Bite The Hand That Feeds You Pt 2

Bite The Hand That Feeds You Pt 2

Posted on June 21, 2024 at 11:58 pm by Darin Zion

The blood moon hung low over Arthur’s Seat, casting a crimson and silvery glow across the craggy hills and the bustling city below. At the heart of Camp Zion, hidden away in a secluded clearing, a fire pit crackled and popped, sending dancing embers sailing into the sky. Shawn Lester’s weathered face told a story of exhaustion as he crouched by the fire, meticulously turning a spit with a golden-brown chicken roasting over the flames. The air thickened with the savory aroma of sizzling meat and the tangy scent of baked beans warming in a cast iron skillet. The tantalizing smells wafted through the cool night air, mingling with the earthy scents of blood, sweat, and tears exuding from a training Darin Zion.

Zion stood a distance away from the fire, his gaze unwaveringly fixed on his target. His body, coiled in intense concentration, bore the fatigue of countless hours spent training for War. He was utterly spent, having pushed himself through the rigors of training in the harshest elements, knowing deep down that his father would throw everything at him in this year’s War Games—the Final One. Though Zion’s physique was worn and weakened, his heart refused to give in. However, the cracks in his demeanor were becoming more apparent. The glimmer in his eyes had faded, his once bright zeal for life and his positive streak now shadows of their former selves. He was a man driven to the brink, consumed by an obsession with one goal: to drape the HOW World Championship over his shoulder at the climax of the Final War Games. This determination was a double-edged sword, fueling his relentless pursuit while stripping away more of the love and light that once defined him.

Shawn glanced up from his culinary duties, his brow furrowed deeply. His eyes narrowed with a mixture of worry and empathy as he watched Zion land strike after strike against the hard oak tree. He knew Zion’s struggles were manifold this week: the relentless self-pressure to perform to Lee’s highest standards, the emotional toll of fighting for the one that got away, and the physical exhaustion from the grueling training sessions. While each target Zion hit was a small victory they could relish, Shawn knew the real war was about to begin.

“Dinner’s ready! Come and get it,” Shawn called out, his voice echoing through the craggy hills, carrying a warmth that cut through the chilly night air. He turned the chicken a couple more times, ensuring it was cooked to perfection, the skin golden-brown and crisp.

The clanking noises of the sword drowned out Shawn’s announcement. After sharpening his blade, Zion lowered his trusty saber, glaring intensely at his target. His eyes burned with a sadistic focus. For a quick second, he reached for his washcloth and wiped the sweat from his brow. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth despite his hunger and exhaustion. With one fluid slashing motion, Zion landed the shot. It struck higher than the bullseye. Zion cackled, as if his miss had been calculated, his mind relishing in the twisted satisfaction of the strike.

Zion muttered under his breath, as if in a trance, “I must show GOD I am worthy of her. I must earn my love’s hand in combat. I will protect my #97Red mistress from all those lazy, pathetic nerds at all costs.”

Shawn approached Zion, throwing his arms down at his side in complete exasperation with his best friend. Despite the aroma of the perfectly roasted chicken filling the air, Zion remained oblivious, his focus consumed by a higher purpose.

Shawn’s voice dripped with escalating frustration as he urged Zion to pause and replenish himself, fully aware of the toll his neglect was exacting. “DARIN! I SAID COME EAT! YOU SEEM LIKE YOU COULD DEVOUR A WHOLE HORSE RIGHT ABOUT NOW! GOOD LORD!!”

Zion remained steadfast in neglecting his body’s needs, consumed by his singular, unyielding purpose and lost in his own world.  “GOD’s watching me, Shawn. I have to be ready for the Final Hour. He might throw anything at us in these War Games. Mario, Aceldama, Shane Reynolds—they’re all coming out of the woodwork. Who knows who else Lee might bring back. I can’t afford to rest, or I’ll be left behind with all those pathetic nerds…”

Before Shawn could interject his own thoughts into the mix, a sleek black Honda SUV came barreling up the hill with a determined roar of its engine. Its headlights pierced through the twilight, casting a stark contrast against the darkening sky. The vehicle navigated the rugged terrain with agility, kicking up dust and gravel in its wake as it approached the campsite with purpose.

With a heavy creak, the door swung open, revealing Big Mack Rossi. His tall, muscular frame filled the SUV’s doorway, his bald head gleaming under the moonlight without his customary fedora. Puffing on a thick cigar, he strode purposefully towards the group, carrying a stack of papers under his arm, clearly ready for business as he joined them at the campsite.

Both Darin and Shawn Lester’s jaws dropped simultaneously upon seeing their boss, a sudden chill gripping their hearts at his unexpected presence. Mack’s imposing demeanor sent shivers down their spines, his haunting gaze carrying a heavy weight in the air. Shawn’s mind raced with possibilities, but Darin remained stoic, his face devoid of emotion as he clenched his teeth and clasped his fists together tightly.  The veins in Zion’s forehead began to bulge outward.

“I thought I’d stop by to check on my investment and share some intel about the upcoming Pay-Per-View fight. Figured we could chat over dinner and drinks,” Big Mack said, pulling both men into a grizzly bear-style hug. Darin and Shawn Lester exchanged a look but remained silent, unresponsive to Mack’s awkward attempts at friendship.  After releasing his grasp, Mack continued, “Maybe my top pupil can stack some shit on the competition like he’s been doing over the previous weeks…”

Darin squinted at Mack, sensing the sarcasm. Zion dismissed Mack’s patronizing tone and his intrusive surveillance of his recent achievements with disdain. Gritting his teeth, Zion held back from speaking, simply shaking his head in silent defiance.

“I don’t think Zion wants to…” Shawn began to interject for his friend, but Big Mack Rossi immediately silenced him by covering his mouth and forcing it shut with his giant fist.

Big Mack quickly asserted his authority, issuing threats to both men. “Maybe you should let Darin grow a pair. He’ll do exactly as I instruct him to do. As his current business manager and someone with a vested interest in my project, I think Zion should give some promotional work a try. Keep your nose out of my business before I expose your dirty laundry.”

Mr. Rossi stormed through the campsite toward the Zion Roundtable, his heavy footsteps resonating through the quiet night. Without a word, he slammed his stack of papers down onto the table, motioning for Zion to approach. His finger pressed down forcefully, his gaze steely and demanding, signaling his urgency for immediate action.

After the papers settled with a loud thud, Mack picked up his phone and aimed it directly at Zion, his expression leaving no room for argument. Feeling the pressure mounting, Zion sifted through the screenshots scattered on the table. Images of Brian Hollywood, Mike Best, Scottywood, Scott Stevens, Noah Hanson, Silent Witness, and every other HOW roster member stared back at him, each representing a daunting challenge ahead. As he searched for inspiration, Zion felt a surge of determination rising within him. However, the weight of the impending challenge began to crush down on him, causing him to falter. His throat tightened as the pressure intensified.

Before Mack could chastise him further, Zion bolted towards the lake, desperate to escape the mounting pressure. He tore through the dense undergrowth of the forest, his feet pounding against the earth with each step, the urgency of his flight matched only by the weight of responsibilities bearing down on him. Branches whipped past him; their fleeting touch a reminder of the obstacles he sought to leave behind.

As he ran, Zion could feel the burdens of Mack’s demands pressing heavily on his shoulders. Thoughts raced through his mind, each step bringing a temporary respite from the suffocating weight of expectations. The cool air filled his lungs, mingling with the scent of pine and damp earth, providing a fleeting sense of freedom amidst the turmoil. Yet, he knew that ultimately, he couldn’t outrun his problems forever; they lingered like shadows in the depths of the forest, waiting to confront him once more when the chase came to an end.

As Zion reached the shore of the lake, he sank to his knees, the damp ground cool against his skin. Gripping his head in desperation, he raised his voice to the heavens, his prayer echoing across the tranquil waters. He pleaded fervently, his words a mix of hope and anguish, seeking solace from the MACHINE or acceptance from his father, the GOD OF HOW. Each syllable carried the weight of years spent striving for recognition, his heart laid bare in this moment of raw vulnerability. The gentle lapping of the lake against the shore provided a soothing backdrop to his earnest entreaty, as if nature itself bore witness to his plea for deliverance from the looming darkness.

“Father, please! I beg of you, give me a sign. Your humble servant is weary from years of trials and tribulations. Have I not shown you undying loyalty and unwavering dedication over nearly a decade? Have I not cleansed myself from the burdens of the past? Have I not transformed into everything you commanded me to be?

Yet, throughout this cycle, you have remained silent. Your promises have gone unfulfilled, and I yearn to continue as your noble warrior, filled with fervor, passion, and dedication to the MACHINE’s cause. I desire to lead HOW into a new era, but I need a sign from you, Father. A sign to affirm that this journey is worthwhile. I have endured hardships in solitude and among those who do not understand. I long to return to your embrace, Father, and bask in your presence. Please, grant me a sign.”

Zion closed his eyes, his hands clasped tightly together, and his heart heavy with longing and desperation. In the stillness of the moment, he poured out his soul to Lee above, pleading for a sign, for reassurance that his years of dedication had not been in vain. Yet, the heavens remained silent, echoing with the weight of unanswered prayers.

Each moment of silence felt like an eternity, amplifying the doubts and fears that gnawed at Zion’s resolve. The absence of a response from the GOD of HOW left him feeling adrift, questioning his purpose and the path he had chosen. Despite his unwavering faith and tireless efforts, the void where divine guidance should have been filled him with a profound sense of emptiness and uncertainty.


Zion opened his eyes, the weight of despair evident in his somber expression as he hung his head low. With a heavy heart, he pulled himself away from the riverbank and began a slow, defeated trudge back towards camp. The sense of defeat weighed heavily upon him, exacerbating the feeling of being an outcast once again.

As his head sinks towards the ground; HE FINALLY SEES IT.

Lying on the ground right at his feet was a Montblanc Boheme Royal Pen, accompanied by a #97Red stone.

“It’s Bestcaliber and The Stone of Best-iny lying at my feet.  Thank you, Father!  Thank you for your tools.  I shall carry out your vengeance.”  Zion exclaimed as a sinster smile curled across his face.  Its edges were sharp and unsettling, as if a devious plan or thought began to took root in his mind.  His eyes gleamed with a chilling intensity, hinting his devilish motives and dark resolve sitting deep within his cold, hardened heart.


The crackling campfire bathed Darin Zion, Shawn Lester, and Big Mack Rossi in its warm, flickering glow. The aroma of bourbon mingled with the charred, burning embers, casting a comforting spell over the trio. Each man raised his glass of expensive bourbon in silent acknowledgment that the earlier tensions had subsided.

Now at peace, they watched the fire dance with its amber brilliance, casting playful shadows against the crags surrounding them. Laughter filled the air as all three shared memories, their camaraderie serving to lighten the mood and relieve the tensions that had weighed on Zion.

Zion’s cheery demeanor returned in full force. He was all smiles and laughter, thoroughly enjoying his time with friends. Freed from the weight of performance pressure, he let the liquid courage flow, embracing the moment for its simple joys.

“God, I needed that, guys!” Mack exclaimed, as he released the pent-up pressures of his past struggles, particularly the loss of his wife. For the first time in a decade, a gentle smile cracked his typically calloused face. “Truthfully, despite our heated arguments, I haven’t had a moment to just relax and be since my wife passed away. I’m stuck in business deal after business deal trying to pay the bills…”

Darin nodded, empathizing deeply with the devastation loss can bring. Memories of the difficult nights spent by Clara’s side as she passed away flooded his thoughts. Zion placed a comforting hand on Mr. Rossi’s shoulder, hoping to alleviate his mentor’s pain.

Shawn Lester, in his usual awkward manner, interjected, “Well, hate to be a spoil sport, but I’m completely wiped out after today’s training. I need to be sharp for your investment tomorrow.”

Despite initially resisting Shawn’s suggestion, all three men eventually acquiesced and began preparing to turn in for the night. They nestled into their sleeping bags, the warmth of the fire, the lingering taste of liquor, and the comfort of their friendship soothing their souls as they drifted off to sleep.

The sound of cricket chirping and ducks quacking continue to fill the forest air….


After hours had passed, Darin Zion finally enacted his plan. He raised his hands to his ears, his head contorting as he wielded Best-Caliber, plunging it into the eye sockets of both Shawn Lester and Big Mack Rossi. He savored their blood-curdling screams echoing through the forest.

Zion stood back, admiring his handiwork, his laughter descending into a chilling, demented tone as he reveled in the aftermath.

“I’m sorry, friends, but my loyalty belongs solely to my Father. With the GOD of HOW, it’s an eye for an eye. You nerds must suffer for what you’ve done to me, his son. Years of suffering and anger will now be answered by the MACHINE.”

As Zion’s head twisted one final time, he lifted Big Mack Rossi’s head and forcefully slammed it against a nearby stone. Darin raised his size 13 boot high, delivering a sickening stomp to his mentor’s head, his laughter mixing with the bone-crunching echo that reverberated through the Edinburgh sky as the scene faded to black.




You expected me to cut a promo spewing warm, fuzzy feelings about High Octane Wrestling over the last decade? You wanted me to wear rose-tinted glasses, waxing poetic about my deep love for every one of you on this roster? You wanted some soft, gushy love story as we head into the bloodiest War Games in history, crossing the Rubicon of no return?

I’m sorry Noah Hanson, I’m done living in the fuckin’ past.  I’m tired of showing each one of you fucksticks any ounce of compassion.  I’m not writing some sentimental farewell speech before Lee Best burns this fuckin place down in a blaze of glory.  This is motherfuckin’ War Games.  I’m not goin’ easy on you fuckers.  Some of you bastards, I’ve waited ten years to tell you how much I fuckin’ hate you after the amount of hazing and bullshit you made me suffer through.

You’re a bunch of insufferable, ungrateful children and I’m surprised the GOD of HOW tolerates you.  I’m surprised you wake up every morning and get to breath without Lee coming down and smiting the lot of you assholes.  You think I’m the insufferable asshole who preaches rainbows and unicorns?


Mike, I don’t love you. I don’t love any of you in your shitty Discord posse. I won’t write another love letter about your historic 12 HOW title reigns or how many asses you’ve kicked over the years. If you need the plebs to keep singing your praises and playing the game constantly; you’re probably not as great.

Seriously, Michael Jordan doesn’t beg everyone to call him the GOAT in every circle. Patrick Mahomes isn’t slipping briefcases of money under the table to ESPN for them to sing his praises either. Everyone knows they’re the GOATS because their accolades do the talking.

I get why GOD loves you and why you want to win over those nerds in Section 214 over one more time.   But seriously, this is the weakest shit I’ve ever seen you fuckin’ spew.  No one buys this façade that the insufferable Mike Best has become the most likeable guy on planet earth.  Dan Ryan saw through it.  Lindsay Troy called you out on your bullshit.  Hell, it’s no wonder why OCW didn’t air any of your shit out for the world to see.

Noah Hanson is correct. It pains me to admit that that guy is right, let alone use his cheesy catchphrase.  You use people and abuse them.  You hope people wouldn’t notice your egotistical gaslighting techniques.  But everyone has X-Ray vision and can see right through this façade you’re playing at War Games.

I anticipate punching your face more eagerly than the lesson I’m about to impart on my “best friend” Brian Hollywood.

Hi, Brian!  Are we doing this reset again?  Are you really trying to be the heart and soul of HOW?  You actually think for one single minute that people are flocking to the box office buying tickets to your little under dog story!   You had one fluke win and walk out with the LSD Championship around your waste and you’re already celebrating this is YOUR YEAR to win War Games.

You’re already scripting the grand finale for all to witness. You’re ready to sacrifice everything for the cause, to give the fans a triumphant moment with the HOW World Championship held high once more. Let’s face it, the 500K won’t exactly rush to the theaters to fill your pockets.

Newsflash, this will end like your previous 97 attempts at a fresh start. You might snag that LSD Championship briefly, but you’ll soon find yourself handed defeat on a silver platter. You’ll likely spend nights wallowing like a basement-dwelling nerd and be relegated down the card as the pathetic loser you are.

Let’s not overlook the legends stepping up for this pivotal moment. People like Silent Witness, Jatt Starr, Shane Reynolds, Aceldama, Mario Maurako, Greystone, and the many other HOW legends—you all infuriate me. You exploit your accolades and opportunities at the cost of others like myself.

You think you’re crusading like Bobbinette Carey, but all you’re doing is wasting valuable oxygen. Every single time, it’s the same routine. You attempt to challenge GOD’s chosen, then you get bored and quit the next week, wasting our money and time.

I’d rather see Scott Stevens win the HOW World Title a fourth time than watch the same old shit unfold than watch Scottywood pulling off the same tired promo 500 times.  Maybe some of you should make like Christopher America and forget this fuckin’ place existed.  Forget your glories!  Forget who you are and never return.

HOW’s a better place when you’re all gone.

As I mentioned before, I’m done watching opportunities slip away from me. I know my adoptive Father is gearing up to unleash hell for his MACHINE and bring this place down in flames. He’s been sending me warning signs ever since his return.

The night I fought Scott Stevens and Mike Best for the HOW World Championship, he texted me, “Don’t mess it up.” He knew I had the chance to rise to his side and witness his wrath upon you unbelieving nerds.

But I messed up. I let my own self-doubt consume me. I held back and played the obedient minion, trying to please others.

 Looking back on that moment, coupled with my failure in the 2015 War Games, infuriates me. I despise the person I’ve become. Clearly, I’m not a true CHILD OF GOD. To all of you, I’ve been nothing but a worthless doormat who never won the World Championship, who never triumphed in War Games.

I’m the biggest choke artist in the world.

But War Games is when I officially drink the Kool-Aid.  War Games is when I unleash hell on Earth and do the unthinkable.  I shred that loveable asshole image and I am coming to bathe in the blood of each and every one of you.

You once deserved my love.  You once deserved God’s forgiveness. But now you shall all burn at the hands of GOD.  I will revel watching you nerds perish as Lee and I make a new MACHINE and new HOW.

One molded in GOD’S image in which we restore his bride, the #97Red to her throne adorned upon my shoulder.

She will no longer be the one who got away.  But instead she will be returned to glory.

I will not settle leaving Edinburgh without the HOW World Championship.  And I will make sure either I die or every last one of you dies at my hands before you sully my one true love’s reputation again.

Because at War Games, I will make my father proud and become recognized as the HIS CHOSEN CHAMPION, no longer his Prodigal Son.  But as his harbinger of doom.”