MIKE CHECK: Diamond Tortoise, Homeless Hare

In which our hero shits on the homeless and makes a shocking announcement

I have made it through a lot of stupid shit in my life.

 

What are three random examples, you ask? How convenient that you’d choose three, since that’s the exact number suggested to be the most humorous when giving examples of thing.

 

I made it through the 1990’s, when teenagers wore flannel shirts around their waists and listening to bands with names like Toad the Wet Sprocket, or a band called Hootie and the Blowfish where the lead singer was not actually called Hootie and the band was not actually called the Blowfish.

 

I made it through midgets insisting that the name Little People was somehow less insulting than the word midget, even though it’s way more fun to say “Aww, look at the little people, aren’t they cute?” Sidenote, if you meet a midget who is the bouncer at a bar, leave him the fuck alone. He will fucking murder you. Happened to a friend of mine.

 

Finally, I made it through Scott Stevens’ official website, which lists him as a “megastar” and credits himself with retiring Rhys Townsend from not one, but TWO high level professional wrestling companies. A website that wholeheartedly refuses to acknowledge the “Lonesome Loser”, but DOES contain a banner promoting that “Scott Stevens is a fucking pussy” with a Mike’s Hard Lemonade logo. A website that lists “Superstar of the Week” as a legitimate accomplishment.

 

Like I said, I have made it through a lot of stupid shit in my life.

 

And yet somehow, this past week, something so stupid happened that I honestly don’t know if I’m gonna be able to weather the storm this time. Something so stupid that I literally cannot wrap my brain around the thought process that lead to it. Something so fucking stupid that it makes airing a Fisher Price Proboards screenshot of Jeremy Cundiff calling himself “The Real 1-2-3 Kid” seem like a brilliant strategic maneuver.

 

A thirty-five year veteran of the wrestling business told me that wrestling isn’t real.

 

No, you’re not having a stroke, you read that correctly. Sniff the air– no toast. A man who was employed in High Octane Wrestling before I was even out of high school said that Chris Diamond has a small dick and that Lee Best hired him to “do the job” for me on national television. He said that Chris Diamond wears a blue visor over his weiner, and that championships in pro wrestling are akin to “bronze chocolate medals. He said IT WOULD BE BETTER IF HE “WENT OVER CHRIS DIAMOND” and that DIAMOND AND I “WOULDN’T KNOW HOW TO PUT A FUCKING MATCH TOGETHER”.

 

This soft headed tit traipsed out into the fucking woods for 98 and ½ minutes, talked about having sex with dogs, took a shit behind a fucking tree, shot a fucking badger, and oh yeah… SAID THAT HOW IS A FUCKING FIX AND LEE BEST HIRED HIM TO LOSE TO ME.

 

A thirty five year veteran of the wrestling business.

 

Not a particularly good one, by the way– he’s apparently been so homeless (HOW HOMELESS IS HE?)… he’s apparently been so homeless for the last fifteen some odd years that his fucking sheets are stained from shit. Actual human shit. A side note– at what point in being homeless are you required to wipe your own shitty asshole on your fucking bedsheets? I could be homeless for forty years and never get human shit on my bed sheets. You know, by just NOT WIPING MY OWN ASSHOLE ON MY FUCKING BED SHEETS.

 

But as my father says… I digress.

 

Johnny “Couldn’t Sell A Match To A Pyromaniac” O’Dell is such a high profile, top shelf professional wrestler that he’s spent the better part of my adulthood sleeping in a car that last ran properly around the same time that Christopher Reeve did. I don’t know about you guys, but when I think about what kind of professional opinions I respect, the first thing that comes to mind is people who sleep in the backseat of a car that peaked before fucking Superman fell off a Kryptonite horse and started sucking the stem cells out of fetuses for sustenance.

 

Johnny “You’d Think He’d Be Better At Getting Heat Since It’s A Daily Struggle Not To Die From Hypothermia” O’Dell is a thirty five year veteran who clearly hasn’t drawn a dime in fifteen years, or he would be sleeping in a car that didn’t have fucking bees in it. A thirty five year veteran of what, Johnny? Because it sure as shit doesn’t sound like wrestling. Was it Korea? Vietnam? Could be, given that you’re still using racial slurs against Asians in 2019.

 

Do you find the name “Charlie” upsetting, Johnny?

 

Johnny “Lee Best Told Me To Get A Job And I Misunderstood” O’Dell can’t even talk the talk, so how in the name of Sweet Georgia Fuck am I supposed to believe that he can walk the walk? Pro wrestling isn’t “a work”, it’s just “work” and obviously something you’re averse to. Lee Best didn’t tell you to “do the job”, Johnny, he just wanted you to have a fucking job. You’re part of the new High Octane Wellness program, so when they find you dead in an alleyway in four years with a sad dog and an empty tip jar, he can say that he did everything he could to help you.

 

You’re a fucking relic, and maybe that means I’m supposed to show you an iota of respect. To let the fans believe that you’ve still got something left in that tank. To take my own advice, and not underestimate you, because at one point in your life you were worth half a fuck and two dry humps, but know what? You don’t show a fucking ounce of respect for the business that I’ve made my life’s work, so fuck you.

 

Fuck your shitty old car.

 

Fuck your finger-banged badger fuck puppet.

 

Fuck your crocodile tears and your shitty hunting metaphors. Fuck your inability to write a sentence without using the word “cunt” because you’re a lazy hack who’d rather make excuses for an upcoming loss than take a couple of minutes to research and work toward a win. Fuck you for not bothering to know one of the biggest names in High Octane Wrestling. Fuck you for being a drain on the economy, on the universe, and on my fucking patience.

 

Fuck you, Johnny.

 

I spent all the time telling you that you shouldn’t underestimate me, when really I should have been wondering if I was overestimating you. I thought that maybe this was your comeback tour. Your big montage moment, where Randy the Ram tries to go for the glory one last time, but all you’ve done is shit all over it and wipe your ass on the sheets. You’re a wash up. A fucking hack. A guy looking to collect a check and lay down on his fucking back and think it’s not going to make you lose any face, but you know what?

 

You haven’t even earned that yet.

 

You should be so lucky as to earn the right to step into the ring with me and take the onslaught that would come your way, O’Dell. You should be so fucking lucky as to advance to the second round and take on a man who is as synonymous with High Octane Wrestling as Lee Best himself. You should be so motherfucking lucky as to have the opportunity to have your shoulder forcibly separated from its socket by a man who has accomplished as much– who has won as many bronze fucking chocolates— as I have.

 

But you’re not even going to be that lucky. Johnny.

 

See, that fella whose soft fucking dick you couldn’t keep out of your mouth (phrasing, eek)? That man is an HOW staple. That man is an example of a kid who could have taken his ball and gone home a long time ago, but has tried and tried and kept fucking trying to get better. That man is everything you aren’t, Johnny O’Dell, because when things got tough for you, you gave up and set up a shit-stained bed in the backseat of an old car, and Chris Diamond got back up and fought every fucking day for the opportunity that you’re taking for granted right now.

 

He’s gonna beat your ass before I ever have the chance.

 

He respects the business. He respects those who made High Octane Wrestling what it is. He respects the past, but he acknowledges how fucking powerful the present is. Him and his “stupid blue visor” are gonna mop the fucking floor with you, because you aren’t ready for him… but he’s sure as fuck ready for you.

 

Don’t forget for a second that you’re fighting for the right to face me in the second round. You’re preparing to “do the job” to a guy who you’re never going to share a cigarette with, much less a wrestling ring. I know Diamond in and out, I’ve faced him a thousand times, and I’m ready for what he brings to the table… how about you?

 

Do you know that he was a former HOW LSD Champion? Because I don’t see your name in the title histories.

 

Do you know how he sets up the Diamond Stunner? Because I know his tells, and I know how to avoid it. Because I’ve studied him, Johnny. Because I’m a fucking wrestler who knows how to do the job, not just do *a* job.

 

I know your opponent, Johnny, and that’s why I have the luxury of putting a fuck of a lot more focus on you. I know Diamond, because he was my fucking pledge in Project Ego, and he was smart enough to fight for my acceptance. To fight for my respect, so that I could bring his career to the next level. Because he was smart enough to know that I was better than he was, and choosing to learn from me was better than choosing to make excuses for the loss he knew might be coming. You’re the fucking underdog against Chris Diamond, and you haven’t even done enough research to know how fucking sad that is.

 

You didn’t do enough research to know that I’ve agreed to wrestle twice on April 8th, once in Chicago and once in Key West for OCW. If you had, maybe you’d be working on your cardio to get an advantage. You didn’t do enough research to know that I’ve had a bad rotator cuff since 2009, or that I haven’t lost my first match in a tournament since 2010. You didn’t do enough research to know that I’m not a rookie, that my Dad has tried to fuck me over more times than he’s ever helped my career, or that not taking me seriously isn’t some magic weakness that gives you an edge over me.

 

You didn’t do any fucking research at all.

 

Instead, you walked out into the forest and played Elmer fucking Fudd like you knew how vewwy vewwy quiet the fans were going to be when you made your way out into that first round match on April 8.

 

Instead, you took a shit in the woods and cried crocodile tears about Mike Best catching his first first.

 

Instead, you disregarded the best advice you’ve ever been given this side of “don’t wipe your asshole on the bed sheets”, when I told you that better men than you have regretted underestimating me.

 

So let me remind you one last time.

 

When HOW closed three years ago, I guess we all went our separate ways and did our own thing. Chris Diamond is stripping in fucking Mexico. Scott Stevens went on wrestling in any place that had a spare Proboard he could borrow. Rhys Townsend opened the taco truck, Max Kael went to North Korea, and Darin Zion took a job behind a desk.

 

Me? I was happy.

 

I’d pretty much done it all, and I was burned out. I didn’t enjoy my job anymore. I fought with my father every single day, we took passive aggressive shots at each other… it had become a toxic environment. When we closed up shop, I was firmly convinced that I’d be happy in my new life and I’d never look back at professional wrestling again. But hey, if you and I have even one thing in common, Johnny, it’s that itch.

 

Not the one you get because there are crabs sleeping in your snatch– that’s just homeless people stuff. I mean that itch that brings you back to the ring. That itch that makes you call yourself a thirty five year veteran, even though you look like you haven’t wrestled since grunge music was invented. That itch that stays in the back of your mind, and makes you pine for that one last accomplishment.

 

For me, it’s this tournament.

 

This tournament is all I have left, man. Not like it is for you– for you, this paycheck is the only thing keeping you from finding out exactly how many inches a fifth of vodka costs, but for me it’s all I have left to accomplish. If I can’t make it all the way to that final and claim my ninth HOW World Championship, then there is nothing else for me to do in HOW.

 

I don’t need another War Games. I don’t need to sit in a jail cell for another week and end up with Max Kael’s initials carved into me, ever again. I don’t need to headline ICONIC, or set yet another record for championship victories. I’m in the Hall of Fame, I’m not missing any championships in my full Grand Slam set, and no one wants to watch me have another match with Darin Zion or Scott Stevens ever again. I’ve wrestling Townsend everywhere but the fucking moon, I’ve nearly killed my brother Max a hundred times over, been powerbombed through the floor of the Roman Coliseum… you name it, short of sleeping in the backseat of a car with bees in it, and I’ve done it twice.

 

But I never won the big tournament in HOW. Not the LBI. Not anything.

 

This tournament brought me back from the dead, like it did so many others– literally and figuratively. This tournament is the itch I had to scratch, and winning it is the only fucking thing I care about. I care about it more than the title itself. I care about it more than I care if you leave the arena breathing. I care about it more than I care about my own well being, the well being of my friends, or the well being of my fucking family.

 

All that’s left, Johnny, is this tournament that you seem to not give a single fuck about. What means nothing to you means everything to me. I will lie, cheat, steal and kill to win this motherfucker, and if I can’t get it done this year, then I never will.

 

And that’s why I’ve come to a decision.

 

No tricks. No take backs. No loopholes.

 

If I do not win this tournament and capture the HOW World Championship, I will be officially retiring from in-ring competition in High Octane Wrestling.


And hey, just once more, for old time’s sake… MPlow out.

 

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