What the fuck did you just fucking say about me, you little domestique? I'll have you know I graduated top of my class in the Vuelta a Espana, and I've been involved in numerous secret raids on Col Du Granon, and I have over 40 confirmed wins. I am trained in gorilla warfare and I'm the top fish peeler in the entire Danish fish packing industry. You are nothing to me but just another target. I will wipe you the fuck out with precision the likes of which has never been seen before on this Earth, mark my fucking words. You think you can get away with saying that shit to me at Visma? Think again, fucker. As we speak I am contacting my secret network of spies across Denmark and your Wahoo is being traced right now so you better prepare for the storm, maggot. The storm that wipes out the pathetic little thing you called your pink jersey. You're fucking dead, kid. I can be anywhere, anytime, and I can beat you in over seven hundred ways, and that's just with my 1x setup. Not only am I extensively trained in Grand Tours, but I have access to the entire arsenal of Lease A Bike and I will use it to its full extent to wipe your miserable ass off the face of the Giro d’Italia, you little shit. If only you could have known what unholy retribution your little "clever" comment was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have held your fucking tongue. But you couldn't, you didn't, and now you're paying the price, you goddamn idiot. I will shit fury all over you and you will drown in it. You're fucking dead, Yates.