High Octane Wrestling
Published: Written by: Christopher America

Day 43

Christopher America: 35…36…37…38…39…40…

Voice: Not enough! I’m already at 50!

Christopher America: 50? How can you be so fast?

Voice: I want this more. I’m hungrier than you.

Christopher America: 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47.

Voice: Come on! I’m on 100!

America stopped. He switched from his feet to his knees. His breathing was labored. Beads of sweat flowed from the top of his head on to the floor. He pushed himself up into a seated position.

From his right, lingering just in the periphery, a person leaned forward. He looked like America, and yet, didn’t. His face was fuller, cheeks less sunken in. His body looked more defined, cleaner definition of his abs and chest. A wide smile was on his face.

Christopher America 2009: You aren’t giving up, are you?

From his left, lingering just in the periphery another person leaned forward. He, too, looked like America, and yet didn’t. His face was full, but the smile wasn’t there. His body was defined but not as much as high right’s counterpart. His body was noticeable by the scars on it, the most visible of which were four marks across his shoulder and the scarring on his back.

Christopher America 2011: Of course, he isn’t.

Christopher America: Can you please shut up?

Christopher America 2009: I can’t believe I turn out like this.

Christopher America 2011: I can. It was the natural progression of things.

Voice: Can you both leave him alone for a second?

The voice was whinier and higher pitched. The three Americas looked up towards the bed. There, another version of America sat. He eyes were sad and his face droopy. He had both of his knees tucked towards his chest, as if trying to protect himself from something. He looked more like a little child than a man who was a hall of fame wrestler.

Christopher America 2009: I always hated this version of me.

Christopher America 2011: Me too.

Christopher America: Me too.

Christopher America 2012: You guys are mean.

The real America got up and moved away from the others. He pressed his back against the far wall and continued his efforts to slow his breathing. Standing there, illuminated even by just the singular light in his cell, it was evident that solitary confinement had changed him. His face was sunken in. His muscle definition was waning. His clothes were stained with food, blood, and dirt. Bruises on his torso, arms, and face were varying in colors – yellow, green, blue, and purple.

Christopher America 2009: You look horrible.

Christopher America: Thanks.

Christopher America 2009: Were you even trying?

Christopher America: No, not really. It’s just to pass the time. X push-ups = Y time. I just want to get through this, lose to Mike Best, and move the fuck on with my life.

Christopher America 2011: Lose?

Christopher America: Yes. Do you think this has been worth it for me? I wanted back in to HOW to have a nice blow off match. I wanted a match that I could be proud of, something that wasn’t going to make it seem like I shit all over my legacy. But I didn’t want this. I mean, I knew I wanted to fight Mike Best but, not this way, not with two months in solitary confinement.

America slid down the wall and pushed his legs out forward.

Christopher America: What have I been in here but a trained monkey? Do not approach the door. Eat in ten minutes. They even force me to talk into a camera so that the audience knows that I didn’t die in here.

Christopher America 2012: I’d quit. It’s not worth it.

The real America looked up and snarled.

Christopher America: You really piss me off. I can’t even enjoy wallowing without you chiming in. I don’t want to hear from you.

Christopher America 2009: You just need some cheering up! Hey! Remember the time, we pissed off the entire locker room and you hadn’t even had your first match, yet? Then they tried to tear us down and get us booted from the fed?

America 2011 got up and walked over to the real America. He knelt and placed a hand on America’s shoulder.

Christopher America 2011: What happened?

The real America looks at him, puzzled.

Christopher America 2011: No, seriously, what happened? How is this any more difficult than what we’ve already been through? We fought inside the Roman Colosseum. These scars here are from wear a lion dug their claws into our shoulder, ripped flesh and muscle from our bodies, bathed us in our own blood, and we kept going. We fought on the beaches of Normandy, crawled through sand, battled against the best and brightest of HOW, and we kept going. So, what happened? Why is this any different?

America 2009 got up and sauntered over to the other two.

Christopher America 2009: You don’t get it, do you? It’s too difficult for him! This whole thing is too difficult. He wanted a walk in the park. He’s already struggled and failed against the security guards. He just wants to quit and go back to sitting on the couch.

Christopher America 2012: The guards were scary. They kept beating us.

Christopher America 2009: Look in his eyes, ’11. You see it, don’t you? It’s all gone. There’s no spark left. There’s nothing there. Now, look in mine. This is how I was when I first entered. Overconfident but I was full of passion. No one could take that from me! NO ONE! But this guy, look at him. Tell me, ’11, what’s the last great accomplishment we’ve had?

America 2011 points at 2012.

Christopher America 2012: He was tag team champion.

Christopher America 2009: THINK OF THAT! BAHAHAHAHAHAHA! This little shit stain was tag team champion! AND NO ONE REMEMBERS IT! Not one person! They remember the War Games that you won, ’11, but they don’t remember the tag team championship or the fact that you finished in the top four that year for War Games! And you know what the fucking irony of it is? You didn’t even get pinned or submitted that War Games. You passed out taking a fucking harpoon…

Christopher America: …Protecting Mike Best.

Christopher America 2012: I protected the bad man.

Christopher America 2009: You coward. You should’ve won it the third year in a row.

Christopher America: Why are we re-hashing this? What’s past is in the past.

Christopher America 2011: What’s past is prologue.

Christopher America 2009: What the hell does that even mean?

Christopher America 2011: It means that the story hasn’t finished yet.

Christopher America 2012: We’ve been finished for a while. You guys haven’t admitted it yet! Do you think he’s going to be as hungry as you, ‘09? Or as determined as you, ’11?

The other two Americas stood up and looked at each other, solemnly, silently.

Christopher America 2012: The past isn’t prologue. The past is long gone. We should leave it buried. What do we have left to prove? We’ve accomplished everything. We’re hall of famers. We’re world champions. Our name is synonymous with War Games. We’ve already beaten Mike! We outwrestled him at War Games. We out trashed talked him at March to Glory. Do we need anything else?

The question lingered in the air as the Americas sat silently.

Day 50

Lack of sleep, lack of food, and talking to one’s self all became the new normal. America had stopped training entirely. The other versions of himself were no longer there. There was nothing left. America waited out his days, listlessly trying to find things to pass the time. Everything there was to count in his cell had been counted numerous times.

He sighed and sat sulking on his bed.

Voice: He’s there, again!

America pressed his clothes fists against his ears.

Voice: He’s watching you, laughing at you. He’s got you pegged.

Christopher America: Shut up! I don’t care anymore!

Silence again lingered in the air for a few minutes. America laid down on his bed and closed his eyes.

Voice: He’s just outside the door.

Christopher America: No, you just want me to get hurt again…

Voice: Do it………

America squeezed his eyes tighter and didn’t respond.

Day 64

America stood up from his bed and dusted himself off as best he could. He used the small amount of water from the toilet to help clean himself up.

Today was the day. In America’s estimation, he had served his time – 57 days. It should be only a few hours until his cell opened up and Solitary Confinement would begin. 57 days since he saw outside these cell walls. 57 days since he last saw Mike Best. Carry on with the match and resume his rightful place alongside Ground Zero.

America wonders if Ward and Townsend had been given an opportunity at the Tag Team Championships or if John Sektor was still the World Champion. What had become of Lee Best? How different were things?

America moves over to his bed and sits on the edge of it. He begins going through his normal pre-match routing, trying to generate that spark — but to no avail. His heart just wasn’t in it. Whatever this solitary confinement was, it broke him. He was looking forward to making this quick and hopefully find himself in a hot shower and warm bed when the night was over.

Day 65

12:01 AM to be exact.

America was still sitting on the edge of his bed.

Christopher America: Where are they? Why haven’t they come to get me yet?

America looks at the door. He gets up and reaches his hand out. He looks at the camera and tales a step forward.

No answer.

America takes another step forward.


Christopher America: My time is over! My match should’ve taken place!

EPU: You will continue to serve time until told otherwise!


EPU: Your contract has you signed to be in solitary confinement until the match has been scheduled.

America backs away from the door and then looks down at the floor.

Christopher America: If the match hasn’t been scheduled, then I’m in here indefinitely.

America flops onto the bed.

Day 67

America hadn’t slept in over 24 hours. He remained seated on his bed, scowling with teeth gritted. As the last couple of days had ticked by without incident, America had time to ruminate on his situation. He blamed Mike Best for what had happened. It had been more than two months of time, he was sure of it. And yet, no one had gotten him for his match.

Voice: He’s watching.

America got up and began pacing the room. He began imagining all of the things that he was going to do to Mike when he saw him. He imagined taking his boot and caving the cheek bones of Mike’s face into his skull. He saw his face, with teeth knocked out, face swelling in different areas, blood flowing in parts, slathered on his face in other areas. And yet, despite all of that, Mike was smiling. Behind it all, he knew that Mike was smiling. The match didn’t need to begin for Mike to have won. He had already won. Solitary Confinement wasn’t meant to be some mythical rubber match. America had already lost. This was the post-match celebration.

Voice: He’s laughing at you.

America stops in his tracks and jerks his head to the left, towards the sound of the voice.

What was it, then?

Was this some grand scheme that Mike had cooked up for years?

Was this just a whim?

Or, was this Mike asserting authority? Trying to prove himself that he wasn’t like Lee? Lee was a businessman at heart, always was. But Mike, Mike has always been something different. Mike was about superiority – a crushing dominance to prove that he was always better. Mike’s respect was never gained through intimidation or fear. Mike’s respect was gained through beating him.

And maybe that was the real story here.

Maybe, just maybe, Mike hated the fact that he respected him.

And Rumble at the Rock, this was about ending it all. No more respecting America. No more, America, period.

Then, Mike’s conscience was clear.

Rumble at the Rock, this match, specifically, was designed to be one thing and one thing only, an opportunity for America to gain revenge, or fail miserably.

Day 80

America awakes to the sound of his cell door opening. After a slight opening, a bottle is placed inside his cell. America stands and stretches and begins to move towards the bottle.

His physique has changed further. His definition was starting to come back but face was sunken in. He had begun working out again, using his anger to fuel his workouts. Hours he trained, thinking only of the goal – the breaking of the cycle, ending this all once and for all.

As America approached the bottle, a message begins playing over the loudspeaker.

“I haven’t had a real drink in about five years.”

Christopher America: Shut up!

Voice: He’s right outside.

Christopher America: No, you’re not real. You’re a figment!

America jerks his head towards the camera.

Christopher America: YOU DON’T GET TO TALK TO ME!

“I call this March 2 Glory.”

America’s mind races with thoughts of March 2 Glory – of the match, the lions, the downright cruelty of the match.


“….you literally impaled me with an American flag at War Games.”

Christopher America: I —- no!

America covers his ears and falls to the ground.

Christopher America: SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! You—- you’re not here! You did this. You started this! I — I was satisfied! I was done!

“…you voted abstain…”

Christopher America: NO! This is not my fault! You don’t put this on me!

“I’m doing you a favor.”

Christopher America: You’ve taken everything from me! Everything! And it was you, not me, you! You did this! To yourself! To me!

I—– I’m not responsible!

I’m not.

“To embracing our suffering.”

America screams and throws the bottle of whiskey against the cell wall.

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