“This first post will not be necessary.” – Michael Lee Best
It had been three weeks since Kim Jong-Un had experienced difficulty breathing in North Korea.
It had been a week since he had been transferred to his palace balls deep in the hills of North Korea.
It had been two days since Max Kael had been permitted to visit the unconscious Supreme Leader…..of North Korea.
Max blinked and shook his head. The fog slowly drifted away from his mind as he looked around the surprisingly simple room where Kim Jong-Un was being kept deep in the bowels of his Palace. Plain white walls were lined with charts while hulking pieces of medical equipment circa 1978 whirled, peeped and squawked occasionally. Lined up in the center of the room was a large medical bed where the night gown draped Supreme Leader lay, his hands at his side, his eyes closed.
Max muttered to himself as he looked around the room before his fingers snaked up to his brow, rubbing it slowly. He didn’t remember how he got here, his mind was hazy on the details and the harder he tried to remember the more pain thudded into the back of his head. That was happening more frequently these days, he assumed it was the stress and the lack of sleep, after all wasn’t that what it always was?
He lowered his hands and stared down at Kim Jong-Un, his mind pulling itself out of remembering how he got here and shifting over toward why he was here. The last thing he remembered.. He was home.. Learning about something.. He had memories of something being handed to him. A piece of paper. An image of him putting it into his pocket swam into his awareness and he reached down into his pocket to see if it was still there.
Much to his luck it was. He felt his fingertips brush against the rough edges of the crumpled paper before his hands clenched down around it like the world’s most effective crane game. Pulling the ball of paper out Max unfolded it and examined it carefully.
“Reloaded XXV, Scott Stevens, LSD Pole Match..” He muttered to himself as his head cocked slightly to the side. He said the words again, out loud, as if trying to make sense of them before it clicked what it was he was saying. “..wait I’m facing Scott Stevens in a pole match for the LSD Championship? How.. how does that work?”
Max’s face contorted into confusion as he looked up at the unconscious Kim expecting some kind of answer out of the sadistic bag of mashed potatoes that had been wrapped tight in a hospital tunic.
“Isn’t that a Ladder Match? If I claim the LSD Championship does that mean I get to use it until I get the submission or pinfall?..isn’t that a normal LSD Championship match save for now it’s on a pole in the corner of the ring? If Steven’s isn’t allowed to wrestle then how is he going to be in this match?”
The rapid fire questions rolled off Max’s tongue as his brain processed what the upcoming Refueled might bring. Was Lee booking this match for him or was there some bigger plan at play here? If the God of High Octane Wrestling was trying to win Max over it wasn’t going to work, the LSD Champion was firmly beside the Group of Death..
Even though he wouldn’t be with them at War Games. In fact it looked more likely he would be the only member of the Group of Death to find himself bedding with the enemy as it were. Cecilworth Farthington and Michael were already locked. Dan Ryan was more than likely Michael’s next pick. It was possible that Lee would go for Troy but it all depended if he had a greater strategy at work. Max himself hadn’t spoken with Lee directly in.. Months?
“Something feels wrong about all of this, something is off..” the Lord Supreme Dictator said as his eyes scanned the room nervously once again. “..this shouldn’t be happening the way it is. I’m on Lee’s War Games team and somehow Scott Stevens is going to be facing me in a Pole Match for the LSD Championship. Think.. Think Max.. what’s off about all of this..”
He lifted his hands to his head once again, his index fingers rubbing his temples as he leaned forward with his eyelids pressed shut. It almost looked painful as Max’s lips pulled back into a violent sneer, his metal teeth grinding together unpleasantly..
Max belted out the worlds as he pulled his hands down, his eyes snapping open as his sneer turned into a wide grin.
“It’s the only possible answer! The only thing that makes sense! But if this is true then.. I’ll need to find a way to make things.. Right.” Max muttered to himself as his smile washed away into thoughtful repose. His hands went to his hips as his head dropped into a droop, his blue eyes falling on the vegetable known as Kim Jung-Un. “..but this is going to take more power then I have… but not necessarily more than.. You.. have..”
A rabid smile stretched wide across his face, the kind of uncomfortable, inappropriate kind of grin you get when you remember a funny joke at a funeral. A dirty, filthy sounding chuckle emanated from Max’s throat as he slowly began to wring his hands together.
“I’ve got a plan.”
“As the great American philosopher Katy Perry once said last Friday night, yeah we danced on tabletops and we took too many shots; think we kissed but I forgot. I like the song Last Friday Night, I don’t like you Scott Stevens because unlike Darin Matthews, you don’t have a good reason to be such a parasitic loser. You’re Texas Average which is a California Tall, you have a rich wrestling Family Legacy and you’re a two time High Octane World Champion. So what’s your excuse then, man who managed to make Scorpions no longer scary?”
Max appears before the camera dressed in a black North Korean uniform with #97red highlights. His chest is adorned with all manners of medals and ribbons making him look, for lack of a better description, like a Panama Republic dictator. Fitting, one supposes, when one realizes he is standing next to the throne of Kim Jong-Un in the Kim Palace. The throne is, itself, conspicuously empty.
“Five years ago you were set to take over when the rest of us finally said our goodbyes. It was our time to move on, our time to see what the world outside of High Octane Wrestling held for us. Some of us left on good terms. Others, like myself, fell into retirement with a thud, having given up. It was your time to shine, Stevens, it was your time to make the most out of all we had brought you up to be. You. You were supposed to be the one who led High Octane Wrestling into the next era.”
His expression was serious, his lips pulled into a tight sneer while his chin was held high giving Max an imperious attitude.
“But what happened, Scott? Within a year the federation was closed, Lee Best was a fart in the wind and you? What the fuck about Scott Stevens? We handed you the keys to the kingdom and it DIED. You, Hollywood and Darin.. Scott Woodson, the whole lot of you idiots! You didn’t kill High Octane Wrestling, that’s giving you too much credit. I’m going to kill High Octane Wrestling, you fucks just let it die. You didn’t water it, you didn’t feed it, you didn’t stick air holes in the lid and now you’re not allowed to have a new pet until you’ve proven you can keep it alive”
Letting out a sigh Max folds his arms over his chest making a dismissive roll of his eyes.
“Then we enter the Refueled Era of High Octane Wrestling and here comes Scott Stevens! You brush off a little rush in another Federation but really it’s all just to get ready to get back into the swing of things in the renewed High Octane Wrestling! And what happens? You fall flat on your fucking face right out the gate. You’ve been dragging your feet in the muck ever since. You know what the most meaningful matches you’ve had since coming back have been? Having matches where the loser has to retire or stop wrestling for a prolonged period of time. Scott Woodson and the Crucifix Death Match that took three fucking years to happen and when on another three fucking years too long. Bryan Hollywood and the battle for who was the best in 2016… now we’re here.”
Clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth Max scratched his chin idly, the scowl on his face leveling off slightly.
“..Why? Why are you stuck doing clerical work for Lee Best? Why is your gimmick a stupid internet database when you’re six foot six inches tall, that’s well over two inches taller than me and you weigh two hundred and fifty six pounds. It’s not flap or fat, it sure as fuck ain’t water weight, you have the physicality to dominate almost anyone on the roster. It’s not your upbringing, you are a stallion, a stud from Texas Wrestling Royalty.. Or so I’m told, Dan Ryan mentioned your brother might actually be the famous one.”
He offers a polite shrug as he offered an ambilevous expression, somewhere between I can’t confirm that and I don’t give a fuck if it’s true.
“I’ve wrestled you plenty of times, Stevens, I know you can go. I know you can take a beating and I know you can throw out some heavy hitting Texan influenced slobber knocking, Yee, and I must emphasize, Haw having, cowpoke farm laying, horse fucking beat downs. And yet.. There you are. Sitting behind a computer working out the analyticals. Good for you, I mean it, somebody has to do it, I guess it might as well be you but.. Uh.. well.. You could probably have done more with your life is all I’m saying. So what is it, Scott Stevens? Why do you suck so much despite clearly having the capacity not to?”
As Max spoke it became obvious he was doing his best to hold back a snid chuckle. As he finished he cleared his throat, that metal fanged grin dripping down his smug face. He leaned in, another unhealthy chuckle escaping his throat.
“..The secret.. Is me. Shhh.. don’t tell anyone, it’s a mild spoiler but.. We’ll get back to that in the future. I don’t want to ruin EVERYTHING.. Not just yet. Not for something like an LSD Championship Pole Match..”
The sound of doors slamming open echoes around the Throne Room as Max’s head snaps up, staring past the camera as his smug grin contorts into something far more ghoulish, Max’s sickly gums exposed to the world as his smile pulls his skin tight.
“SUPREME LEADER! It is SO GOOD to see you up and walking again! Please, come! Come take your place on the Throne!” Max said as he pranced around in a circle, his hands clapping together excitedly.
The heavy sound of boots stomping their way closer mark the arrival of the Supreme Leader of North Korea, Kim Jong-Un, dressed in a heavy black coat that hides his large frame. He walks stiffly, some might say even a little robotic like as he ascends the stairs to his massive golden throne. Kim reaches the top and turns, his eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses before he plops unceremoniously down onto the Throne.
Slinging an arm around Kim Jong-Un the Lord Supreme Dictator gives the camera another unpleasant grin.
“You should hit up your buddy, Darin Matthews, he’ll be the first to tell you.. In High Octane Wrestling Max Kael is always pulling the strings.. And you’re all my little puppets. How did I change the course of your life, Scott Stevens?.. Well… I’ll guess you’ll just have to tune in to find out. Then.. well.. I’m looking forward to working a pole with you at Refueled… Hugs and Kisses, Scooty-boo-boo.”
With a wink Max blows a kiss forward as we fade into darkness…