Send him to the DS school of stiff forearms.
He will never graduate.
Oh dear, is that the best you can do, Senty? Here, hand the stick to me. Ahemahemahem ...
Stephen Amell. You want to go to Tommy Shaman's school of hard bumps? Well, congratulations! You're in. Full. Scholarship. You acceptance is in the mail.
Oh, and I guarantee you're going to graduate. I guarantee it. Except you won't get a graduation ceremony. You'll get a funeral. They'll be no cap and gown. You won't hear pomp and circumstance. The only thing you'll hear is a 10 bell salute. Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!
But they'll be nobody standing up at ringside for you. Nobody will care. You play a DC comics character. But you're not Heath Ledger. Nobody will care when you die. They'll be no pity Oscar for you. You'll be buried in an unmarked grave. Face down, right on top of Chris Benoit. So you can see what hell looks like.
You see, my client Tommy Shaman, gets itches. He gets itches, that he needs to scratch. But in your case, Stephen Amell, ho ho, in your case, he's not going to scratch. He's going to gouge you out with his bare hands. Like a back alley biopsy. So enjoy your life while you still can. Enjoy your crappy show watched by 6 nerds. Cause by god, by god, Tommy Shaman needs another fix. And hell get it. By. Breaking. You!