Weep, Cleveland! Get down on your pointed knees and weep for the hurting this man called Beckett shall levy upon you. Because your tears are all that you will have to console you as you retreat back to your ornate and ridiculously overpriced hotel rooms and your open bars and your wallet-busting per diems and your expensive 22-year old hookers… without a victory! Because tonight belongs to Beckett, and only a fool would dare stand between him and the W. The big, bold, beautiful W. It is over, fair Indians. That you have even showed up to play is a curiosity to me. Beckett will not me denied.

Provided, you know, his finger holds up and stuff.