Refueled XXXI

For the first time in a long time, HOW Refueled opens directly in the ring, where we’re ready to begin our Fourth of July celebration with the opening match of the evening. Joe Hoffman and Benny Newell are at the commentary desk, as Benny holds a sparkler in the air and downs the entire length of a large glass of a brownish substance.

Joe Hoffman: Hello, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to REFUELED! I’m Joe Hoffman, joined as always by “Big Buff” Benny Newell. Happy Fourth of July to all of our fans here in America– in celebration of the holiday, we’re got a lot in store tonight, so we’re heading directly to Bryan McVay to get this evening started.

Bryan McVay: The following contest is scheduled for one fall!  Already in the ring, from Houston Texas, he weighs at an astonishing 230 pounds….BOBBY DEEEEEEEAN!

Joe Hoffman: Bobby already looking tired.  You can tell he wasn’t expecting his cardio to include his entrance.

Bryan McVay: That’s because he’s still a fat fuck hoffy!

Joe Hoffman: Correction, he may have a lot of hanging skin, but he’s clearly not fat anymore!  If that were the case, he wouldn’t have made weight on the fateful night which feels like eons ago at where we are now.

Benny Newell: Still a fat fuck…don’t ruin my fucking night hoff…DRINK!

“Mary Mary (Stigmatic Mix)” by Chumbawamba blares over the PA.  The lights dim as the music builds. MJ Flair walks out with purpose, stopping right at the top of the ramp for just a moment before she heads to the ring. A few outstretched hands are slapped, but for the most part, she remains focused. MJ takes a lap around the ring to greet another handful of fans, then stops by the far ringpost. In one fluid motion she climbs from the floor to the top turnbuckle on the outside of the ring, raising her hands while encouraging as much noise from the fans as possible.

Bryan McVay: And introducing Bobby’s opponent, from Warwick, New York, weighing in at 135 pounds…she is….MMMMMMJ FLAAAAAIR!!

Joe Hoffman: This will surely be a testament of both these HOW wrestlers tonight, Benny.  They both had long and gruesome nights and both of them will want to get a little bit of momentum back tonight.

Benny Newell: Well don’t ask Bobby..he fucking stole all of it just getting to the right tonight!

DING DING DING!

Hortega calls for the bell as Flair and Dean meet head first in the center of the ring.  Before anything else can happen, though, Dean completely surprises Flair as he throws a headbutt into an unprepared Flair and then follows it up with a snap suplex.  Dean opens up with a furry of closed fist punches as his cardio is surprisingly holding up and MJ’s unable to block the onslaught of punches.  Dean rushes MJ back to her feet before ricocheting her into the turnbuckle and Bobby rushes toward her and brings her down with a stiff shoulder clothesline stunning MJ back down into the mat.  Dean brushes off the turnbuckle before landing a stiff elbow into MJ’s face as he goes for a cover.

UNO

DOS

Joe Hoffman: And MJ is able to quickly get her shoulder up!  I don’t think MJ was expecting this flurry offense from Dean tonight Benny!

Benny Newell: I’m just impressed the fat fuck…err…I guess not the fat fuck anymore was able to start out this match the way he did…oh fuck it…he’s still fat!

Dean brings MJ back to her feet as he whips her into the corner turnbuckle.  Dean tries to charge at her, but MJ has had enough surprises for one evening as she effectively brings up her foot to connect to the face of Dean.  MJ takes her moment and rushes at a slightly stunned Dean and connects with a standing dropkick to the face of Dean.  MJ rushes off the ropes before coming back and landing a running moonsault that connects with Dean.  MJ then drops down and hooks the leg.

UNO

DOS

KICKOUT

Joe Hoffman: MJ trying to maintain that energy and that brush off that surprise offensive flurry from Dean.  She’s going to have to get creative, though, if she wants to take out Bobby here tonight.

Benny Newell: Oh give me a fucking break, hoffy, Bobby’s record speaks for itself…and it speaks by not speaking at all!  This should be an easy win for MJ titties flair tonight.

Joe Hoffman: I wouldn’t be so sure about that Benny…both of these HOW wrestlers really want this win tonight.  They’ve both went back to the well when it comes to trying to find some footing again…this could be anyone’s match up.

Dean is able to get back to his feet as MJ and him battle for control of the match.  They both exchange several lefts and rights but it is MJ who comes out on top this time as she whips Dean into the corner turnbuckle.  She charges at Dean, but like her earlier strategy, it is used against her as Bobby surprisingly rushes towards her and takes her down with a cross body.

Joe Hoffman: OH WOW!!  Look at the flight from Dean!

Benny Newell: How the fuck can that guy even throw himself around like that?!

Joe Hoffman: Just goes to show you Benny..Dean really wants to pull this win off tonight.  MJ isn’t lacking that showing either…you can tell she wants this badly!

Wants it badly she does as she’s quickly able to get back to her feet after the cross body from Dean. Both wrestlers start brawling exchanging lefts and rights again in the middle of the ring.  MJ and Bobby leaving it all in the ring but it is MJ that is getting the better of Bobby as the cardio starts to fail Dean.  MJ takes advantage of this as she bounces off the ropes and comes back at Dean with a flying forearm, taking Dean back down to the mat.  Dean starts to breathe heavily as you can tell this match is already taking a toll on him.  MJ heads to the top rope and connects with a flying elbow drop off the top turnbuckle.  She goes for the cover on Dean.

UNO

DOS

TR…

Joe Hoffman: Bobby kicks out!  He’s clearly not giving up here!

Benny Newell: If by some miracle act of god he pulls this off tonight, someone better buy him that twenty ounce ribeye cause he’ll fucking deserve it after this fight.

MJ can’t believe the fight and willpower of Dean.  She shakes her head before she just starts releasing her frustration out on Dean.  She starts hammering away clearly looking frustrated before Hortega starts the count on her to back off.  He gets to four before she finally backs off.  MJ finally says enough is enough as she lifts Bobby Dean up and looks to put him away with the Morning Star..but Dean reverses!  Dean drops behind Flair as she doesn’t catch him soon enough as Dean is able to connect with the Danshoku Driver…stunning MJ in the process.  Before MJ can even process what the fuck just happened, Bobby uses what momentum he has left and covers MJ…

UNO

DOS

TRES!!

DING DING DING!

Benny Newell: Oh my god!! Holy fucking shit…NO WAY!

Bryan McVay: Here is your winner….BOBBY DDEEEEEEEAN!!

Dean rolls off Flair in complete shock as his hand is lifted high in the air in victory.  Dean rolls out of the ring and stumbles his way up the ramp, but obviously very happy he was able to pull out a win and defeat MJ Flair.  Meanwhile, MJ just sits up and can’t believe what just happened as Dean just barely was able to get the pin faster.

Joe Hoffman: What an opening match folks.  I think MJ Flair is just as shocked as Bobby Dean was at winning but it was close!  Both these wrestlers went back to their roots tonight and both trained hard for this match…it was just Bobby Dean who barely got the upperhand here tonight.  Excellent opening match.

Benny Newell: Unbelievable.  I’m fucking speechless Hoffhole…not in a million fucking years did I ever expect Dean to win this match…Oh well..not ruining my night…DRINK!

MJ still standing in the ring shaking her head as she continues to process that quick win from Dean but not before showing disappointment as Refueled cuts backstage..

We cut to the HOV where we see Steve Harrison sitting on his usual lazy boy recliner, a drink in his hand and a smirk on his face.  To the right of him stands Rebecca Hines.  She is dressed in her black power suit, her arms folded under her nicely sized chest.  She looks down at Steve in annoyance and points at the camera.  Steve dressed in only shorts and a ‘ME’ hat just stares back blankly at Rebecca.

Rebecca Hines: We are live, Steve.

The man of Many Miracle looks at his drink but does not take a sip and places it down between his legs.

Steve Harrison: HELLO MIRACLE MARKS!

Harrison smiles and pauses for applause, none comes of course.  Rebecca rolls her eyes.

Steve Harrison: I am so sorry I could not make it to the arena tonight—

Steve leans forward to show his back wrapped with ice.

Steve Harrison: As you can see, some Neanderthal viciously attacked me after our match last week leaving me with several bruised ribs and vertebrae.   Now…now, don’t be too angry at Kostoff…

Crowd cheers Kostoffs name, Steve of course does not hear it, so he just continues rambling expecting everyone to be agreeing with him.

Steve Harrison:  The man needs all the confidence and support he can get because at No Remorse whatever is left of him after being battered and defeated by me will be gone and buried by Mr. Best.

Harrison smiles and looks up at Rebecca and points at her.

Steve Harrison: Rebecca got her money’s worth tonight.  It is all thanks to her PR work that I could come to you from my new apartment tonight and bless you HOWingrates with my presence.

Rebecca smiles at Steve recognizing her work for once and nods at him.  At the Allstate arena the crowd continues to boo a little louder at Harrison’s boasting.

Steve Harrison: I am certain everyone is sitting on their hands after having to watch MJ Flair wrestle.  I mean, jeez, the only thing she had going for her is that she was kind of cute and now she has a nose like Artie Lange.

Steve shakes his head, a look of disgust for MJ Flairs damaged face.

Rebecca Hines: Don’t forget Bobby Dean.

Harrison looks at her confused.

Steve Harrison: Didn’t see him.

Rebecca’s face becomes beat red, completely annoyed at this running gag.

Rebecca Hines: Ok, please watch me.

Harrison looks up at Rebecca.

Rebecca Hines: Ok good.  MJ Flair just. Faced. Bobby. Dean.

Steve Harrison: The…do what now?

Rebecca Hines: Bobby Dean lost weight because “Kneesus Christ” Michael Best put him in a coma a few months ago.

Harrisons mouth opens wide in shock.

Steve Harrison: That pillowcase of socks is Bobby Dean?

Rebecca Hines: Yes.

Miracle Man shakes his head completely dumfounded by this.

Steve Harrison: Did anyone tell him that he needs to lose skin now?  My god, someone please explain to him he needs to actually exercise.  Surgery is an option.  Or—supplements.  Bobby, give Miracle Enterprise a call, I have some Miracle Pills that will fix that nasty condition all up.

Rebecca looks at Steve confused.

Rebecca Hines: Do you forgive him now?

Steve Harrison: Look at him, he has suffered enough.  But…you know, if I run into him–I will steal all his eGGs and toss them at him like he is a Saudi Arabian woman showing an inch of skin in public.

Rebecca Hines: That is really–big of you?

Harrison smiles and nods.

Steve Harrison: It is all thanks to this.

Steve points at his drink shoving it towards the camera.

Steve Harrison: This is Miracle Enterprise brand milk.  I will be cured in no time because of this great product and will be back humiliating the disbelievers with my mad skills.

Rebecca Hines: Milk.

Steve looks at Rebecca and nods, not understanding how she said milk, but you get it at home, I think.

Steve Harrison: Yes—milk.  I have had this in the works for a short amount of time with a friendly farmer I met.  This milk has all the vitamins and body curing miracles you need to be a new man the next day.  You will feel no pain, you will be smarter, you will be stronger, and you will praise the Suplex Saint, the giver of new life—ME.

Rebecca Hines: (Whispers so quiet nobody can hear)

Steve Harrison: Radiation Jiles, this milk can help you beat Cancer, MJ Flair, this milk—oh fuck it there is no way this milk can fix that ugly.   Andy Murray, this milk right here is better than pills and if you are with the Bruvs it can be delivered by Strippees for a small delivery charge.

Rebecca starts rubbing her left temple, a headache has obviously hit quick after listening to the Miracle Milk pitch.  Harrison puts the Milk to his lips and takes a small sip.  His eyes get large and he looks at Rebecca and points to the camera.  She walks over and smiles at the camera man and moves it to the right, so it is not looking at Steve.  Seconds later it is back on Steve, who is wiping his mouth.

Steve Harrison: DELICIOUS!

Steve smiles at the camera and points to the milk.  He puts it down and stares directly into the camera, his smile fading being replaced with a frown.

Steve Harrison: Sorry, you can’t snort the milk, friends.

Camera fades with Steve vaguely being heard retching from the Milk.

We cut backstage where see Blair Moise, ready for her first interview of the evening.

Blaire Moise: I’m standing here tonight with High Octane’s newest…

She cocks an eyebrow.

Blaire Moise: What are you, anyway? A signee? A re-signee? Oh, let me guess, you were secretly under contract this whole time and you only just made your return last week at Refueled as the next step in a plot that was set into motion last year when you walked out on HOW and The Industry?

Blaire jabs her HOTv branded microphone into the face of The Only Star, Eric Dane. The Antagonist smirks in a manner that shows the slightest hint of respect toward Blaire’s line of questioning.

Eric Dane: Let’s say I’ve signed a new contract with Lee Best, with a couple of… let’s call them iron-clad clauses built into it that I didn’t have the leverage to have overwritten.

Blaire Moise: Right. So. I’m standing here with Eric Dane, the latest returning member to the HOW roster. Now, Eric, everyone saw the aftermath of your attack on Lindsay Troy last week and believe me, there’s a thousand questions that I want to ask in regards to that, BUT, the biggest question of them all right now is the easiest… Why?

Eric shifts uncomfortably at the question.

Eric Dane: I’d rather not-

The intrepid reporter quickly intervenes.

Blaire Moise: Oh, no sir, you are absolutely not getting out of this! You gave the Queen of the Ring a moderate concussion and you knocked her knee-cap out of place! She’s gonna miss at least a month of action, and all you’ve had to say for it so far was that creepy epitaph last week about collecting her thirty pieces of silver!

Dane nods.

Eric Dane: So you think you deserve an explanation?

Blaire Moise: I think the High Octane faithful deserve one, yes.

The Only Star nods, somewhat smugly, but without his usual broad manner of gesturing. He takes the statement into serious contemplation.

Eric Dane: I see. What about Mike Best, or Dan Ryan? Do you and the proletariat deserve answers before they do?

Blaire Moise: I’d argue that-

Eric Dane: Let me cut you off right there, Blaire. I did what I did because I had to. There was no other choice given in the matter, and now it’s done.

Blaire: But-

Eric Dane: But nothing. What’s done is done, can’t be fixed, can only be reacted to. How we react will determine the road ahead of us, do you understand, Blaire?

Blaire Moise: I… No, not really.

Eric Dane: Well, lucky for me I don’t answer to you. As a matter of fact, the only person I answer to around here is Lee Best, and if he wants me to give you an explanation of last week’s ordeal then I’m sure he’ll call me, send me a text, and fax the details over in triplicate, do you understand now?

Clearly she doesn’t. As a professional, she sucks it up and continues.

Blaire Moise: Fine. In that case, do you have any sort of statement of intentions moving forward in HOW? Have you got Mike Best and the rest of the Group of Death in your sights?

Eric smiles, he knew this question would be coming.

Eric Dane: You know what, no. I don’t.

Moise’s face scrunches up, she wasn’t expecting that.

Eric Dane: Mike’s got his hands full right about now, am I right? The Minister’s trying to kill him or whatever? And Dan, he’s busy trying to out-hoss my old “friend” Andy Murray, yeah?

Blaire nods.

Eric Dane: And Cecilworth is… Who the fuck knows what Cecilworth is up to. The point is, I didn’t come back to HOW to fight any of my former or future friends. I’m not here to hook up with MJ Flair and right the wrongs that went down with the rest of The Industry after my departure last year. I ain’t here for belts, and I ain’t here for glory…

The reporter presses The Only Star.

Blaire Moise: Then, what?

Eric Dane: Ninety days. Probation handed down from God himself. I’m here to serve that time in the most productive ways possible.

Blaire Moise: And then?

Eric Dane: I’ll burn that bridge when I get to it.

He smirks. She shrugs in acceptance.

Eric Dane: Now, if you’ll excuse me, I do owe Mike at least a half-assed explanation, and I may have to take a beating for it. So…

Eric shrugs and crosses in front of Blaire, leaving her alone in front of the camera, microphone in hand and somewhat bemused look on her face.

Blaire Moise: Well folks, you heard it here first! Eric Dane is… on probation? I guess we’ll have to see what that means as things develop further here on High Octane Television! For now its time for our first commercial break…

Straight off of the ad break the HOW feed streams to you live from the Alcatraz State Penitentiary Prison in gen pop. The cameras scan the area and in the middle of the putrid environment is a HOW ring.

Joe Hoffman: Apologies ahead of time folks but we are doing this play-by-play as the action happens.

Benny Newell: Stick with me kid, you’ll do fine.

The next shot switches to a hallway in which HOW competitor Steve Solex walks down. The Number #1 Dad has his fists taped up and he walks with purpose. He slams a fist into his palm and looks ready to fight.

Joe Hoffman: Well here we go folks.

The action goes back to gen pop as Solex enters the fray to a virtually empty prison. The prison is merely occupied by a few H.A.T.E guards patrolling and HOW camera crew. This production falls drastically short of all previous HOW events than ever before.

Joe Hoffman: Solex means business here tonight.

Benny Hoffman: What a shithole.

Solex slides into the ring and his face is full of thunder. He commands the centre of the ring and punches his palms once again. The eerie silence in gen pop allows Steve Solex to take centre stage where the trimmings can almost take a back seat.

Joe Hoffman: History in the making folks.. right here in HOW.

Benny Newell: GOD’s work, Joe!

The footage quickly transitions to a cell-block in what looks like a cage only fit for Hannibal Lecter. But instead.. Pikey Fuck Hughie Freeman remains captive. The Travelling Man stands firmly still as he gives a little wiggle of his tongue in a deranged manor.

Voice: Hands behind you with your back against the screen.

Hughie Freeman follows through with the instructions from a H.A.T.E officer and gets his hands shackled by handcuffs.

Joe Hoffman: Scott Woodson’s trusted H.A.T.E guards taking no chances here.

Benny Newell: Like a spider trapped under a pint glass.

This then allows several H.A.T.E. guards to escort Freeman down a hallway.

Hughie Freeman: Fresh fish..

Granted, production quality remains poor, but the smallest of utterances can be picked up on audio.

Hughie Freeman: Got the smell of fresh fish!

Joe Hoffman: For all you folks watching at home.. fresh fish is a term used for first-time felons would you know.

Benny Newell: Then Solex has bathed in it!

The footage cuts to Solex back in gen pop and he is pacing the ring. He then strikes a look in the direction of a bounded Hughie Freeman walking down a rusty old staircase.

Hughie Freeman: FRESH FISH!

Steve Solex: Come on motherfucker!

Suddenly, champion bare-knuckle fighter Hughie Freeman breaks free from the clutches of the H.A.T.E guards and slides into the ring.

Joe Hoffman: He’s crazy!

Steve Solex wastes no time in putting a beating on a still cuffed Hughie Freeman. Freeman does his damnedest to get to a vertical base but takes large amounts of punishment.

Joe Hoffman: He’s busted open.

Hughie Freeman tries to headbutt but he’s miles off the target as Solex continues to unload with rights and lefts. Hughie stabs him with a kick to create distance..

Joe Hoffman: He’s smiling!

A shoulder block takes out Freeman to the outside. The H.A.T.E guards swarm, but the HOW referee instructs to uncuff Hughie. A H.A.T.E guard reluctantly unlocks the handcuffs and rolls Hughie back into the ring.

Joe Hoffman: Hughie’s a Free-man!

Hughie Freeman pulls himself up by the aid of the top rope; he then stretches off like he’s all warmed up. With a brush of his busted lip..

DING DING

Joe Hoffman: This match is officially begun folks.

Solex travels towards Freeman with authority as the HOW resident pikey continues to loosen his joints. They soon meet in the middle of the ring…

Joe Hoffman: Fatality Punch! Fatality Punch!

Benny Newell: The fuck?!

ONE

TWO

THREE!!!!

Joe Hoffman: Hughie Freeman just knocked out Steve Solex!

The army H.A.T.E guards storm the ring and jump Hughie Freeman who tries to fend them off but to no avail.

The feed loses transmission to Alcatraz as we cut back live to Chicago and the All State Arena.

The feed cuts live back to Chicago and we promptly open with a picture of some breasts?

Big. Massive. Boobs.

Boobs, covered tastefully by a t-shirt for television yes, but they are doing their best to stretch the material of her low cut red dress to its absolute limits.  At any possible moment gravity is going to do the right thing and one of them, or both, are just going to make their escape to freedom.  The camera is really close there, and just as it looks like the fabric of the dress can no longer handle the pressure, we are saved by none other than HOW backstage interviewer Brian Bare.

Standing next to Brian Bare is the owner of that said pair of fine breasties in the red dress is a blonde female who has never been on HOTv before, but probably should be from now on.  Bare, with the microphone in hand, does his best not to stare.

BRIAN BARE: Joining me at this time are the latest signings to High Octane Wrestling are Simon Loveless and his manager Missy Monet…

But there is no sign of Simon Loveless in the picture, so as Brian holds up his hand to point out the latest signings to the HOW roster he is pretty much pointing at Missy Monet’s rack.  It also doesn’t help that Brian is also looking directly at them.  Monet doesn’t seem to notice, as she chews her gum from behind her sunglasses and looks about as disinterested as humanly possible right now.  Bare does his best to cover his tracks.

BRIAN BARE: Uh, where is Simon?

Monet shrugs her shoulders as she pops a bubble with the gum in her mouth and holds up her bedazzled phone as she begins to check through her text messages.  Her non-response is really making things awkward for Bare who looks around for something or someone to tell him what to do now.

BRIAN BARE: Well, I guess he’s no–

And just then in walks the wild blonde looking haired Simon Loveless himself.  Simon is wearing oversized sunglasses and sporting a dark colored beard which gives away the fact that his blonde hair is a total dye job.  Loveless grabs the microphone by the top stopping Bare in the middle of his statement, Simon pulls the microphone up to his lips almost pushing Brian out of the way in the process.

LOVELESS: First warning, and this warning goes out to not just you Bare, this warning goes to every single member of the HOW locker room, staff, announcers or whatever.  This?  This is my manager, you do not touch her, you do not look at her and if you possibly have an inclination of even thinking about her?  Don’t.  Never rub another man’s rhubarb.

Loveless pauses as he checks out his manager once again, she just stands there continuing to chomp her gum and probably post stuff to IG.  Loveless has pushed Bare completely out of the shot at this point as the camera only shows his upper half and Missy.

LOVELESS: Color me disappointment HOW.  Yes, you have signed the future of professional wrestling to a contract, congratulations on making the greatest investment this company ever could do. But what did you do with this new investment?  You sent Brian Bare to interview me.  You sent the second rate backstage reporter to show up here and try to show off your brand new toy.  I considered not even showing up here tonight, heck I was five seconds from walking out that door until you did things right.

But then I thought, that would mean another week or two of HOW going on doing the same thing over and over again.  And nobody needs to watch another week of television where all wrestlers do nowadays is see how many times they can drop the f-bomb to show their toughness.  Boring.  You all say the word so much I thought it was a catchphrase around here.  Catchphrases, remember those?  So, I reconsidered leaving and I am here forcing myself to talk with Brian Bare because I’m here tonight to do one thing though…

I’m here to serve notice.

Welcome to the Summer of Loveless.

With that, Loveless shoves the microphone back into the face of Brian Bare and the duo of he and Missy Monet walk off.  Fade to black and our next commercial break.

Back live and somewhere in the Allstate Arena, in a random mens restroom we see a row of four bathroom stalls.

They are manilla in color like most you see anywhere else.

The bathroom is bright and clean. The sound of a running fan can be faintly heard.

Suddenly whistling begins to drown out the fan noise, as it nears it increases in volume. Eventually the tune can be made out to be “Yankee Doodle Dandy”. The bathroom door swings open and in comes the incomparable “Beautiful” Bobby Dean. He’s not alone, he’s got Cardboard Dan with him. He waltzes in with a pep in his step.

Bobby Dean: …Stuck a feather in his cap, and called it macaroni! Ooooh that sounds good. Alright CBD you know the drill. I can’t drop the kids off at the pool with your beady little eyes watching me. Plus I know how backed up you get at this time of day, so I’m just gonna prop you over here so you can go too!

Bobby Dean inserts CBD into the third stall and stands him on the toilet. He then retreats back to the second stall and closes the door. We see his feet turn around and his pants drop to his ankles. Soon he’s back to whistling.

We hear a loud noise come from Bobby Dean’s stall and soon after the fourth stall door opens. A previously hidden Mikey Unlikely steps out of the fourth stall, checking his hair in the mirror. In the reflection he spots CBD standing on a toilet. Mikey turns his head sideways and cocks an eyebrow. An idea suddenly forms in his devious mind.

He reaches into the stall and grabs the cardboard cut out. Tucking it under his arm, he heads out of the bathroom, smiling to himself.

Bobby Dean: Don’t worry Little Dan, I’m almost done!…Hello? Dan?…Daaaan?

In a panic we hear the toilet paper unroll quickly. It stops then it begins to unroll frantically once more.

Bobby Dean pulls his pants up as he opens the stall door. He swings over to the stall he placed his good friend in and finds it completely empty.

Bobby Dean: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

The sound of abject terror reverberates throughout the room.

He comes bumbling out of the bathroom with a piece of toilet paper hanging out of his pants. Looking both directions he finally spots Mikey walking away with CBD tucked under his arm, just as the two men vanish ‘round a corner.

Bobby Dean goes directly across the hall approximately three feet to the eGG Bandits locker room. They always get one near the bathrooms, not only for Bobby, but for everyone else unfortunate enough to have been caught in his “war” path.

He burst through the door as Cancer and Doozer are in the middle of a  pep talk for Zeb before his big match with JFK.

Bobby Dean: Mikeeyyyy….. Dan….He’s….Cardboard… Dan… I… Couldn’t… Stop…

He’s out of breath but he’s gotten their attention.

Doozer: Bobby what’s wron…. where’s CBD? Wait… NO! He didn’t! MIKEY!?

Bobby puts his hands on his knees and doubles over. He’s breathing heavy. He nods frantically in agreement, still unable to form a coherent sentence.

Doozer: By all that is holy… Let’s go, he couldn’t have gotten far!

All of the men double out the door and down the hall the direction Bobby points. He’s quick to follow, or as quick as he can be… He trails the group by a wide margin as they go down the hall.

We cut over to the other side of the corridor where Mikey has found Kendrix who’s headed for the stage, as his match is up next. JFK sees Mikey running towards him with something under his arm, a huge shit eating grin plastered on his face.

Kendrix: Bruv? What’s that!? Why are you… Fuck it.

Jesse starts running and as Mikey gets to him they keep pace together. They head for the stage as the broadcast cuts to the commentary team.

Joe Hoffman: Up next, we’re supposed to have one Bruv versus one Bandit. Zeb Martin pitted against JFK in somewhat of a rematch from War Games. Who knows now though? I do know both of these guys were inside the cage for the tag team title match, Benny. One of them now wears the gold. How’s that going to come into play here tonight?

Benny Newell: WHO CARES!?!? CBD has been kidnapped, Joe! No one is safe!

Joe Hoffman: I didn’t think of it that way.

Before anyone’s entrance music can begin to play the Hollywood Bruvs come dashing out from behind the curtain. JFK is in his ring gear, and Mikey is in street clothes giving CBD a piggyback ride.

Benny Newell: Oh. My. God. 

Hot on The Bruvs heels and to a massive pop upon their emergence are the eGG Bandits. Being the faster, more athletic ones of the yoking group, Jiles, who’s wearing his Miami Vice version of street clothes, and Zeb, who’s in his ring gear, are out in front. The Invisible Man, jorts and all, is just behind them doing everything he can to keep pace. Bobby, still in his ring gear from battling MJF, is winded and lags behind. Not only has he wrestled tonight, but now he’s chasing the Bruvs throughout the Allstate Arena.

Poor. Bob.

Joe Hoffman: DEAN IS DOWN! He just fell over by his own accord!

Benny Newell: HAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Couple their frantic dash with the Bandits’ hesitation after Bobby’s fall, and the tag champs are able to safely make it inside the ring. They quickly go back to back, making a Bruv sandwich out of CBD.

Joe Hoffman: The Bandits are circling on the outside! It’s three on two, with Bobby still trying to roll his way down here!!

The three circling Bandits hit the ring at once, forcing The Bruvs into a corner. Slowly, they stalk forward, screaming for CBD’s release. Kendrix steps in front of Mikey, concealing the C-Lister’s actions.

Joe Hoffman: What is…

Benny Newell: Just when I…

A wide smile grows to adulthood across Kendrix’s face. He casually steps to the side right as the Bandits are about to charge in, and unveils Mikey Unlikely holding a gold plated box cutter to the already stitched together throat of Cardboard Dan Ryan!

The Bandits stop the pursuit dead in its tracks.

Benny Newell: In all my days of calling this sport I have never seen something more ridiculous than what I am seeing here tonight.

Joe Hoffman: I hate to agree with you, but…

Both of The Bruvs start vehemently shouting at The Bandits to get back. Which, they hesitantly do. Then, Kendrix looks around for the still wiped Bobby Dean.

Jesse Kendrix: Hey! And you stop your rolling! We’ll kill him! I swear!

The baby blue beaute from Honalee gladly obliges.

Calm, and with his wits about him, The Dooze starts to plead for his cardboard friend.

Doozer: Come on now guys. We know each other. There’s got to be a way this all can end without anyone getting hurt. Put the cutter down and let’s figure it out. We can all go home happy and have an ice cold frappe with some scrambled eggs. Breakfast of champions. What do you say?

Zeb attentively nods along with Doozer’s plea, never once taking his gaze off of the crazed eyes of Mikey Unlikely. 

The Maestro on the other hand refuses to be strong armed. He begins to inch forward, and responds to the threat with aggression.

Jiles: Go on. Do it then. I Double-Flair dare ya. Truth be told, I don’t think either of you have the balls.

Joe Hoffman: Bold strategy, Benny. Let’s see if it works out for ‘em.

Benny Newell: Strategy? From this moron? He doesn’t even pick the middle square first in tic-tac-toe, and you want to talk about strategy? Give me a break.

Joe Hoffman: And how would you know that?

Benny Newell: He’s an idiot. That’s how I know!

Still inching his way closer, and in order to further antagonize CBD’s captors into a possible mistake, The Maestro channels his inner Shell by starting to deliberately cackle.

Joe Hoffman: I don’t know if this is such a good idea.

Mikey begins to manically chuckle along with Jiles’ colorful posturing. Soon thereafter, the entirety of the ring fills with awkward laughter. Then Benny, Joe, Bobby, the Octabandits, and everyone else watching…

Ha.ha.HA.hA.Ha.ha.HA.hA-

Without pause, Mikey silences the entirety of the Allstate Arena by pressing the blade of the box cutter into CBD’s neck; popping one of the fishing line stitches that keeps the cardboard behemoth’s head attached. With his bluff called, The Maestro starts inching his way back to prevent any further boardshed.

Joe Hoffman: The Maestro is retreating, Benny! I can’t believe it!

Benny Newell: I say cut his head off. Again. I want to see that eGG Bitch squirm.

Joe Hoffman: Technically, Actual Dan Ryan tore CBD’s head off with his bare hands. No weapon. Just saying.

After the Bandits move far enough back, Mikey, with CBD still firmly in his possession, slips between the second and top rope for a quick escape. On his way up the ramp he first jab kicks, and then scurries past a laboring Bobby Dean who is only able to lazily wave his arm in the general direction of the kidnapper. Not to be deterred, Dooze and Jiles hastily slide out of the ring to catch up with the culprit. They stop for Bobby and decide it quickest if they just roll him like the red carpet he is back up the entrance ramp.

Joe Hoffman: Well, looks like we are going to have a match after all.

Hortega looks at JFK, and then at Zeb. Then, he shrugs his shoulders and calls for the bell.

DING~!

Joe Hoffman: AMAZINGLY, we are underway!

Ready to erase each other from existence, Zeb and Jesse lock horns via collar and elbow tie up. They angrily jockey for position about the ring, until the young Bandit upstart manages to force JFK into the corner. Hortega moves in and tries to break the two up. Martin releases the hold, allowing Kendrix to sneakily rake his eyes.

BOOOO~!

The cheap shot sends Zeb reeling backwards. JFK pushes past the referee and his admonishment, lands a kick to the gut, then smashes his forearm across Zebulon’s back.

Joe Hoffman: Zeb is down! And JFK isn’t about to let him get up.

Desperate, Zeb crawls his way to the corner after being ushered in that direction by JFK kicking him in the butt. He uses the turnbuckles to pull himself up as the opposition slyly lurks behind him. Just when he is about to be on his feet, Kendrix swoops in and delivers a german suplex!

Joe Hoffman: He held it! That’s a cover!

Hortega drops to the mat.

Uno!

Dos!

Kickout!

Benny Newell: So close… to this being over and me not having to worry about those bozos showing up again.

Casually, Jesse rolls off of Zeb. He quickly stands, and begins to proudly walk about the ring in such a way that all who watch know exactly who one half of the tag team champions Is.

Benny Newell: He earned it. Can’t take that away from him.

After the small yet informative intermission, Kendrix refocuses on his prone opponent. He reaches down, pulls Zeb up by his long hair, then slaps him in the face with an open palm!

Joe Hoffman: It’s been all Kendrix thus far, Benny. Zeb needs to get something going here or else this match might be over!

The young Bandit upstart is about to fall back to the mat, but JFK keeps him up for another friendly slap. 

Benny Newell: Something, something, ah well. DRINK!

Luckily for the Bandits, like a fish jumping off the hook, Zeb is able to fidget his way free. Kendrix swings so hard his momentum spins him around, giving Zeb the perfect opportunity to deliver an atomic drop.

Yeah~!

Benny Newell: Ouch. 

The pain of the move causes Kendrix’s whole body to tingle, and him to freeze in place like Dr. Manhattan trapped inside a magnetic field. Zeb bounces off the ropes, manages to duck under an all he could muster JFK clothesline attempt, and effortlessly locks in an abdominal stretch!

Joe Hoffman: Zeb’s pulling back like he’s got a tuna on the line!

Hortega asks, but JFK wags his head back and forth to say no. Zeb pulls back even harder, but JFK still won’t give in. Slowly, agonizingly, Kendrix starts shuffling his way toward the ropes…

Joe Hoffman: I’m getting word the Bandits might have caught up to Mikey Unlikely in the backstage area!

The shot goes to a split screen. 

The feed on the left stays with the action inside the ring: Kendix’s agonizing slog toward the ropes to break Zeb’s hold.

The feed on the right picks up backstage as the hunt for Mikey October continues. Doozer is shaking his closed fist from the seated position of a stealth moving, Typhoon class, pump jet powered wheelchair. Jiles is tightly holding on behind him, while also running atop of Bobby Dean as if the Beautiful Bandit were a log.

Joe Hoffman: I’ve always wondered how The Maestro stays in such good shape. No more.

Mikey, a visible picture of fear, is shown sprinting for his life a few feet in front of the just now dubbed, Bandit Mobile. CBD and his reattached head are back in the piggy position, wildly flailing about while probably wondering where it all went wrong.

Benny Newell: Dear god.

Joe Hoffman: I…

The split screen slides away, with the focus back on the action in the ring.

Benny Newell: Uh, Joe?

Joe Hoffman: Oh, right. Wrestling. JFK got the rope! Hortega is going to have to break the hold!

The referee does in fact break the hold at the four count, and JFK falls to the ground and rolls out of the ring to recuperate. Zeb walks over, and starts to taunt the tag team champion only to get pulled into his trap.

Literally.

Kendrix grabs Zeb by his ankles, pulls him under the bottom rope, and out of the ring. The two exchange a few blows back and forth on the outside, until JFK blocks one and Irish whips Martin into the guardrail. He then once again grabs Zeb by the hair, and rolls him into the ring. 

Joe Hoffman: Tough exchange there for Zeb. Just when he had things going his way.

With the advantage regained, Kendrix mounts Zeb, who in turn tries his best to fend off the attack. In the process, The Bruv manages to get The Bandit over on his belly, and quickly locks in the Kendrix Kross! Zeb screams out in pain as a frothing JFK tries to break him, causing Hortega to ask if he’s had enough. The young upstart pushes a no through his scrunched mouth, and fights to break free…

Joe Hoffman: Oh no.

Suddenly, the screen splits again.

The Kendrix Kross stays cinched in on the left side of the screen. Zeb is fading fast as the rigors of the move take their toll on him.

The chase around the Allstate Arena resumes on the right. However, this time around Doozer and Jiles are absent from the shot. Bobby still remains, and is no longer playing the role of a log. Instead, he is crawling on his hands and knees; wearing the same look on Mikey’s face from the prior backstage interaction.

Joe Hoffman: Don’t look now, Benny, but it doesn’t look good for Beautiful Bob. Shame.

The reason for Joe’s somber tone is because Mikey Unlikely has somehow managed to commandeer the Bandit Mobile, and is fixing to run down the lone Bandit. Of course, for good measure, CBD is sitting atop his lap rocking a full frappe stache. 

Benny Newell: I blame Kostoff for all of this. Just don’t tell him I said it.

Joe Hoffman: Sure thing.

The split screen slides away, and the action in the ring once again takes back over.

Benny Newell: WAIT? DOES HE DIE AGAIN? COME BACK!

Joe Hoffman: Speaking of comebacks, Zeb countered the Kendrix Cross! Nearside cradle! 

1.

2.

Joe Hoffman: Kendrix kicks out! That was close! Zeb showed some mat wisdom just then, and he almost picked up the win.

Benny Newell: Meh. Almost means shit. Ask Stevens.

Both men scramble to their feet, and start to exchange in the center of the ring. Kendrix goes for another kick to the gut, but Zeb is wise to it, and catches the leg before impact.

Joe Hoffman: There’s better spots to be in if your JFK.

Zeb throws a pleading JFK’s leg to the side in order to spin his opponent around and get behind him. However, Kendrix controls his momentum and winds up doing a 360 instead of the desired 180. Suddenly face to face with Zeb, he charges forward and tries to clothesline him, but Zeb ducks under it and Kendrix winds up taking out Hortega instead.

Joe Hoffman: Good thing there’s no one around to take advantage of such an opportunity.

Not wanting to waste an opportune opportunity, Zeb charges in, and tackles JFK when his back is turned. The run out carries them through the ropes and to the outside of the ring. JFK takes the worst of it, and lays on the floor seething in pain. Martin shakes the cobwebs and seizes the day by sliding into the ring, ascending the top turnbuckle, pointing to his knee, and getting ready to take off.

Benny Newell: You just had to open your mouth.

Before Zeb jumps, a man hops the guardrail decked out in Bruv gear. His shirt says so anyway. It also says, “fuck CBD, I’m CBR.” Zeb doesn’t see him though, and the Bruv fan shoves him from the top turnbuckle and back down to the outside of the ring.

Benny Newell: Good night Zebrene! WOW!

Although, instead of Zeb landing hard on the outside, he falls right into an awaiting Kendrix who seamlessly delivers The Bellend.

Joe Hoffman: I don’t know if he got all of it, but he didn’t have to with that fall.

Kendrix, still aching and with the help from CBR, escorts Zeb into the ring. He then slides under the bottom rope, crawls over, and rolls on top of the young bandit upstart. CBR gets Hortega coherent enough for a count before fleeing the scene of the crime.

Uno.

Dos.

Tres

Joe Hoffman: That’ll do it. What a battle! What a fiasco! I don’t even know what to say!

Benny Newell: DRINK!

Action cuts elsewhere….

We cut in once again backstage…

Eric Dane, sunken eyes and sullen look draped across his face, stands just outside the door to the Group of Death’s locker room. While his shoulders aren’t slumped, his posture is that of a man who knows what he could be about to walk into and he isn’t super excited about it.

Not one bit.

Benny Newell: There he is! My newest favoritest guy!

Joe Hoffman: Will you stop…

Eric closes his eyes for a split second, steels himself, and knocks. His eyes open and it doesn’t take long at all for the door to swing inward and the massive frame of Dan Ryan to fill the doorway. There is a barely perceptible snarl to the lips of the Hammer of GoD that the average person might not perceive right away.

The Only Star sees it, and he registers exactly what it means.

Eric Dane: Where’s your boss?

Ryan’s eyes narrow into slits. The disbelief is coming off of him in waves.

Dan Ryan: The Group of Death doesn’t have a boss.

Dane takes a breath, it’s supposed to calm and center him. It doesn’t. He stares into the face of one of the most dangerous men he’s ever come across and he sighs.

Eric Dane: Come on, Dan. Where’s Mike?

Dan growls.

Dan Ryan: He’s in the shitter. What do you want?

The tension is thick. Both men know what Dan Ryan is capable of, just as both men know what Eric Dane did last week and has already spoken about earlier this evening. Professional courtesy only goes so far and the look on the Ego Buster’s face says that his is just about to run out.

Eric Dane: Tell ‘im I stopped by.

Dane turns to leave, Ryan grabs him hard by the shoulder.

Dan Ryan: That all you’ve got to say to me, Eric?

Another volatile moment passes between the former partners. Dane shrugs Dan Ryan’s giant paw off of his shoulder. He doesn’t take a step back.

Eric Dane: As a matter of fact, it’s not. Tell your boy I stopped by. Tell him that I know he thinks he owes me a receipt, or a refund, or a tax credit… whatever the kids are calling it these days. If he wants one, he can have it. I won’t fight him, I know what I did.

The snarl on Dan Ryan’s face intensifies.

Eric Dane: But tell him I didn’t want to do it. I had to, didn’t have a choice.

Dan Ryan: Bullshit, you always have a choice.

Eric Dane: I did what I had to do, Dan. Tell Mike when he thinks about it for five seconds he’ll understand. There ain’t a lot anybody can do around here when Lee Best gives you a job and an ultimatum.

Dan seethes.

Dan Ryan: And what about me, Eric? Nothin’ to say to me? What if I want a receipt?

The Only Star allows himself another centering breath.

Eric Dane: Then fucking take one, Daniel. I’m not standing here because I fucking want to. Do whatever it is that you think you have to do, I won’t fight it.

He stares down the much larger man in front of him.

Eric Dane: But I don’t think you will. Not yet, anyway. We both know that when Mama Lindz gets right she’s gonna want my head, just like we both know she’s gonna want to take it herself. She’s a big girl, a smart girl, but from what Lee tells me she could probably use a break. Hell, Dan, maybe you could too.

Eric turns his back on Dan and starts to leave.

Dan Ryan: Of the two of us, I think we know which one is best at walking away.

Eric Dane: Whatever. Just tell him I came by.

Dan Ryan: I ain’t your message boy, Dane.

A raised middle finger is the last thing that Dan Ryan sees before Dane disappears around a corner as we cut away.

We cut backstage where Blaire Moise is standing by with the Number One Contender for the High Octane Wrestling World Championship, the Minister Maximillian Wilhelm Kael. Dressed in his immaculate white three piece suit and burning red mechanical eye, a wicked grin is stretched across his scarred, weathered face.

Blaire Moise: Ladies and gentlemen, I am here with the Minister Max K-

Lifting a slender hand covered in gold rings and precious stones the Minister stops Blaire.

The Minister: Just the Minister, we don’t need to go name dropping that pathetic neerdowell.

As he spoke his hands slithered over Blaires shoulders where he slowly seemed to massage them, Moise’s expression becoming extremely uncomfortable. When she tries to pull away the Minister seems to double down, his hands clamping down hard as her face goes from discomfort to pain. He leaned down, his lips next to ear as he let a twisted giggle escape his lips.

The Minister: You’ve done a lot of hard work today, Blaire, how about you just give me the microphone while you go rest your heels, mmm?

Before she has a chance to answer he rips the microphone from her hand and shoves her away forcefully, the smile vanishing from his face as he stares toward the camera, one blue eye narrowed while the red eye burns sinisterly.

The Minister: People of High Octane Wrestling.. Starting tonight I start to build my Congregation, the broken, pathetic and discarded talents of High Octane Wrestling shall be my flock. One by one I will take you into my fold, tear away the veneer of your fake world and show you the truth. The only truth that matters here in the Final Era of High Octane Wrestling.

His ringed fingers curl around the microphone as he holds it against his chest, his smile slowly returning.

The Minister: You are all here to feed the machine, you are all here to bleed, to be broken and chopped up to keep this monster alive. High Octane Wrestling doesn’t run on sweat and hard work, it runs on tears and blood. Each gear turns on broken bones and torn muscle, roasted flesh and ripped flesh. This place isn’t just a Wrestling Company, it is a Temple to Violence, a Cathedral to Carnage, a Church of Suffering.. And I am your Minister..heh-heh..

Letting a satisfied sigh slip between his chapped lips the Minister’s smile stretch full again, his metal teeth shimmering in the light.

The Minister: Tonight my Congregation grows by One. “Perfection” James Weakgrasp will be the first to join my flock, the first to feel the wrath of the Minister as I lead my Congregation to No Remorse and the final destruction of Mike Best. Perfection will be left defeated, broken and left with a belly full of disappointment. In the coming weeks he need not feel lonely as he shall be joined by others who shall find their lives touched by the Minister. Heh..heh..

Winking toward the camera the Minister lets one last giggle escape his lips.

The Minister: Have a Blessed Day..

And with that we cut to a commercial break.

Suicide Prevention Number: 1-800-273-8255

Back live and “Perfect Gentleman” by Helloween begins to play. The crowd immediately responds with mix of cheers but the booing is dominant as the one and only Perfection exits from behind the curtain. He raises his arms accepting the crowd’s reaction to his wonderfulness. Perfection makes his way towards the ring taking his time to jaw-jack with fans near the rails. One of those “BROKEFECTION!” signs gets waved in his face so he swipes it out of the fan’s hand, tears it up, and heads for the ring.

Bryan McVay: Ladies and Gentlemen, introducing first, from Los Angeles, California and weighing in at 230lbs… this is ‘YOURS TRULY’… PERFECTIOOONNNNNNNNN!

Joe Hoffman: Here comes a man who has promised we’ll see a different side to him tonight. Recent weeks haven’t gone well for Perfection at all, and newfound violence is apparently his way of fixing that. He’ll certainly have a willing dance partner in the Minister!

Benny Newell: Listen Hoffhole, you know I’m a 24K guy but uhhh… going full violence… against the fucking Minister?! I don’t know about that one Jimbo…

There’s no posing from Perfection tonight, though. The Brokefection situation has him all kinds of worked up and recent misfortunes have given him the will to change. This is all focus.

The lights in the arena dim as the stage is light up brightly while a crowd of cultists wearing white EPU masks with red crosses painted onto them shamble out onto the stage. As they begin to chant “PRAISE!” loudly “Debts to Pay” by JT Music roars out over the arena’s sound system. Stepping out onto the stage at the cultists roar with applause comes the Minister Maximillian Wilhelm Kael, his glowing red eye glaring out over the crowd while unpleasant smile cracks across his pale face. 

Bryan McVay: And his opponent, from North Kaelrea, he weighs in at 236lbs… ‘THE MINISTER’… MAXIMILLIAN WILHELM KAEEELLLLLL!

Joe Hoffman: This trip down Murderer’s Row continues for Perfection! Dan Ryan, Mike Best, and now the Minister, who collides with Mike Best at No Remorse.

Benny Newell: And I have it on good authority that old Max doesn’t give a fuck what Perfection says he’s going to bring to the table tonight. The Minister will take an eyeball – a life. Is Witherhold willing to do the same!?

Dressed in his white three-piece suit, the Minister looks like the image of a mega-church pasture as he holds his hands up to the sky in praise before lowering them to either side as though he were crucified. The cultist swarm forward and remove his coat, vest and white dress shirt as the Minister stares down at the ring with a smug expression. Left in his shoes, pants, undershirt and suspenders the Minister dismisses his congregation and makes his way toward the ring to a chorus of boos.  

Swaggering to the ring the Minister stops at the bottom of the ramp before circling the ring slowly, his eye on his opponent as he sizes him up, a smile ever present on his face. One his circuit of the ring is complete he would slither up the ring steps and between the ring ropes before holding his hand up in praise once again in the center of the ring.

Joe Hoffman: Here we go!

The bell rings and the Minister comes at Perfection quickly, looking to grab the shorter man and drive him into the corner, though ‘Yours Truly’ quickly reverses position, skips to the side, and grabs the head, pulling Kael to the mat. Perfection squeezes the headlock extra tightly, trying to pop Minister’s head like a zit. He feels Max trying to find leverage beneath him so takes the initiative and stands up with his opponent, roughhousing him by swinging him around a little with his arm still wrapped around his neck, before releasing, breaking with a slap, and shoving.

Perfection spits on the mat. He shouts something and motions for the grinning Minister to come at him. Kael keeps it coy, though, letting Witherhold’s hair trigger flip by waiting luring him in. He stuffs a takedown attempt and lands stiff, sharp elbows to the back of Perfection’s skull, downing the 24K man. Off the ropes goes Max, looking for an early, concussive punt.

Ducked by Perfection! Witherhod stays alert, pulls Kael into a schoolboy, but Minister springs Perf away with his legs before a counter can register. A stiff kick blasts the side of his neck as he sits up!

Joe Hoffman: A miss on the early Kaeltastrophe Kick there and Perfection takes control, 

Benny Newell: Show me the goddamn violence, Jimmy, or I’ll sue your ass for false advertising! And that DEFINITELY isn’t something you can’t afford right now!

‘Yours Truly’ is all over Kael, now, hoisting to his feet, taking him to a corner, and unleashing a couple of chops. The knife-edges soon go from his chest to his goddamn throat – once, twice, thrice – before Max is hoarse, reddened, and falling to all fours. Perfection comes back from the ropes with a punt of his own, crushing the throat again, before dropping a knee across the back of Minister’s neck. From there, another of those extra tight grounded headlocks.

Benny Newell: Yeah! Fuck that larynx up!

This isn’t one of Perf’s usual restholds, though: the look on his face and bulging forehead vein tells you he’s trying to damage this guy, not just wear him down. Unfortunately, his frenzy misses Kael’s boot going under the bottom rope and he barely breaks at four, popping up right into Boettcher’s face.

Perfection arguing with the official grants Max valuable recovery time. He clambers up and clobbers ‘Yours Truly’ from behind, sending him tumbling into Boettcher (who stays up), then clubs him again. Minister takes a moment to roll his neck, though the pain is apparent. Groggy, he pulls Perfection around, swinging a right hook. Ducked! Witherhold with a good old-fashioned eye gouge, another chop to the throat. He sends Kael over the top rope and splaying to the outside.

Benny Newell: Max’s neck is taking a pounding, Hoffhole! Perfection’s trying to put him in traction!

Joe Hoffman: Keep in mind that Perfection’s most common finisher, the Photo Finish, impacts the head and neck directly, while his Witherhold submission is a Guillotine. The assault here is as sharp, focus, and smart as ever, as Perfection works to soften the Minister up, though there’s definitely an extra snap to his offense here.

Benny Newell: It’s a different kind of violence and fuck me, is it effective.

Witherhold wastes no time in grabbing the Minister and throwing him headfirst into the steps! He throws his hair back, spits again, and glares at Kael with wild, wide eyes.

There’s a dent on the steps, presumably from where the titanium in Max’s skull made contact. James hauls Kael up and drapes his neck across the steps’ edge. From there he climbs onto the apron, takes a breath and leaps, looking for another knee dro–

NO! Minister rolls out of the way and Perfection’s knee smashes down on the edge, only his pad keeping it from shattering.

Benny Newell: AHHHHH!

The action has slowed. For Perfection, it’s involuntary – the man is writhing in agony following the missed knee drop – while Kael is catching a breather. Minister flickers back to life, grabbing his foe, rolling him inside, then going under the bottom rope himself before immediately heading back out. The count restarts as he drags Perfection over to the corner, pulls his leg and his knee brace down, then cracks the joint into the ring post!

Again!

And again!

And again! Before applying a knee lock, wrenching the leg around steel before Boettcher diligently calls for the break, imposing his authority on the match again.

Joe Hoffman: Busy night for Matt Boettcher here! Max, who we’re used to going after the head and neck, has adapted to go after the knee after a window of opportunity opened before him!

Benny Newell: He’s out there trying to turn Perfection into Andy Murray!

Minister is like a predator toying with his prey, now. Back inside he lets Perfection crawl across the mat, peppering him with deliberately (and insultingly) weak kicks, but ‘Yours Truly’ rolls him into a small package!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Benny Newell: That’s what happens when you underestimate James Witherhold! Close one!

Agitated by Perfection’s quick thinking, Max goes HAM, stomping furiously at the 24K braggart’s torso before moving down to the knee, stomping it against itself several times. Perfection screams as each blow lands and the joint collapses beneath him as Max pulls him up. He eats a kick to the ribs on the way down before Max yanks him up, puts Perfection on his shoulders, then drives him down with a Powerslam. No traditional cover, though: Minister instead holds ‘Yours Truly’ down, smashing his titanium ocular into Jimmy’s skill over and over.

ONE!

TWO!

SHOULDER UP!

Joe Hoffman: That wasn’t technically a pinfall attempt though Perfection’s shoulders were flat on the mat, hence why Boettcher made the count!

Perfection rolls desperately free, reversing position on the mat before grabbing hold of Kael’s torso for dear life. He slips forward and into a cravate position, though it’s uglier than usual. Witherhold’s using his forearms to apply increased pressure to Max’s already-damaged neck while crimson pours from a headbutt-opened wound on his brow.

Joe Hoffman: Ohhhh nooooo!

Benny Newell: YES! BLOOD! Paint that fuckin’ ring red!

Feeling the physicality, Jim’s weakened knee wobbles again, sending barbs of pain through his body. He swings Max back and forth, again trying to roughhouse him, though Kael swings an arm over to break the cravate then launches forward, sinking metal teeth into Witherhold’s wound! Perfection shrieks as the flow becomes a stream and Boettcher is in there right away, preventing further damage, but Minister isn’t screwing around. He barges back past Matt and sets Witherhold up in the corner, hitting a couple of forearms for good measure. Kael then takes a few steps back and charges forward. Perfection comes careening out of the corner with a clothesline and both men are down!

Plasma pools beneath Perfection’s head as he rolls onto his front, woozy from the fluid loss and still hurting from the knee. Kael, meanwhile, slaps his hand against his head, the neck still causing problems. Both men slowly clamber to their feet to stop the knockout count and meet in the middle. A Max right hand starts the striking exchange. Perfection with the chop. 

Benny Newell: STRIKE FIGHT! Let’s fuckin go!

Max!

Perfection! 

Max!

Perfection!

Perfection!

THROAT CHOP!

Joe Hoffman: Back to the throat goes Perfection! What a gameplan!

Staggering the Minister, Witherhold pulls his opponent’s head down and throws his knee up at the neck at the same time. Adrenaline takes over. Perf briefly forgets the pain and the wobbles as the violence comes out once more. He takes Minister and throws him head-first between the ropes, his head colliding with the ring post, before pulling him into the middle and compressing the neck with a DDT! Up pops Jimmy, applying the front facelock before quickly nailing Beau Ideal – an Implant DDT! Witherhold makes a high cover, not hooking the leg…

ONE!

TWO!

SHOULDER U– but Perfection grabs the limb that shoots off the mat, rolling Kael into a crossface!

Minister swipes his arm at the bottom rope, missing by millimetres. Perfection senses his grip waning so he releases the head, keeps hold of the arm, and pulls it behind Kael, wrenching it against itself while throwing grounded elbows into the back of the neck! The Minister goes limp beneath him!

Back on his feet, Perfection drops to one knee, agonised, but grabs Max, puts him in a front facelock, then snaps down into a Guillotine choke! Consumed by bloodlust, Witherhold wrenches tighter, and together, and tighter…

Joe Hoffman: There it is! The Witherhold! That’s why Perfection has spent the whole match going after the neck!

Benny Newell: Stay focused, Jimbo! No silly shit now! 

Kael stays alive though! He isn’t going out. When Boettcher raises his hand, he swipes it away. Perfection fuckin’ HATES this so he transitions to a triangle, points his elbow, and gets ready to drive into into the top of Max’s sku–

NO! A blinding flash of light as Minister finds just enough headspace to stun Perfection with the EYEMAX Experience!

Benny Newell: FUCK!

Loose, finally, Max leaps up Perfection, headbutting him once, twice, thrice on the ground again before sitting him up, stepping behind, and leaping forward with a modified Gaslighter forearm smash.

Joe Hoffman: A lapse in concentration from Perfection! He had him with the Witherhold! He didn’t need to switch!

Minister’s legs briefly turn to jelly beneath him. He falls to his side but the ropes prevent him from going down immediately, before he grabs Perfection by his blood-sodden hair, sits him on the top rope, then gets up himself. ‘Yours Truly’s head goes between his thighs and he pulls the rest of his body up, suspending Perfection for a few moments before falling backwards, driving the opponent down with his avalanche Gotch Piledriver!

Joe Hoffman: iMperial Super Star Destroyer!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

Bryan McVay: Ladies and Gentlemen, your winner via pinfall at 15 minutes and 12 seconds… ‘THE MINISTER’ MAXIMILLIAN WILHELM KAEL!

Kael doesn’t get up to let Boettcher raises his hand. Instead, he sits upright, head in his hand, squeezing his neck. He eventually rolls out of the ring and away from his fallen victim. Perfection, meanwhile, has just woken up. He spits blood from his mouth and pounds a fist into the mat.

Joe Hoffman: A great effort from Perfection, who fought harder and angrier than we’ve seen so far in HOW, but lost his focus in the quest for violence one too many times and paid the ultimate price in the end.

Benny Newell: Fucksake, Hoffhole! I thought he had him with the Witherhold!

Joe Hoffman: He did! But think back earlier in the match: complaining to Boettcher, the missed knee drop across the steps. Perfection’s focus just wasn’t quite there, though he controlled the Minister for long, long periods…

The action cuts backstage as we see a final image of a very frustrated Perfection staring up at the entrance ramp.

Cut backstage where Dan Ryan is walking through a hallway. His eyes are both squinted and intensely open as he briskly makes his way through the backstage area.

Two closed fists hang near his side and one knocks hard on the cinder block walls multiple times as he makes his way forward. He passes through catering, his appearance registering to the other wrestlers there as something like a bull suddenly stomping through the middle of the party.

He barely perceives them, eyes fully forward and toward the other side of the room where another hall leads toward the 24K suite.

The seas part and he gets through with no resistance, turns a corner and finds himself face to face with four members of 24K’s private security force. He pulls up, fists unclenching and takes a deep breath.

Dan Ryan: Where’s Murray?

These guys are professionals. The outside two hold position while the middle two tighten up to make sure no one gets through. It’s one of these two who speaks up.

Private Security #2:  Not a chance.

Ryan looks this one in the eye.

Dan Ryan:  I didn’t ask if you’d gotten laid recently. I asked you…. Where… is Andy Murray?

The man nervously glances sideways, then back at the hulking man in front of him. He juts his chin out, and despite the rising level of fear roiling in his gut, he stiffens up enough to do his job.

Private Security #2:  We were hired specifically to prevent you from laying a hand on him, and that’s what we intend…

But he doesn’t have to finish the sentence. These doors aren’t soundproof, and their voices were just loud enough to get the attention of the person inside.

The door behind them swings open inwardly, and the similarly large frame of the new ICON Champion Andy Murray steps into the doorway, something between a smirk and a frown on his face. For his part, Dan Ryan’s face empties into a stoic stare, right in his eyes.

Andy Murray:  Oh. Hello, Daniel. Your knuckles look scraped, so I assume you walked here.

Dan Ryan:  You’re here alone, so I assume you’re stupid.

Murray head-gestures toward his security.

Andy Murray:  Don’t know about that one, pal.

Ryan nods his head, looking from each to the next in turn.

Dan Ryan:  Right, of course. Your private security. There seems to be some concern from this gentleman…

Ryan shoves a hard finger right in the chest of our brave security man from before.

Dan Ryan:  …that I might come around and engage in some sort of physical violence toward you. Is that the concern, Andy? Are your brave, strong security men here to stop me from taking my pound of flesh?

Murray’s smirk disappears, replaced by a serious, somewhat disgusted sneer.

Andy Murray:  Just a little insurance policy. I’m just making sure you don’t get a chance to do it again… because, you know…

He taps a finger against the side of his skull.

Andy Murray: I don’t get paid to brawl in corridors like a lowlife scrapping for change. I am a prizefighter, and the GOD of HOW has decreed that our prizefight goes down next month. So. Off you fuck.

The King of Wrestling flicks his wrist. Ryan holds his eye contact.

Dan Ryan:  I’d like to be honest with you. I’m a little out of sorts right now. You pinned me at War Games…

Murray smiles, ever so slightly, but rights himself quickly.

Dan Ryan:  I don’t like that. Eric Dane is back and apparently, doing jobs for Lee Best. I don’t like that either.

Murray almost rolls his eyes at this.

Andy Murray:  Boo fucking hoo, Daniel. You’re angry. Whoop-de-doo. Do I look like MJ Flair to you? Did you think you’d just walk over here and take your anger out on me? I kicked your ass at March to Glory, I’ve already weathered one of your sneak attacks, and then I put your shoulders to the canvas at War Games. I don’t have to be anywhere near you until No Remorse. You haven’t even earned this shit, mate, so no. You won’t touch me. That’s what these guys are for.

Ryan’s head cranes back just slightly, and while his face remains stoic, his eyes tell the story.

Dan Ryan:  Yes… that’s what these guys are for…

Before he can even react, the security guard flanking the door to its left is blasted in the face by a huge fist, the impact of which sandwiches the man’s head between the force of the blow and the concrete cinder block wall behind him. A cracking sound is followed by the man’s eyes flipping back inside his head and his entire body rag dolling to the ground, where he lies twitching.

Andy Murray tries to stand his ground, but the suddenness and violent nature of the impact cause him to flinch despite himself, and he takes a small step backward into the door frame.

Dan Ryan’s eyes are no longer on Murray, as he moves with more speed than a man his size should be able to, lifts a leg and stomps down hard into and through the man’s kneecap. He screams out in agony as his leg hyperextends and he crumples to the ground.

The third security guard is staring, wide-eyed at the two men on the ground and a massive hand grabs him by the hair on his head and whips him immediately to the ground. He flops to the ground despite his best efforts to control his fall, where a split-second after his impact with the part of the floor where it meets the wall on the other side of the hallway, a massive boot smashes down on his face, causing his nose to explode in a red mist that splatters all over the white floor and wall.

The last man standing, still in absolute shock as this rapid-fire series of events unfolds in front of him, finds himself suddenly in Dan Ryan’s grip as Ryan grabs his arm, gives a little shrug, and rolls him back and through into a Fujiwara armbar. Ryan yanks back on the arm as the much smaller man shrieks in pain, and, having landed in a particularly fortuitous position, looks up at Andy Murray standing in the doorway as he does so.

Murray stands in place, thoroughly stunned by what’s happening in front of him, but veteran enough to maintain his composure. Ryan stares in his eyes, no expression on his face, and adjusts his position on the arm. With one last sneer, he bores a hole in Andy Murray’s head with his eyes, then yanks back hard. The man underneath him screams absolutely bloody murder, and an audible breaking sound is heard. The sound hardly matters actually, because a jagged end of bone has broken through the skin.

Ryan lets go, keeps his eyes on Murray, and scrambles to his feet.

A tense few moments pass between them as he stands there. Murray holds, preparing himself for whatever comes next, and finally, Dan Ryan closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, then opens them again, an expression of calm replacing what was there before.

Dan Ryan:  Thanks, Murray. You’ve been a big help. I definitely needed that.

Ryan looks around, the first man still twitching on the floor, the third bleeding profusely, and both of the other two clutching at broken bones in their leg and arm, respectively. Two of the four are on the verge of passing out from the pain. The other two aren’t coherent enough to be able to tell.

Dan Ryan:  You uh… might wanna get someone to clean this up.

Ryan holds his gaze on Murray as he starts to back his way down the hall. Murray looks down at the carnage around him, then looks back up at Ryan slowly making his way backward away from him. Ryan gives him a little wink, keeping that dead serious expression on his face, then turns and disappears from view as we cut to our next commercial break.

World Championship Match
The Minister vs. Michael Lee Best©

ICON Championship Match
Dan Ryan vs. Andy Murray©

LSD Championship Match
MJ Flair vs. Cecilworth Farthington©

Tag Team Championship Match
The eGG Bandits vs. Hollywood Bruvs©

HOFC Match
Chris Kostoff vs. Lee Best

Back live and we open up backstage…

To the eGG Basket.

The OG’s of Banditry are licking their wounds over CBD, trying to figure out what to do next. Jiles is pacing the small room while holding a bag of ice against his head. Doozer is seated and looks like he’s been in a car accident.

Jiles: I can’t believe it! Who does that?! What ever happened to dignity and class? He threw a fucking kid at us and stole our ride after we crashed! The nerve! NAY! The gall! NO. The nerve AND the gall!

Befuddled, The Dooze shakes his head while remembering the dastardly tactics Mikey Unlikely employed during his Great Escape.

Doozer: I don’t know if I’m more mad at what he did, or that he had a stunt kid on hand to do it. I’m not sure I care, either.

Then, Zeb enters the eGG Basket.

Jiles: Anything?

Zeb Martin: Dun fount the chair. It was pissed on and dun lit on furr. Cain’t find him or CBD. Just an empty coffee cup. With a lotta leftover foamy stuff. They dun gone.

Doozer: And Bobby?

Zeb Martin: Ain’t found him neither.

Jiles: Did you check the women’s bathroom?

Zeb Martin: Uh, about that…

Jiles: It’s a yes or no question, Zeb.

Doozer: Also, how’d you know they peed on it if it was set on fire?

Before Zeb can answer, Bobby’s voice emanates from outside the room. He sounds oddly cheery all things considered. 

Bobby Dean: So I put on my fake wedding ring and asked her, do you know what gant means? Needless to say, I had clams that night! 

Then, like a normal day at the office, Bob appears slung over the shoulder of RICK. 

Bobby Dean: GUYS! Where’s Danny Boy? Did we get him back!?

Jiles, Doozer, and Zeb are at a loss.

Bobby Dean: Oh. Judging by the looks you’re giving me, I’m assuming that’d be a no?

The Maestro throws the bag of ice against the wall. It explodes like a 4th of July firework. RICK, expressionless, delicately places Bobby on a chair.

Bobby Dean: Thanks again, big guy. Remember, Steamed is good, but raw is sooooo much better.

The Dooze sighs.

Jiles: What the fuck happened? 

Bobby Dean: After you guys crashed, I kept rolling along with all of that momentum I had built up. When I finally stopped, I couldn’t stand because I was so dizzy. For a minute there I didn’t even know I stopped rolling! Next thing I know, Mikey is trying to run me down, it was shocking because I thought we were still the bestest of friends! Hey! How did he get the Bandit Mobile anyway?

Silence.

Bobby Dean: Anyway, right as he was about to take me out, the chair died. Like, inches. I couldn’t believe it, one second my life was flashing before my eyes, then the next second I look up, and he was there. Mikey ran off with CBD under his arm, like his pants were on fire, and RICK just picked me up, because there was no way I was walking on my own. From the dizziness, you know.

And another sigh from Dooze.

Doozer: I’m getting too old for this shit.

Bobby Dean: Which reminds me. We, RICK and I, were talking. I was telling him how we were in need of some eggstra security, eggspecially in light of everything that happened tonight.

Jiles: I think you mean you were telling him you needed someone to carry you around, continue.

Bobby Dean: He’s got a gentle touch, you wouldn’t think it looking at him.. Anywho, I was thinking…

Having heard enough, The Dooze stands from his seat and walks over to Rick. He looks the mountain of a man over, then at The Bandits, then back at Rocky Top. He nods, approvingly.

Doozer: Thank you for helping Bob out. Here, break an egg out there.

The General of the Bandits hands RICK an egg.

RICK: EGG.

Doozer: Yes, Rick. Egg.

On a quick heel, RICK turns and exits the eGG Basket. Bobby smiles wide, proud of the new addition. Zeb follows suit. Dooze turns to The Maestro who has gone a record time without checking in on his hair. 

Jiles: Uh, what was that about? 

Doozer: We owe him. And with CBD down, we need the muscle. Plus, Cecilworth will appreciate the gesture. I’m sure he still remembers. And if he forgot what it feels like to have yolk on his face, even better.

Action cuts elsewhere..

We open backstage with Brian Bare standing in front of a waving RED97 HOW Flag, microphone in hand.

Brian Bare: Ladies and gentleman… High Flyer.

Waltzing in from just off frame is the neighborhood Lunatic. His hair shaven, his new crisp singlet attire, chomping away at a piece of gum. He doesn’t even take a look toward Bare and stares ahead at the camera, occasionally looking over his shoulder.

High Flyer: Mills.

He nods, still not looking at Brian. Bare just blinks.

Brian Bare: Who?

Flyer finally looks over at Bare and sizes him up. He’s confused, but shrugs.

High Flyer: Don’t you look dapper with your polka dot tie there.

Flyer leans in, pulling the tie out of his breast suit and looking at it.

High Flyer: Ever consider goin’ bow?

Flyer takes the moment to flip the bottom of the tie so it smacks Bare in the nose. There’s an audible thud as the lav mic impacts. Bare quickly regains his composure and adjusts the tie back into place.

Brian Bare: (excited) You know… I haven’t!

High Flyer: Nobody cares. C’mon. Time is money.

Flyer continues to occasionally glance off screen.

Brian Bare: Yes! First, congratulations on your win against Black Mamba. Impressive.

High Flyer: Yeah. Yeah. Kudos to Mamba for givin’ me a fight. But the Snowman came through-

Brian Bare: Wait. Snowman?

High Flyer: … Yeah?

Brian Bare: (whispered) Let’s talk later.

Bare touches his nose as Flyer just rolls his eyes.

Brian Bare: It’s been a busy time for the Snowman since War Games. Rumors of your retirement, then MJF has that spitfire of a speech about forging her own path. How there’s no reason to feel betrayed in a sport like this. Do you feel betrayed by her?

Flyer scoffs.

High Flyer: Nah Mills. She’s right, and I don’t feel betrayed.

Bare mouths the words “My name’s not Mills” as Flyer continues.

High Flyer: MJ’s gotta do what’s right for MJ. I’ll do what’s right for me. She’s got that bright future. Youthful exuberance. Gotta spread those phoenix wings and rise from the ashes right? And after all’s said and done, she’s right, y’know? I don’t know if I can trust her. She doesn’t know if she can trust me. I don’t even know if I can trust me. You can’t trust anyone in this sport, not even yourself. Wait. I mean, we thought Troy and Ryan were on our side. Best and Cecil thought Kael was their friend. Eric Dane recruits LT and then attacks her.

Brian Bare: Speaking of Eric Dane.

High Flyer: Don’t say his name one more time or he’ll show up.

Brian Bare: Like Candyman?

High Flyer: No. No. That’s stupid. Like Beetlejuice.

Brian Bare: Are you concerned?

High Flyer: Always. But no. Unless he’s right behind me. He’s right behind me isn’t he?

Flyer slowly turns and looks over his shoulder. He breathes a sigh of relief.

High Flyer: Listen, revenge eats a man alive. It’ll do the same to Dane. People wonder why I ain’t takin’ my pound of flesh from Ryan and LT? That ain’t why I’m here. I’m not here to play high school and go to the box social, worrying about my feelings gettin’ hurt… I’m here for the violence, and to paint the big Red Belt crimson. Even if it takes goin’ through every. SINGLE. Wrestler. To do it. Also…

Flyer narrows his eyes at Bare.

High Flyer: I’m pretty sure you owe me money…

Bare starts to sweat, tugging at his collar.

Brian Bare: What? Noooo. This interview’s over.

Bare quickly rushes off frame and you hear a bunch of things crash off screen.

High Flyer: Hey! Get back here!

Flyer gives chase as the scene fades to yet another commercial break.

Back live and the HOV fires up and takes us to Joe Bergman’s barn somewhere in rural Missouri.

Joe Bergman: Hey everyone!

Section 214 erupts in cheers when Joe appears on the screen sitting in a chair in the middle of a wrestling ring inside the barn.

Joe Bergman: I’m not going to take up too much of your time tonight.  Sorry I couldn’t be there with you all tonight.  I’m sitting here in my barn to update you on what’s going on with me.  But before I do that, first I’d like to say congratulations to the Hollywood Bruvs-

Section 214: BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Joe holds his hand up to try and quiet them down.

Joe Bergman: . . . hold on guys.  Not tonight.  As I was saying, congratulations Mikey and Kendrix on the win at War Games. You deserve all the credit in the world for proving once again why you are one of the top tag teams in all of professional wrestling.  Congratulations and good luck with your title run.

Bergman shifts in his chair as there’s still some assorted grumbling from the section.

Joe Bergman: I also want to congratulate the eGG Bandits, Bobby Dean and Zeb Martin, on a fantastic match.  You guys came to make a run at the title and proved to be a formidable team.  Keep up the good work Bobby and Zeb- when you turn twenty-one the beer’s on me and this time you won’t get fined for it.

Joe takes a drink from a glass of water- no PBR tonight.

Joe Bergman: And that brings us to Andy Murray-

Section 214: BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Joe again raises his hands to quell the unruly people.

Joe Bergman: Guys?  I hear you.  But not tonight.  Look, Andy Murray at War Games showed why he is one of the top wrestlers in the industry.  Andy wrestled not one but TWO championship level matches at War Games and left with the ICON title.  Whatever I may think of him personally-and vice versa, there’s no denying the man’s ability inside the ring.  So congratulations Andy on winning the ICON title and best of luck to you in the future.  And that my dear friends, brings me to you.

Bergman points at the screen and everyone in Section 214 jumps to their feet.

Joe Bergman: Guys?  I tried my best at War Games.  I worked my ass off.  I put everything I had into the match.  And in the end, it just wasn’t good enough.  I am so sorry that it didn’t work out the way I hoped it would . . .

Joe pauses and exhales.

Joe Bergman: . . .  even though in the end, losing at War Games was probably a blessing in disguise.

He takes another sip from his water.

Joe Bergman: So let’s get to the reason I’m sitting here in Plattin, Missouri and not with you in Chicago, Illinois tonight.  Long story short, fifteen minutes after returning home from France, ready to put War Games behind me and finally go forward with Steve Solex with PBR, I received a phone call from my family doctor.  Folks just so you know, it’s never a good thing when your doctor calls you at home . . . personally . . . at ten-fifteen in the evening . . . to tell you to go to the hospital.

Bergman shrugs and continues.

Joe Bergman: I won’t bore you with the details of what’s going on with me other than to tell you this- due to the medical situation that greeted me upon my return from War Games, I have been declared medically unfit to compete indefinitely.  There’s a very good possibility that my in-ring career is probably coming to an end.

Absolute quiet from Section 214.

Joe Bergman: With that in mind, I just want to thank everyone in this building and most of all the people of Section 214.  You got behind me from the very start of my HOW career and you stayed with me every step of the way.  Thank you so much for allowing me the privilege of wrestling for you.  I also want to thank HOW and Lee Best for taking a chance on a journeyman wrestler from the independent ranks and bringing me into what I believe is the deepest and best roster in pro wrestling.  To the wrestlers and everyone backstage aware of the situation and who have sent their well wishes, thank you and I can assure you it’s much appreciated.  And with that, thank you all again, good luck to HOW and good luck to all of you.

End video.

As the video on the HOV fades out we cut elsewhere……

*SchnnnniiiiiffffffffftttttttttmmmmfffFFFFFUCK YEAH, SEAKING!*

You can hear it before you see it, as the HOV once again comes to life and television sets across the world are treated to the sight of a freshly powdered snow on top of Mount Felony. Michael Lee Best, the HOW World Champion, War Games Winner, and fully grown adult who can make his own goddamned decisions pulls his face out of the giant pile of narcotics, looking like a geisha or one of the Wayons brothers in White Chicks.

Mike Best: I’M PROUD TO BE AN AMERICAAAAAAANNNNNN–

On the desk next to him, the remnants of a grilled cheese sandwich sit in a plastic basket, turning perhaps more stale by the minute. To his other side, the HOW World Championship rests idly on the desk, looking like the other Wayons brother. Hard to say which one is the which— it’s not racism, it’s just that Marlon and Damon look a lot alike.

♫ DoodooDOdoodoDOdooDO ♫ 

The laptop screen in front of him lights up, the delightfully annoying ringing of his desktop Zoom application shaking him away from his drug addled ode to patriotism. Michael stop singing, glancing at the identity of the caller before immediately hitting the asshole button and canceling the request.

Mike Best: I don’t wanna talk to you.

The champion grunts, wiping off his face.

Mike Best: And that’s fucking saying something, because I wanna talk to fucking everyone right now.

Dusting his hands off onto the desk below him, Michael then props his elbows up on the desk and leans in toward the camera. There is a big, dumb, false bravado in his voice.

Mike Best: My fellow Americans. It was on this day in 1776 that Americans dumped a bunch of tea in the ocean to protest slavery, and then murdered the King of England with an AR-15. This is a very special day, so please enjoy the fucking fireworks!

He reaches under the desk, pulling out a tiny American flag and waving it around between his fingers. However, the celebration isn’t over. He slams the flag down into Cocaine Mountain, claiming it for himself, and then stuffs the top of the flag into his right nostril– that’s correct, he turned the official flag of the United States of America into an implement with which to Hoover schneef.

*SchnnnoooooofffffffffthhhccccCCCCCAUSE AT LEAST I KNOW I’M FREEEEE!*

God bless American ingenuity.

Clearly so far from the wagon that the wagon is now invisible to him and he’s going to die from dysentery, the HOW World Champion stops to think about the feedback he might receive from the network about this segment of the show. Of course, he then remembers that he is the one hundred percent owner of HOTv, and doesn’t really give a fuck about what anyone else thinks.

Go ahead and call the cops, pussies– he didn’t go to jail for murder one. 

♫ DoodooDOdoodoDOdooDO ♫ 

Again, the nightmarish sounds of that FUCKING ZOOM RINGTONE begin to reverberate throughout the office. Kneesus Christ glances sideways at the screen, rolling his eyes and once against smashing that ignore button.

Mike Best: As Dad would say……NOT HAPPENING, DICKHEAD.

A short but cruel laugh escapes the mouth of the champion, who once again plants the tiny American flag into Immersion Mountain. He gives a brief salute, but before he can lean in to complete his inevitable overdose, he’s interrupted by the swinging open of the office door.

“What the fuck?”

The man standing in the doorway looks as surprised to see Michael Best as Michael Best is to see him— neither man envisioned that their first face to face meeting in nearly a year would look so much like the tragic end of a Tarantino movie.

Mike Best: Mario?

Michael’s eyes brighten, as he beckons one of his oldest friends in the wrestling business toward him.

Mike Best: Holy shit dude, come on in. What are you doing here? Fucking great to see you, man. Come on in.

Stepping deeper into the office, The Godfather of the Tag Division and 10% owner of HOW looks around at the state of the office. Empty bottles and cans are strewn about the floor, along with some discarded dirty laundry. It looks as though the HOW World Champion has just been crashing in here all week, in between twenty minute losses of consciousness. Not really fair to call them naps– it’s just that eventually, the body gives the fuck up on staying awake.

Mario Maurako: What… what am I doing here? Mike… this is my office. What the fuck are YOU doing here?”

The smile falls off the face of the Son of God, as he looks all around him. A framed picture of Mario Maurako with his Hall of Fame ring hands from the wall, along with various memorabilia from his tenure in HOW. The original Whack-O-Meter sits off in one corner, trying not to collect dust. Michael’s eyebrows furrow in concern, as he wonders how long he’s been here and how long it would have taken him to figure it out on his own.

The concern doesn’t last long.

Mike Best: Shit, man, I’m sorry.

Michael laughs, leaning back in the chair.

Mike Best: So what’s up man? What are you doing tonight? We should open a fuckin’ food truck, dude. The eMpire Grill, or something. The ‘M’ stands for MMMMM FUCKIN’ DELICIOUS. We can serve gyros and shit. OH! I KNEED A GYRO! There’s something there. Lemme write that down.”

♫ DoodooDOdoodoDOdooDO ♫ 

He grabs a pen off the desk, still ignoring the Zoom call and viciously scribbling down a terrible idea onto a nearby notepad. Mario’s notepad, of course, because he’s sitting in Mario’s office. In Mario’s chair. Doing a mountain of cocaine off of Mario’s desk.

Mario Maurako: Mike, you need to get the fuck out of here, dude. Like, immediately. I’m real happy for you and all of your success, but you can’t just–

Mike Best: EMPIRE FOR LIFE, BROTHER!

Michael interrupts his friend, raising his arm up for a high five.

Mike Best: Hey, remember that time that we came to OCW and bailed you out, because you were getting your ass kicked every week? That fucker put me in his Hall of Fame, dude. Fucking unreal. I was there like six months, FUCK. Anyway, sorry, what were you saying before I reminded you about our lifetime pact of brotherhood, and all the ways I helped you out, and always having each other’s backs? I shouldn’t have interrupted. My fault.”

There is a cold stare between the two men, as Michael slowly lowers his arm from the unreturned high five. Neither man breaks eye contact, as Mario’s eyes harden along his brow.

Mario: You know I’m eMpire for life. You also know that I own ten percent of your fucking trust fund now. Don’t play that guilt bullshit with me, buddy– you think I owe you something? Why, because you came in to help me out? By stealing the spotlight, stealing my last shot at a World Title? I’m a professional, Mike. I’m here to do my job, and right now my job is to be your fucking boss. So if you have something you wanna handle right now, why don’t we fucking handle it and get it over with?”

♫ DoodooDOdoodoDOdooDO ♫ 

No time for Zoom right now. Taking a bold step forward, Mario slides his neatly pressed suit jacket right off of his still massive shoulders, tossing it onto the leather couch beside him. He begins rolling the sleeves on his dress shirt up, one at a time, as Michael stands up from the chair at the desk. The World Champion has been ready for a fight all week, and he immediately kicks the chair backward into the shelf behind him. He slaps his chest, a cruel sneer plastered across his stupid, smug face.

Mike Best: You wanna go, bro? You know, eMpire doesn’t fight eMpire, but since you seem to have lost your way, I’d be fucking happy to help you find it.”

For a man who has been retired for over a year, Mario Maurako still moves like he’s in his prime– he comes across the office like a monster, slamming his chest into the chest of Michael Lee Best, going nose to nose with the HOW World Champion and not backing down in the slightest.

Mario Maurako: What eMpire, bro? I don’t see a fucking eMpire in HOW. Seems like that shit dissolved the second you had an opportunity to find out what Lindsay Troy’s panties smell like.

The Son of God grits his teeth.

Mike Best: They smell like Carey’s. Just 90% more talented.

At the moment that tension appears more ready to boil over than ever, a hint of a smile cracks on the face of Mario Maurako. The smile devolves into a laugh, and it’s seemingly contagious– the jaw of the HOW World Champion unclenches, as he stifles a hard, loud laugh as well. The two longtime compatriots back down from their nose to nose, as Mario puts a hand on Michael’s shoulder.

Mario Maurako: Jesus, man.

The anger falls off his face, as Mario shakes his head.

Mario Maurako: It’s good to see you. But for real, you need to shovel up all this snow and get it the fuck out of my office. It’s July. We’re always gonna be brothers, man, but I’m your boss now. No special treatment. No Christmas in July in my goddamned office. You ever need me, I’m there, but you need to get your shit together and–

♫ DoodooDOdoodoDOdooDO ♫ 

Mario trails off as he notices that his Zoom account is ringing, on his laptop– Michael’s hand is already headed toward the mouse to decline the call for the umpteenth time, but Mario stops him and spins the laptop around. Not that it’s facing him, and thus the camera, we can see whose calls have been declined for the last several minutes.

312-097-0000

LEE MFER BEST

There is a brief, childish slapping fight between both men as they struggle to determine whether or not the call is going to be answered. Eventually, Mario wins the contest, and smashes the “ACCEPT” button, bringing the video screen to life. Immediately, he and Michael Best stop scuffling, putting on smiles as Lee Best himself appears on the laptop in front of them.

In what appears to be some kind of a media room, sits bandaged and bruised in a lush recliner while a very intimidating looking and somewhat familiar friend to those that have are from the old guard of HOW.  It’s hard to tell if Lee is angry or not, because he’s mostly just a pile of Kostoff murder.

He tries to open his mouth to speak, but doesn’t quite have enough volume. The big motherfucker leans in to hear his whispered words, and then turns back to the camera.

Old Guard Lee is worn out from yelling at the Minister. This will be brief….

Michael and Mario look at once another sheepishly, but the Son of God only shrugs. Lee’s bodyguards leans in and listens as Lee whispers his instruction and words for him to dictate, and nods his head along as his boss talks.

Old Guard: Lee has a present for his Son….his true Son. Not the one that failed him at War Games

Barely able to move, Lee laboriously scrawls the name of his son’s opponent across the notepad on his chest. With the help of his personal bodyguard, he holds the scribbled note up the camera:

RF32 World Title Match…..The SON vs. Beautiful Bobby Best

The GOD OF HOW mumbles something else to his muscle, causing the thug to reach forward and disconnect the Zoom call. Michael Best stares at the now black screen, blinking mindlessly as he comes to terms with what he just read.

Without another word, he grabs a duffle bag out from underneath the desk, gathering up and stuffing possessions he’d placed in Mario’s office inside. Several bricks of cocaine, a large crucifix, and even the half stale sandwich go into the bag, which he then zips up and slings over his shoulder.

Mario Maurako: You alright, brother?”

Mike Best: Uh, yeah. I just have somewhere I gotta be.

He flashes a peace sign behind him, before heading for the doorway and disappearing out into the hallways beyond. Mario surveys the damage left in the wake of the Son of God, shaking his head as the camera cuts away to our final commercial break of the evening.

As Refueled comes back from its final commercial break, fans are treated to a long shot of the ring in the Allstate Arena as a giant steel cage is slowly lowered from the rafters and down over top of the ring. The fans are on their feet and ready to go, as technicians go about securing the steel to the ring for the start of the main event. 

As the camera cuts to commentary, we see a very aggressive Benny Newell arguing with a figure in a hooded sweatshirt– Benny is being waved away from the commentary desk, and in the scuffle for control of Newell’s headset, the hood falls off of his head. Mike Best lightly shoves Benny backward, telling him to go get a drink and clear out for a while. 

Benny Newell: –RIGHT IN YOUR BITCH ASS MOUTH, HONKY!

Before Benny can continue, Michael snatches the headset from him, taking Benny’s seat at the table and slapping Joe Hoffman on the shoulder, letting him know that they’re all good to go. Joe side eyes his apparent broadcast partner, before shrugging and going on with the show. 

Joe Hoffman: Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for the MAIN EVENT of the evening. At this time, we’re apprently joined by HOW World Champion Michael Best, as we prepare for a no-holds-barred showdown for the HOW LSD Championship, between the man currently known only as “RICK” and the reigning champion himself, Cecilworth Farthington. 

Mike Best: You didn’t mention that I won War Games, but that’s okay, Joe. Not everything has to be about me. 

Joe Hoffman: Well, Mike, as the man who– in a way– took the HOW World Championship from Cecilworth Farthington in the first place, you may have a unique perspective on tonight’s main event. No pins, no submissions, no knockouts– the only way to win is to escape. What’s the mood in that cage going to be like tonight?  

Mike Best: The mood? Come on, Joe, same story as always. My best friend and heterosexual lifemate, Cecilworth Farthington, is the factory where they make the murders. He’s a fucking Murder Baron. A true killer. We’re talking about a guy who has held every championship in HOW in a calendar year, and has never actually been beaten for ANY of them. Cecilworth gon’ Cecilworth, homie. 

The crowd is bathed in red as the sound of a revving chainsaw fills the auditorium.  As “Hate By Design” by Killswitch Engaged begins to play throughout the arena, the ramp lights up in white and the giant form of RICK emerges onto the ramp. As he bounds menacingly down to the ring, fans reach out for autographs and selfies like usual, but RICK looks like a man possessed– his eyes are locked on the steel cage. In his right hand, he’s obscuring something and holding it with a loose grip. 

Joe Hoffman: I think this man might disagree with you, Mike. The artist formerly known as Rick Dickulous is nearly a full foot taller than the LSD Champion and, weighing in at 425 pounds, is the single largest wrestler on the HOW roster. RICK is on a bit of a… murder… streak of his own lately, and that cage looks awful small when you’re standing across from a human wrecking ball. 

Mike Best: I love the way you cringe when you say “murder”. What’s wrong, Joe? Getting squeamish in your old age? 

Joe Hoffman: It’s just not really my thing, Mike. I’m not saying anyone has to change what they’re doing, I’m just saying it isn’t really for me. 

Mike Best: Pussy. 

The largest man in High Octane Wrestling slowly stomps up the ring steps, stepping through the cage door and taking a tremendous leap right over the ropes. He lands solidly on the canvas, letting out a roar as he flexes his gigantic arms and chest.

As RICK takes his corner, the melodic delight of “Mr. Finishline” replaces his music, beckoning forth the arrival of the HOW LSD Champion, Cecilworth Farthington. The HOV comes to life, and the crowd is subjected to the following: 

Dragging the half-destroyed LSD Championship behind him, Cecilworth thrusts it up into the air at the top of the ramp, pointing at the title and yelling out the two words that he wants to make synonymous with this division– LOYALTY AND SACRIFICE. 

Mike Best: Look at that motherfucker, Joe. That’s the most dangerous man in professional wrestling. That’s a Hall of Famer who just hasn’t been voted in yet. When they write the Bible of pro wrestling, they’re going to acknowledge him as the Holy fucking Spirt, right there with the Father and the Son of God. 

Joe Hoffman: The reason undefeated streaks are impressive is because they’re hard to maintain. After what he did to Scott Woodson on last week’s Refueled, you can’t tell me that RICK isn’t a threat to capture the LSD Title here tonight and make history. 

Mike Best: Disloyal and childish, Joe. We’ll make a believer out of you yet. 

Farthington points down at RICK, who is already standing in the cage, and then throws the championship over his shoulder as he starts slowly wandering down the ramp. He ascends the ring steps, handing the belt off to Senor Referee Joel Hortega before taking his corner to begin the match. 

With both competitors now in the ring, Hortega holds the LSD Championship up, signifying that it is on the line here tonight– he hands the belt off to Bryan McVay, before securing and locking the cage door. Joel checks in with both men, and once they nod their heads, he rings the bell to get this one started. 

DING DING DING

Cecilworth Farthington and RICK stare at one another from across the ring, sizing one another up as the opening bell sounds. RICK steps slowly to the center of the ring, beckoning the LSD Champion to come in for a fight, but Farthington remains in the corner, looking introspective. 

Joe Hoffman: A moment of pause from the champion here, folks. He looks to be contemplating what exactly he’s gotten himself into here tonight. 

Mike Best: Calm before the storm, Joe. My confidence in my best friend doesn’t come because I’m ignorant— RICK is as scary before he went full Mice and Men. I don’t wanna see what happens when he decides he wants to pet the rabbits. 

The LSD Champion gets down into a three point stance, holding the rope near the corner. As RICK realizes that his opponent isn’t taking the bait, he turns back around to head toward his corner— and that’s when Farthington strikes! The champion charges out of the corner in a sprint!

*THUMP!*

That’s the sound of 425 pounds of weight being thrown into a discus punch, and colliding directly into the jaw of a man literally half his size. His instincts sharp, RICK turns into the strike and takes CMF straight off his feet, downing the champion with one punch!

Mike Best: HOOO-LY SHIT!

The crowd is on their feet immediately, an astounding cheer rising up through the arena as Farthington hits his back, staring up at the lights. RICK doesn’t take any time to celebrate, though, as he mounts the LSD Champion and immediately begins to pound the rattled Cecilworth with savage meat fists, seemingly ready to do a little murder of his own here tonight. 

Joe Hoffman: WOW! The timing of that punch… what a CALCULATED move by Rick Dickulous! He got him right on the button, and the champion is DREAMING! 

Mike Best: MotherFUCKER, that thing can do MATH?! 

Standing up from commentary, Michael covers his microphone, screaming words of encouragement to his buddy in the ring and telling him to get his guard up. 

The advice isn’t super helpful, as Farthington is already clearly doing his best to cover up from the giant right hands raining down upon him. He’s trying to stay out of danger, but the punches are coming slow and hard, pounding through his guard.

Joe Hoffman: No five counts here tonight, folks, it’s all legal! The champ is in trouble! 

In a desperation move, Farthington manages to get a hand into the face of his opponent, jamming a thumb directly into RICK’s eye! 

Mike Best: THAT’S RIGHT, MOTHERFUCKER! It’s ALL legal! 

The challenger pulls back, letting out a guttural roar as he clutches his face– the distraction is just enough for Farthington to slip away from the top mount, slithering toward the ropes! 

Furious, RICK stomps toward Farthington to keep up the assault, but the champion has enough in his gas tank to collide with the underside of the challenger’s chin, staggering him with a stiff European uppercut. RICK staggers backward, and CMF falls to the mat, holding the side of his face and trying to recover from being absolutely brutalized. 

Joe Hoffman: Who’d have thought the most dangerous thing in that ring tonight wasn’t going to be the steel cage? Cecilworth Farthington is seeing stars, and if he can’t recover, we’re going to see a new champion VERY quickly. 

Mike Best: You ever heard of David and Goliath, Joe? 

Joe Hoffman: Have you ever seen a man get hit by a bus? 

Standing in the middle of the ring, RICK contemplates going in for round two, but then looks to the steel cage– the champion isn’t getting up, and the challenger opts to capitalize on the opportunity! 

Putting a giant foot on the cage, RICK begins to ascend upward, albeit it slower than someone of a more average size. He grips the cage tight, making his way up the first few footholds. Cecilworth Farthington rolls onto his back, seeing that RICK is making the climb, and he quickly grabs hold of the ropes, trying to get to his feet faster. 

Joe Hoffman: The only thing separating RICK from his first singles title in High Octane Wrestling is a few more feet of solid steel, ladies and gentlemen. What an upset we may be about to witness! 

Mike Best: You’re goddamned right it would be an upset, Joe. This motherfucker had better climb faster and not look back, because if Farthington gets a hold of him, he’s gonna break his fucking arm. 

Cecilworth knows he doesn’t have time to make the climb behind RICK, so he hoists himself up onto the turnbuckle instead, using it for a head start. The champion takes a leap, latching desperately onto the enormous leg of Rick Dickulous, literally hanging from it like he’s grabbing the title in a ladder match! 

RICK was already struggling just to get his own massive frame up the cage, and the addition of another whole human stalls him out at a standstill. He tries to shake Farthington off of his leg, but CMF leans backward, kicking his legs up in front of him– he latches them around RICK’s own giant leg, torquing it against the grain to create an actual hanging submission hold! 

Joe Hoffman: I can’t believe it! Farthington is somehow on offense right now, locking in a kneebar! Has… has this ever happened before? 

Mike Best: I TOLD YOU, JOE! Don’t sleep on this motherfucker, or he will murder you in your dreams! Can’t climb with a broken leg! Stick that in your gigantism and smoke it! 

Seemingly inhuman, RICK fights through the pain and literally drags Farthington up another rung of the cage, using only his arms at this point to pull himself toward the top. His hands are shaking, white knuckled as he reaches the top of the cage, but he now needs to pull himself over to the other side. 

It’s just physically fucking impossible to do with your leg in a goddamned kneebar. 

Having no other real recourse than to let the champion snap his leg, RICK takes a deep breath and lets go of the cage, hoping that his opponent takes the brunt of the fall! 

Both men come tumbling down into the ring, but Farthington hits the ropes before he hits the ring, keeping him mostly out of harm’s way. RICK collides with the canvas awkwardly, furthering damaging his knee as he crumples into the ring. 

Joe Hoffman: Well, the bigger they are…

Mike Best: A valiant effort, Joe, but the man just can’t be beaten. You literally can’t even escape him. Farthington knows how to cripple you, man. He’s made more people tap out than the first 50% of a Perfection promo. 

A guttural yell emanates from the fallen behemoth, as clutches at his knee in the ring. He turns toward his corner, and suddenly begins crawling for it as though it’s very important that he get there. 

In the meantime, Cecilworth Farthington tries to untangle himself from the ropes, realizing that he’s stuck in a mess. His face is a swollen mess, blood trickling from his nose as he gets his leg free.

Joe Hoffman: Both men getting a moment to breath. So much has happened in only a few short moments, and these men may as well have just beaten eachother down for a half hour with the shape they’re in. 

Mike Best: The unstoppable force meets the immovable Mongoloid, Joe. I hate to give it to him, but I’ve never seen anyone physically dominate Cecilworth Farthington the way RICK has so far tonight. His fists are almost unfair. It’s like he’s got four fucking elbows. 

It’s RICK who reaches his destination first, as he curls up in the corner, doing… something. He appears to cradle up and hold his knee, but there is clearly something going on as Farthington slowly climbs to his feet. The champion hobbles toward the door of the cage, ordering Hortega to unlock it and let him out. 

Hortega glances at RICK, seeing that the challenger is down and out. He fumbles for the keys, jamming them into the lock and springing the MasterLock free. Farthington glances over at RICK to make sure he’s free and clear, but RICK is staring back at him! RICK cocks his arm back, letting the object he’s obtained from the corner free, and sends it sailing directly at the LSD Champion! 

*CRACK!*

*SQUISH!* 

The egg smashes directly into the side of Cecilworth’s face, exploding into a mess of sticky yolk and running egg white, as the crowd goes absolutely fucking bananas! 

RICK: EGGGGGGGGGGG! 

The crowd gets even louder now, and Farthington looks BEYOND enraged. For reasons that may plague wrestling historians for decades to come, he doesn’t open the cage door– instead, Farthington’s eyes glaze over as he sees red, and goes bounding back for his opponent! 

Joe Hoffman: FARTHINGTON HAS BEEN EGGED! HE’S BEEN EGGED, AND SOMEHOW IT ABSOLUTELY WORKED! 

Mike Best: What are you doing, Cecilworth?! GET OUT OF THERE! THAT FUCKING ELEPHANT MAN CAN’T STAND UP! ESCAPE THE GODDAMNED CAGE! 

With murder in his eyes, Farthington takes a two step approach before kicking RICK directly in the ribs. He doesn’t stop at one, though. He kicks him again. 

And again. 

And again. 

The LSD Champion has absolutely lost it, and doesn’t stop to realize that his kicks aren’t doing the kind of damage that they might do to an average opponent. RICK winces against the final kick, but manages to scamper backward and hobble back up to his feet. He’s still on a shaky knee, but he appears to be back in this match! 

Farthington throws a right hand, and then another, but he’s throwing punches at a brick wall– RICK literally grabs his hand, twisting it in a counter, and then throws a headbutt into the champion that knocks him backward to the mat! 

Joe Hoffman: The match was over! Cecilworth Farthington may have just cost himself the win! 

Mike Best: Fuck. FUCK! Come on, buddy! GET HIM! You got this! 

Farthington slides backward on his butt, now both literally AND figuratively having egg on his face. He seems to realize his mistake, as he looks to the now unlocked cage door and tries to formulate a plan. The champion swallows hard as RICK bears down on him, looking ready to commit a murder of his own. 

So CMF kicks him directly in the penis. 

Yep. A dick kick, when all else fails. RICK’S DICK is probably very large, but it only makes for a bigger target. He clutches at his testicles, dropping down to a knee as the wind comes out of him. Farthington crawls for the exit, hoping that he can get out in time, and Hortega is waiting with the open cage door! 

Joe Hoffman: All this, and it may come down to a low blow! It’s all fair game, but my God, I can’t believe this! 

Mike Best: I can’t watch, Joe. I can’t watch this. I’m way too fucked up for this. I can’t do this right now. Holy shit. 

As Farthington reaches the cage door and stumbles through the ropes, he’s finally able to breathe a sigh of relief as he stands at the top of the stairs. He steps down the first two steps, ready to put a foot on the floor, when suddenly a giant arm holds him back! 

RICK IS BACK TO HIS FEET! 

Yanking Farthington back by the hair, his head collides with the cage door as RICK wraps his other hand around the champion’s neck, literally trying to squeeze the fucking life out of him inches from freedom! Farthington tries to gasp, with nothing but gurgling sounds coming out as RICK tightens his grip– Cecilworth’s face turns a deep shade of red, and then begins to go purple as he desperately flails his body. 

He has no fucking leverage, and he’s being held by a monster. 

Joe Hoffman: OH MY GOD! HE’S GONNA KILL HIM! MIKE, CAN YOU BELIEVE– wait, Mike? 

*CLANG!* 

Air instantly fills the lungs of Cecilworth Farthington, as RICK’s arm goes limp and releases the chokehold! The cage door slams against his arm with such force that he lets out a scream, falling helplessly back into the ring… Farthington tumbles down the stairs, touching the floor officially. 

Michael Lee Best stands next to the cage door, eyes filled with terror as he drops down to check on his best friend. 

DING DING DING

Farthington is coughing at ringside, even as he is handed the HOW LSD Championship by Bryan McVay. Michael helps him to his feet, patting him on the back and making sure that he’s alright. 

Bryan McVay: Here is your winner, and STILL HOW LSD Chaaaaaaammmmmpion…. CECILWORTH…. EMM…. FAAAAAAARTHINGTON! 

The duo start back up the ramp, and the champion manages a mild chuckle as he uses his buddy for support on the way to the back. RICK sits in the ring, nursing his aggravated arm as he stares out at the men who screwed him out of the LSD Championship. 

From the crowd, a man hops the railing and climbs into the ring as quickly as he can. The cage is already rising as “Beautiful” Bobby Dean kneels beside RICK, staring out at Mike Best and Cecilworth Farthington with pure anger in his eyes. He stands up to his feet, calling out to the HOW World Champion and pantomiming the World Title around his waist. Mike Best turns around, smirking smugly at Bobby Dean as HOW Refueled comes to an end.