- Event: #97RED
Oh, Jace…
I’ve been thinking a lot about you in the buildup to the main event of 97RED. Probably explains why I’ve been so irritable lately, needlessly using profanity like some common buffoon. That’s just the effect you have, Jace; you bring the worst out of people.
But like I said, I’ve been thinking a lot about you these past few weeks…
And I came to the somewhat startling realization that, while you and Mister Godson are dissimilar in a lot of ways, I wouldn’t attempt to count them all… there is one way in which you are very much alike.
Don’t get too excited, now. I’m not about to ruin my unblemished reputation by complimenting a pleb like you.
No.
You both make stupid decisions.
Now, Mister Godson lacks formal education and, truth be told, just plain, old common sense… and therefore requires careful micromanagement to navigate life and maintain championship-level focus at all times.
When he occasionally finds himself untethered from the watchful eye and guiding hand of yours truly, he has a tendency to act without thinking.
Things get destroyed, innocent people are harmed.
You are much the same.
Minus the destruction, the harming of the innocents, of course—you don’t so much pose a physical threat as you do a mental one: you foster distraction through sheer aggravation.
Back to my point:
You make stupid decisions with such wanton impulsiveness and carelessness, with such consistency, it’s a miracle you’ve lived to the ripe, old age of thirty five.
And just this year alone, you’ve made a few doozies, haven’t you?
You attacked me.
You picked an unwinnable fight with my brother.
You stole Mister Godson’s precious meat processing going concern and executed a defenseless bull, then lied continuously about it like a complete sociopath.
You slammed him through the top of the War Games Cage.
And now… you challenge him for his HOW World Championship.
A man that is superior to you in every. single. imaginable. way.
Stupid decisions. Idiotic choices.
Now, the difference between you and my client as it pertains to your shared trait of poor decision-makings is… my client always comes out on top. Has thus far, at least.
Some people can make the wrong choices and prosper.
These are the blessed few, and Jace, you’re not one of them.
Everything you touch turns to… you know what—I don’t need to say, you spew enough of it every time you pick up a mic.
It’s tough for me to stomach, the things Mister Godon chooses to do, the women with whom he spends his valuable time… the risky misadventures he finds himself wrapped up in… but I’ve got to hand it to him, what should be self-destructive mistakes serve only to push him further into the public consciousness.
You, on the other hand, Jace, are a ne’er-do-well that works very, very hard to achieve the modicum of mid-level success you enjoy… but can always be relied upon to defecate the proverbial mattress when it really, truly counts; that is, when the pressure’s on.
You are a loser, Jace.
I didn’t call Dan Ryan a loser—I called him old and washed.
I didn’t call Conor Fuse a loser—I called him irrelevant.
But I call you, Jace, a bonafide, textbook loser. Just a hapless fool that wants so much but attains so little.
Listen, I don’t give a damn how many times you’ve won the LSD Championship. I don’t care that you were the final ICON Champion.
None of that means anything to me, because they are simply milestones one passes on the road to the HOW World Championship.
It’s a dangerous road, Jace.
Few make it to the final stop. There’s many rusted automobiles, broken down and abandoned forever, sitting in the ditch off to the side.
Some guys and gals spend the entirety of their career on this road and never reach the end.
Others—most notably my client in recent times, the STRONKEST! Man Alive—cruise right on through in a monster truck, half-asleep at the wheel, making excellent time.
You blink—and they’ve already arrived at the finish line!
So you cry into your pillow every night, wondering why it seems to come so easy to some… but not to you.
Oh dear.
Why’s life so difficult?
Life isn’t easy. It isn’t fair
My analysis is that you’re an overachiever that is less than two weeks away from once again smacking your big, dumb head on the glass ceiling above you.
Over and over, again, you do it.
Definition of insanity, as they say…
But go ahead, look up—you’ll see my client’s ass pressed against the glass.
Give it a kiss and say goodbye to your hopes and dreams.
You may be thinking, ‘What’s Michael Oliver Best talking about? I’ve been HOW World Champ before!’
You have—but that was years ago.
You haven’t proven anything yet in the STRONK! Era.
So, to me, whatever you accomplished before my client walked through the door and established the New Standard… doesn’t count.
It just doesn’t.
So where does that leave you, Jace?
What is your identity in modern HOW?
I’ll tell you:
You’re a sad, pathetic, blood-sucking leech that clout-chased STRONK! and rode his coattails for as long as you could, until your inherent ‘make terrible choices’ nature took over, that primal urge to muck it all up, and you put the kibosh on that relationship.
You’re a parasite that lost its host…
At 97RED, we eradicate you.
—
“I don’t know what to tell ya, mate,” a male voice says. “Never seen anything like it. Like something out of a movie…”
“You reckon it’s the same one? The one that got Billy last month?” responds a second male voice.
“I’d say so, yeah.”
“You know if he’s back up walkin’ again?”
“Not even close. Could be months, if he ever does again. The bloomin’ thing ripped a chunk out of his thigh, for Christ’s sake. Nasty business.”
“Chum in the water. These things, they come in threes, you know.”
“I… don’t actually? Is that a thing? Threes, you say? Anyway, it damn sure traumatized those kids. They’re never gonna wanna step foot on this beach ever again.”
Two middle-aged men peer anxiously over Bondi Beach in Sydney, Australia. They’re holed up in a small, weather-beaten shack (an office of sorts), seeking refuge from the scorching July sun. Through a large window, they gaze out at the pristine sand and crystal clear waters, dotted with locals and tourists alike. One of the men, Johnny, rocks a short-sleeve button-up, open, sporting a faded floral pattern from years of use. And the other, Nick, dons a police uniform. And he doesn’t play dress up; he’s the real McCoy.
Johnny rolls a cigarette with trembling hands and lights it up, taking a nervous drag. He traces the shoreline with his eyes, peering through aviator shades.
In a flash, a woman, let’s call her Jessica, bursts into the room, breathless and wide-eyed. Her red, one-piece bathing suit reads ‘Lifeguard’ in white letters on the back. She frantically points through the window.
“Did you—did you see it?” she stammers, visibly shook.
“Yeah, yeah, heard about it plenty. The whole beach saw it. Investigated the scene; appears the bugger’s swam off,” answers Nick.
“The thing’s got a gnarly scar down its left flank,” says Johnny. “Billy saw it too. Won’t be hard to spot if it decides to grace us with another visit.”
Suddenly, a booming voice calls out from behind, demanding their attention: “HELLO. WHERE IS THE SHITTER?”
All three pivot in unison, only to be greeted by the sight of a short, cartoonishly muscled figure standing in the open doorway.
It’s STRONK! Godson, his skin a deep shade of pink from a full day of sun exposure. He appears almost entirely naked, except for the championship belt strategically wrapped around his waist, preserving his ‘most private of areas.’
“Excuse me?” Johnny asks, caught off guard by the man’s unexpected appearance.
Equally as taken aback, Nick the cop asks, “Are you lost, sir?”
“THE SHITTER. WHERE IS IT?” STRONK! repeats, unyielding in his demand. He doesn’t understand what’s so difficult to understand about his question.
“There’s public bathrooms further down the beach. There’s signage all around; you can’t miss it,” the woman says.
Godson scans the room, analyzing their expressions, if only subconsciously. “WHAT DO THE HUMANS FEAR… AND WHY?”
Johnny hesitates, cautious about sharing too much with a stranger/non-beach personnel. “There’s a vicious alpha predator in the water,” he admits. “Already attacked a local, left him in bad shape. So, we’re staying alert in case it returns.”
STRONK! points outside. “THAT WATER?”
The incredulous trio shares a look.
Nick replies, “Yes, where else?”
“WHAT DOES THE ALPHA PREDATOR WEIGH AND DOES IT KNOW ANY JOINT LOCKS?”
Again, they exchange puzzled glances, unsure of what this beefy guy is on about.
“I’m not sure,” Johnny answers, ashing his cigarette. “It’s a massive one, probably between three to four thousand pounds.”
STRONK!’s brain processes the numbers, calculating the simple Boolean expression of 4,000 > 300, satisfied with the challenge.
“STRONK! WILL HANDLE THE ALPHA PREDATOR,” he declares.
Ignoring their explanations that the shark is likely long gone and no human, regardless of their physical prowess, could stop it anyway, STRONK! storms out of the office.
“Does the heat have me hallucinating,” Johnny begins, “or was that interaction… extremely odd?”
—
A short while later, STRONK! returns from the briny deep, dripping wet, soaked from head to toe.
The door bursts open, and he walks inside the cramped, hot shack, with what looks like a baby seal slung over his shoulder.
Upon tossing the baby seal on the floor, the three people—Johnny, Nick the cop, and Jessica—immediately realize it’s not a baby seal, at all.
No, it’s really a rotund, fifty-year-old, unconscious man in a wetsuit.
“THE ALPHA PREDATOR HAS BEEN CRUSHED,” the King Stallion announces, amidst coughing up seawater.
Earlier, STRONK! dove into the ocean without hesitation, despite having never once stepped foot in a natural body of water before. Showers are the more efficient bathing mechanism. In light of this interesting Godson factoid, it’s unsurprising that he panicked for a half second upon realizing that water is different from air and he was rapidly sinking. Simply put, his gigantic, dense body (and, of course, big red) proved not to be very buoyant.
But if you think that stopped him, you haven’t been paying attention.
You don’t know your HOW World Champ from Bill down the street.
STRONK! sank to the ocean floor, and brother, he just started runnin’.
Checking under rocks, in and around coral reef, beneath jellyfish. He looked everywhere for the so-called alpha predator, assuming that he’d know it when he saw it, despite receiving limited information about its appearance. After all, an alpha predator of the land is not far removed from an alpha predator of the sea. It takes one to know one. The only question in his mind was, how upset will this fellow alpha predator be with him for encroaching on its territory, showing up unannounced?
Shelley Greene always talked about how, when you enter another crew’s hood, you gotta check-in first, or else something called ‘the ops’ would get you. And maybe that’s similar to this, kind of. Who knows? Shelley Greene spoke about a lot of things Shelley Greene had no business speaking about.
Once he ran out of air, STRONK! tried breathing water.
He knew it was wrong.
Even STRONK! Godson knows water ain’t for breathing.
But he tried it anyway. Because he has big, strong lungs, and drowning seems like a thing only tiny men do.
And so, as he slowly drowned himself in the Pacific Ocean less than two weeks before the biggest grudge match of his life, a match in which his HOW World Championship is up for grabs, against perhaps his biggest rival in the company, he continued to stalk about in search of the fabled alpha predator.
Along the way, he came across and fought some giant water bull-like thing with a lot of teeth for a fish meal (STRONK! prefers beef, obviously, but all that drowning and ocean-running made him peckish), blasted it in the nose with a right hand, and subsequently earned its undying respect.
STRONK! was happy to have made friends with the water bull (or whatever it was), thinking its body to be a very efficient and effective use of muscle tissue, essentially just a torso with a flapper on its rear, but realized that the fight and subsequent bonding experience served only to distract him from his primary mission:
Save the day.
Find and defeat the alpha predator of the sea.
Match relevance wise? Consider this all part of his hardcore training regiment in preparation for the Outback Brawl against Jace Parker “Bull Killer” Davidson.
However, what STRONK! ultimately determined to be the alpha predator of the sea, and what now lies in a heap on the floor of the office/shack, was actually a harmless nature photographer.
The poor man had been snorkeling around all afternoon, trying to catch a difficult shot of an elusive, endangered fish, when STRONK! walked up from behind and underneath, snatching a hold of him by the ankle.
The visual of the photographer being yanked under water, like something out of the movie JAWS, sent other beach goers running for safety.
“NOW,” STRONK begins, “WHERE IS THE SHITTER?”
“Who… are you?” Johnny asks.
Johnny checks on the photographer, turning him over to discover, to his shock and horror, that it’s someone he knows. In fact, Nick and Jessica both know him as well. He’s a respected member of the community; he frequents Bondi Beach often.
“Jesus! What did you do to Franklin?” Nick shouts.
“CRUSHED. STRONK! CRUSHED THE ALPHA PREDATOR OF THE SEA KNOWN AS FRANKLIN. FRANKLIN IS NOT FOUR THOUSAND POUNDS. FRANKLIN IS NOT EVEN … THREE THOUSAND POUNDS. THIS DISAPPOINTS STRONK!”
While tapping away on Franklin’s cheek, Johnny responds, “The shark! The shark was the alpha predator, mate! What did you think I was referring to? Are you some kind of moron?”
“Hey now, there’s no need to insult the man, John,” Jessica interjects. “He was just trying to help. For all we know he could be a bit… slow. Let’s ease up on the ableist language.”
“I’m sorry, but… c’mon!” he gestures down to the head now cradled in his lap. “Franklin wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“I… wouldn’t speak so soon.”
Those words come from Nick as he picks Franklin’s camera up off the floor. The screen on the back is turned on and displays a zoomed-in picture of a female’s bikini-clad butt. Nick’s brow furrows, curiosity overtaking him and prompting him to scroll through the remaining images.
He makes a very uncomfortable discovery.
Hundreds of pictures of beach-going butts.
Worse yet, some look, well, young. Borderline, at the very least.
“Oh, Franklin, no,” Johnny says, upon seeing one of the images, the camera held for his viewing by Nick.
He instantly lets Franklin’s head drop unceremoniously from its resting place on his outstretched thighs as he scrambles to his feet in disgust; it lands with a thunk on the linoleum floor. “Fucking pervert! What the hell, mate! What the goddamn hell! Yuck!”
“You should be ashamed of yourself!” screams Jessica at the still-unconscious Franklin.
She wants to walk over and kick him square in the junk, but Nick’s there, and Nick’s known to be as by-the-book, letter-of-the-law as they come. Realizing she doesn’t need or want an assault charge, she storms off.
Not only was she upset on behalf of the rest of Franklin’s victims, she found herself in his degenerate camera roll as well. She’s got an unmistakable tattoo on her left cheek.
“Well,” Nick says, “this whole thing took an unexpected turn.”
“Yes, it did,” Johnny concurs. He looks at STRONK, then at Nick. “What’re you gonna do about all this, mate?”
Nick shrugs. “I dunno what you’re talking about, John. Are you asking what I’m gonna do about this disgusting, voyeuristic piece-of-shit that stumbled his way in here just now—under his own volition—and abruptly fell over, whacking his head off the table?”
“Yeah.” Johnny smirks. “That.”
“I’m gonna haul him down to the station. We don’t need his kind on our beach.”
“THE SHITTER—” STRONK! demands, feeling painfully ignored, “NOW.”
Before Johnny can direct him to the bathroom (it’s the least he can do after STRONK! rid Bondi Beach of a serial pervert), a man enters the office, wearing a three-piece suit and fanning himself with a sun hat.
Michael Oliver Best.
“There you are, Mister Godson!” he exclaims, heaving a sigh of relief. “You can’t just go wandering off! You’ll give your Uncle Oliver a heart attack!”
“STRONK! IS SORRY. STRONK HAD TO—”
MOB cuts off STRONK!, points to Franklin, and then directs his question to Johnny and Nick, asking, “Can someone fill me in on what the hell went on here? Mister Godson, you best not have attacked this man!”
Nick slides past MOB after cuffing Franklin and aggressively hauling him to his feet, leading him out the door. “John Boy can give you the whole scoop. Suffice it to say, your Mister Godson’s a hero today.”
MOB projects a fiery, judgemental look at STRONK! “I want every stinking detail.”
—
“Mister Godson!” MOB shouts exasperatedly, as he leads STRONK! off the beach toward their rented SUV. “You went into the ocean to fight a fucking shark! You can’t swim! A shark could’ve—would’ve—killed you, ripped you limb from miserable limb! A riptide could’ve drug you out to the middle of the sea! Your risk tolerance—oh, Mister Godson—it’s too much, it’s too much. You don’t think before you act!”
They both strap in and MOB starts up the vehicle. Rather than pulling out of the parking lot immediately, they remain stationary, idling in place, with STRONK!’s manager shaking his head in disbelief and annoyance.
“You’re reckless, that’s what it is,” MOB says, “and you think nothing of how your actions may affect those around you. You could’ve died out there, and then—what? What happens to 97RED’s main event? What would the fans think? What would my brother think? You need to make better choices.”
MOB slugs the center of the steering wheel, sounding the horn. That hurt, he thinks, shaking the feeling back into his hand.
“And ALL THIS… ALL THIS after you tell me, somehow, someway… some inexplicable way… your new girlfriend, or fiancé, or whatever she is, is already (again, SOMEHOW!) pregnant with your child! These are not the actions of a soon-to-be family man, Mister Godson; these are the actions of a selfish, self-aggrandizing jerk.”
STRONK! doesn’t know what a lot of those words mean, so he just nods his head and agrees.
“UNCLE OLIVER IS RIGHT. STRONK! SHOULD NOT HAVE GONE INTO THE WATER. STRONK! CANNOT MOVE AS FAST IN THE WATER. ALSO STRONK!’S CARDIO IS NOT VERY GOOD IN THE WATER,” STRONK! says, before coughing up the last bit of seawater in his lungs.
MOB turns, looking earnestly at the King Stallion. “Will you just… trust me? Do as I say? Stay by my side? Together, we will not only survive the Outback Brawl, we will thrive in it!”
“YES.”
“But I need you to listen to me,” he says. “I need you to suppress whatever it is that’s inside of you that compels you to, well, case in point, dive into shark-infested waters without knowing how to swim and attack a nature photographer! Let’s not do those sorts of things, at least wait until after we get back to Chicago with the HOW World Championship still in our possession.”
“OKAY.”
“Good,” MOB says, finally pulling the car out of the parking lot, as they head back to their hotel. In a few days, they’ll need to make the trip from Sydney to Melbourne.
—
Even I, Abdullah Choi, didn’t expect to be back again!
But here we are!
Fuckin’ MOB stole my differentiating italics. That was mine first—I’m keeping that shit.
What’ve I been up to?
Maybe (or maybe not) giving JPD the jab that fixes what ails ya.
But mostly, just living a hedonistic lifestyle until all my monies run out. Which was, uhhhh… last Tuesday.
See, I’m Lord Shameless of Fuck Manor. I’m that, that, that naggin’ cold sore you don’t know whether it’s sexual ‘r not (hint: it is!). I’m that stain on your grandma’s bloomers.
We’re coming with the heavy artillery like we’re rollin’ through Baghdad.
I’m that crusty cum sock you thought you threw out but the wife finds me one day and she’s all, what!? You don’t want this puss no mo’? What!? It stink ‘r sumfin?
Shuddup, bitch, daddy’s cookin’ up some pho here! Got all the feeeeeeexins, too. Tripe and fish balls and noodles and whatev.
Okay, I’m high on molly and cocaine in an airport, ‘bout to board a bird to the ‘stralia.
Blew the last of my duckets on a flight.
Anyway!
I’m gonna… I’m gonna do something real FUCKED UP in Part III, probably.
Like, I don’t even know what I’m gonna do!
I’ve been taking pills and playing Russian roulette with a glock and my cock. Almost blew my dick off just a few days back. But that’s the kinda avant-garde death spiral befitting of a free spirit like Abdullah Choi!
Highest of highs; lowest of lows.
Why am I headed to the ‘stralia, you ask?
I’m up to no good. Thanks for ashin’.
Maybe I’ll shoot STRONK! dead in the face, Rochina style.
If only I could drive a motorbike and empty an extendo at the same time… I suck at multitasking.
Who knows!?
Typical me, rando as shit, bapa.
Just… I dunno… I’m kinda mad and spiteful and depressed right now…
In my Radioactive Man voice: ‘The lipstick-red Seconals do nothing!’
So I’m not sayin’ I desire to know what freshly flame-broiled human brains look like sizzling on some afternoon asphalt, because THAT WOULD BE REALLY CRAZY RIGHT?, but… I’m also not sayin’ I don’t, either.
The duality of Choi.
Plato can suck my skinny, worthless dick.
The wrestling biz got me all fucked up. I’m big-sad right now.
But I’ll make things right.
I gotta.
Gotta make shit right with someone.
I need food money and fuck a nine-to-five.
Or maybe I just, like, won’t? Like, maybe I say all this and then just fuck the hell off again. Depends if I can scrounge up some coin and how good the drug scene is in the ‘stralia—see, I get the party monster up in me, enjoying that salt life, and I might just sleep-walk through the next month!
I either stay clean long enough to shake things up, or I don’t.
I guess we’ll see.
Brownsville get up!