowels of ineffectuality, your obedient service shall create in me a sharpened contender, born to ameliorate, to strengthen, to continually reemerge bruised but dogged with each blow to your insubordinate exterior.
I anticipate no less than a warm and enthusiastic if not bitter welcome, as I’m quite certain you’ve had years to prepare for this day you can shortly expect to rue.
Shall we get this shit started?