2 6 0
2 6 0
Three simple numbers easily explained.
2 – the number of testicles I have.
6 – The number of times I’ve bailed on HOW.
0 – The number of times I’ve teamed with Crash.
See, simple. But when you combine the three, that’s when it gets complicated. Hell, I don’t even know if I can count to two hundred and sixty, you see, I run out of fingers and toes after nineteen. And once you count the same fingers and toes, minus one little pinky toe, four or five times you begin to forget your place and get it all confuddled.
So what in the world did Lee Best mean when he told me 260? Could it be a pay increase? Could it be a bonus? Could it be the number of times I’ve popped him? Maybe it’s the number of sexual exploits he’s had? What in the world could it mean?
Having completed the surgery that has basically halved my vast cavernous stomach, I find myself bedridden in Tijuana, Mexico, unable to get the puzzle of 260 out of my head. With my phone in hand, I continue my search through the 2,110,000,000 hits I receive when Google’ing “260.”
It’s like finding a needle in a haystack. One needle in a fucking huge stack of hay!
My phone dings, obviously, as a new text message arrives. Sliding my fat finger across the screen I read the newly arrived message.
Maybe 260 is to mean the number of times you’ll lose to everyone in the War Games match? Hehe.
That’s it? Really?
Yeah, they’ve got me dumped up pretty good. I can’t stink straight.
Your typing is still atrocious my friend.
Sorry, stupid auto correct.
More like stupid fat fingers.
I miss our talks my friend!
Don’t worry, we’ll meet up soon.
Can’t wait! XOXO
After our conversation comes to a close, I return to my search of the ever elusive 260. Spending the next six hours mining my way through the searches, finding quite a bit of information on the number 260. Sure most of it was useless and had absolutely zero likelihood of being what Lee was hinting at.
But hey, did you know the year 260 was a leap year in the Julian calendar? Forget the fact that I don’t even know who Julian is, or why he has a Julian calendar.
Or what about 260 NYC is where Sample Sale is located, they being a family owned and operated business.
They say you learn one thing a day, but you all know me. I’m an overachiever. I taught you TWO things today!
Hours and hours spent trying to figure out this puzzle and I finally realized one thing.
We can’t win…
Crash and I are doomed to fail. Sure we won’t be the worst of the worst. That honor will likely be going to Zion and Hanson, or Hollywood and Savage. But neither are we going to eek out a win. Who will likely win? It’ll have to be between the eGG Bandits and The LOD. Side note, why am I the only one in HOW who spells the name of the Bandits right? Shit, it’s simple. Little e, followed by two big ass G’s. Hell, even the eGG Bandits themselves are so lazy they don’t spell it right!
Now, back to the subject at hand. Why is it between the Bandits and The LOD? Simple, out of the 8 tag teams, those are the only two who have a proper team name. And everyone knows, winning tag teams are those who have a proper name.
Maybe Crash and I will have better chances if we can come up with a rad team name? But then again, we might just be doomed to fail anyway. I mean, come on, everyone knows titles are my Kryptonite. Any time I’ve worn a belt I’ve found some reason or excuse to leave shortly after. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m lazy and carrying around the extra weight of a title belt is just too much work for me? Or could it be the expected pressure that comes with renting the title? I really should ask Mike Best. That fucker seems to ALWAYS have a title around his waist, sometimes more than one!
Needless to say, I’m more than a little worried. If we win, could this be my ultimate demise? If we lose, well, it’s just another nail in my coffin. That opens up a whole ‘nother bag of worms. Should I even be here? Am I just wasting my time and everyone else’s? Can I even hack it anymore?
So as these thoughts rage through my mind, I can’t help but think, maybe if I weren’t such a fat fuck, I’d have found myself in the main even at War Games? Representing Lee Best in the Battle of the Bests? Teaming with my good friends Eric Dane and MJ Flair. Meeting the phenomenal High Flyer. Riding the coattails of Dan Ryan and Lindsay Troy.
Could it be? Could it really be so simple?
260… Two hundred and sixty pounds? Is Lee Best really just looking out for my well being!?
That must be it!
But now the question is, what happens if I do make it to 260?
The door to my room opens and I await one of the Mexican nurses to come in with my bowl of chicken broth and cherry jello. Two things that should never have been combined to begin with. Instead, a young lady walks in wearing a pair of skin tight yoga pants, and a spandex crop top showing off her pokies quite nicely. Normally I’d have to pay a good 2k for a night with this perfection.
“Hiya!” she says with a bubbly smile, while extending an envelope from her hand. “I was told to give this to you. It’s supposed to explain everything you need to know.”
Ripping the corner off and pulling out a small folded piece of paper I begin to read.
I know you tried really hard for our match at Refuelled VI, and although we lost because of you. I wanted to show you that there weren’t any hard feelings. Now, please meet Jenni, keep the sexual harassment down to a minimum, and please do whatever she says. Even if it means eating kale salads and drinking broccoli and guava smoothies. She’s not cheap, but if it works we’ll talk about how you can pay me back.
“So, I’m Jenni, and I’ll be your personal trainer for the next few weeks.” she says sweetly, causing me to both smile and grimace all at once.
“Personal Trainer?” I ask dumbly.
“Yes sir!” she says with a salute. “Do you happen to have a goal in mind?”
“Goal?” I asked, once again dumbly.
“Yes, like a target weight.” she informs smartly.
… I begin to smile as all the pieces begin to fall into place. “How does 260 sound?”