Help me, Junkie Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope.

My name is Mike Best, and I am an addict.

I don’t think it’s a secret to anybody– you don’t need a major in psychology to see that I have a very real mental disease. A complete dependency on the one substance on earth you can’t buy. A mortal weakness to potentially the most addictive drug on the planet, and let me tell you right fucking now that it isn’t cocaine. It isn’t alcohol. It isn’t nicotine, and hell, it isn’t even heroin.

I am fucking addicted to attention.

When I go a full day without a Twitter mention, I get the fucking shakes. I’m not doing a bit to make light of John Sektor’s drug problem, and this isn’t some cute set-up to a punchline. The sad, pathetic truth of it is that I need to be the absolute center of attention at all times or I feel physical anger. Physical rejection. Physical fucking insecurity. I have seventeen Twitter accounts. I spend nearly every waking hour of my day talking about wrestling, texting about wrestling, designing new shit for fucking wrestling. It is more important to me than any other single thing in my life– it has ruined relationships, cost me friendships, and eaten into any semblance of a personal life that I could ever hope to maintain. And you wanna know the sad truth?

I don’t give a fuck about wrestling.

Not in the way that you didn’t two weeks ago, Sektor– congratulations on the miraculous recovery from heroin addiction in a fucking fortnight, by the way. Must be an awesome rehab to give you such immediate results and let you wrestle on the weekends. Most of them lock you the fuck up and, you know, make you actually recover. But good on you.

No, when I say I don’t give a fuck about wrestling, I mean that it holds no dear place in my heart. It hasn’t for many years now. I’m really fucking good at it– my resume speaks for itself, and you certainly did a great job putting over what a consummate fucking beast I’ve been over the years. But the truth is that all of this stopped being about wrestling for me a long time ago. It’s not about suplexes, armbars, or pinfalls. It’s not about submissions. It’s about the attention, John, and it’s the only industry in the world that I am absolutely the best at. If “BEST” didn’t already mean what it meant, it would have become synonymous with success by now all on its own.

I am the best at wrestling.

Trust me, it’s on my tights– it’s the thing that I do that no one else can do quite like me. People can fuck better than I fuck, make more money than I can make, but they can’t talk like I talk. They can’t wrestle like I can wrestle. Your little love letters were right about that– I am the single undisputable greatest Hall of Famer in the history of High Octane Wrestling, and even Lee Best himself can roll his eyes if he wants to, but he knows that it’s true. No one– not Jatt, not Nark, Christopher American’s checkbook– has contributed as much to HOW as I have over the last ten years, inside the ring and out.

But I don’t give a FUCK… about wrestling.

Ain’t that a bitch? I don’t give a shit about throwing a running knee, but I do it better than almost anyone who has ever lived. I don’t do it because I love it, I do it because it brings me the attention that I crave and the success I deserve. I don’t work backstage because I wanna help out the company, I do it because I want a fucking pat on the head and a cookie. Everything that I do, day in and day out, is self serving in the interest of keeping the spotlight on me– I’m the guy who listens to radio shows to hear his name. I’m the king of the CTRL+F. I am the single most self absorbed human being in the world, and I don’t care if that’s even true or not, because I only worry about my fucking self.

I’ve done it all. Everything but the tournament.

Five years, John. I’ve had one last goal in HOW for the last five years. Since the day you and I got into the Hall of Fame ten fucking seconds apart like twin boys, it’s been all I had left to accomplish. And this tournament that’s going on right now? It remains all I have left. And so I strapped my boots on tight and I came out on ReFueled I, primed and ready to go and I… well…

I got fucking bored.

I’m bored of wrestling here, John. Like any man ten years into a marriage, I’m bored of fucking the same broad, using the same moves, and hearing the same big fake orgasm so we can both watch Big Bang Theory and go to bed, silently hating our lives. You wrote me a big fat love letter and put your career on the line and this should be the greatest match in the history of HOW, Sektor, and I’m SO FUCKING BORED. You gave me everything you have, and I’m FUCKING BORED. You satiated my ego in a way that can usually only be accomplished by small Japanest masseuses, and I’m STILL BOOOOORRRRRREEEEED.

I didn’t go to OCW because I wanted an exciting new roster to do battle with. I didn’t go there because I needed new challenged and wanted to test myself. I didn’t do it to benefit Lee Best, or HOW, or HOTv. The truth is, John, I went to OCW because I wanted another big group of people to suck my dick and tell me I’m the best, because like any good addiction, eventually the old dose isn’t enough.

And HOW isn’t enough anymore, Sek.

I’m not retiring from HOW because my body is broken down– I’m 33, and I might be better now than I’ve ever been. I’m not retiring from HOW because I can’t hack it anymore, because I am undefeated since my return. I’m not even retiring from HOW because of Lee Best, because believe it or not we’re on the same page for maybe the first time ever. Nah… I’m retiring from HOW because it isn’t enough juice coursing through my veins anymore. Beating Scott Stevens, or Scottywood, or even THE HUMAN REDEMPTION MACHINE HIMSELF DARIN GODDAMNED ZION doesn’t give me the same buzz it might have a few years ago. I have told every story I can in the HOW ring, including this one, Sektor– we’ve been down this road before.

We’ve said all this shit before, John, don’t you know it?

When I first read that literary knob-polishing you gave me, I was intent on coming back at you with the force of a fucking hurricane. I wanted to channel the Mike Best you want to face at Refueled II. I wanted to bring the fucking thunder. And so I went back through the archives– I watched the tapes, I watched the promos, I read the blogs– and do you know what I took from it? This same shit I’m saying today… about how I’ve done it all, but never won the tournament?

It’s the same shit I was saying back in 2015.

The eternal war between John Sektor and Mike Best to determine who was the best of all time?

It was the same shit we were saying back in 2015.

The need for “one last match” before it’s all over? Stopping me from retiring unless it is at your hand?

Yeah, we did that shit back in 2015, too.

The truth is, the man who are expecting to face at Refueled II doesn’t exist anymore. He cared about wrestling. He cared about which of us was the better man. The sad, sad truth is that all anyone is ever going to give a fuck about is the stats– if you beat me in the tournament, you’ll be the man who retired a man who already said he was going to retire. I’ll go out in all the blaze of glory of a man who retired after a random Friday night wrestling show in a summarized recap. Because I don’t need the big send off– I already had it back in 2015, when you interrupted my retirement speech for “ONE LAST MATCH”.

How many “ONE LAST MATCHES” can we have, buddy?

You want your enemy back– being my friend isn’t doing you any favors and you know it. You had to build this big redemption story for yourself, and I’m glad it helped you kick the drugs. I’m glad it’s helping you see the world straight. I’m glad the jealousy has made you better over the years, and I’m glad that you have seen yourself in such high esteem as to be my “GREATEST RIVAL”, because the truth of it is that you absolutely… were.

But that rivalry ended a long time ago, my friend.

I’m sorry that I didn’t call you to join the eMpire. You didn’t fit the bill– you didn’t fit the theme, and quite frankly, who the fuck wants to work with Kurt Cobain minus the musical genius? You’ve been a fucking addict since I met you, and maybe that’s what we bonded over… addiction. But you’ve been a one trick pony for a long time. A moustache and a box full of whatever drug you’re doing now. Your daughter didn’t like the drugs. Your parole officer didn’t like the drugs. Maybe it’s good that you’re putting your career on the line against me, because what happens in six months? Will your mom not like the drugs? Will your step-cousin twice removed not like the drugs?

Johnny fucking Drugs.

Of course he wasn’t ever going to be a part of the eMpire. He wasn’t part of my grand plan to move on from HOW, Sektor– Max sure as fuck was, because Max has ascended as high as he could ever want to ascend in HOW. And Farthington? Lee just… doesn’t get him. He’s ascended maybe as high as Lee will ever allow him to. But you? You’re still chasing ghosts, kiddo– you’ve always felt two steps behind me, and until you acknowledge that you’re just rewriting old history with new words, you always will be. You weren’t eMpire material.

I hope that you are, someday.

But right now, I’m braving into a brand new world– I’ve got a new coast to conquer, and new lips on my lil’ Esposito. I will always love HOW, but I’m not in love with HOW anymore. I will work backstage and I will do my best to make it flourish as I embrace my new role in the organization. I’m excited to be a real member of the staff. I’m excited to send others down the path I walked, and watch them fall tragically short of my trajectory. I’m excited to do something I’m not bored of. But rehashing a feud from 2015, that was a rehash of a fued from 2013, which was born from some bullshit in 2010?

I’m not just bored of it, I’m exhausted.

I will show up at Refueled, and I will do what I am the best at. I will wrestle, and I will probably win– statistically, it’s very, very likely. And you will retire, and walk away, and you will solidify in history that I was the better man by your own doing. I would have never forced that on you– it’s not IMPORTANT to me anymore. Maybe it used to be, but come on, man. It’s just… sad… now.

I WANT you to retire me at Refueled II.

I want to retire, and I want you to be the man to do it… because you need it, Sek. Because it’s the only way that you’ll ever feel truly fulfilled and accomplished in HOW. This tournament isn’t even really the LBI– if and when I win it, it’s not going to fill the one hole in my record, and we both know that. I want to step away and get my attention elsewhere. I want to dominate in OCW and become known as the best staff member HOW ever had. And I want you to help me.

Because what if I beat YOU, John?

What if the referee’s hand slaps for a third time, and my arm is raised? What happens when they send me back to Gen Pop with the rest of the inmates, breaking big rocks and turning them back into little rocks. I don’t get to retire if I beat you, John.

Because once I beat you, it’ll be on to the next round, and onto the final… and then I’ll probably become the HOW World Champion. Because I’m the best. Because I always have been. Because I have only ever lost one match in my career for the HOW World Championship when I was the challenger. It’s so statistically probable that you can call it fate. You will have put up your career for nothing, because I will go out to the ring and do good business and, unfortunately, will have to retire my friend in the process. Because that’s how it has always gone.

I need to you help me, Sektor. Because I’m an addict.

Because I have always taken the easiest route to my goals, and the easiest route would just be to throw the match. To lay down and let you pin me, so that I can move on to my greater destiny. So that you can win your rivalry and I can be HAPPY. All I have to do is throw the fucking match.

And I fucking can’t do it.

My disease is crippling. One fucking Tweet about how John Sektor beat me and ended my career would be enough to make me physically ill. I care too much what they think. I care too much about the attention, and the narrative. I cannot physically walk down to that ring and give you anything but my absolute best, because I am not PROGRAMMED to. I can’t kill my career, Sektor.

I need you to do it for me.

I need you to be the John Sektor you claim to be. I need you to want it as much as you claim to want it. I need you to be the better wrestler, no matter what the odds. I need you to be my hero. I need you to be my Savior. The High Octane Jesus needs a messiah, and you are that man, Sektor.

I need you to end my career, and make sure that I never look back.

Because if you don’t– if you keep me in this fucking prison, and I have to keep going out there week after week to fight Scoot Stoovins and Scottywood every week until the day that I die, then I will take it as an affront to our friendship. I will take it as an affront to our mutual respect. I will take it very, very personally and I will never fucking forgive you. Help me, John. The first step is admitting you have a problem, and I HAVE A FUCKING PROBLEM. My inherent need to be the fucking best is keeping me from my dreams.

Help me take the next step.

Help me overcome my disease.

Sektor… help me.

I love you, brother. I’ll see you at Refueled II.

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