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Who is Warrick Hill?
I suppose this is the spot where I, Mr. Somewhat Reliable Narrator, ramble incoherently for hours on end giving you a way too complicated backstory on an aging wrestler who is brand new to the HOW fan base.
Yea, let’s not do that.
Warrick claims to be 31. I say claims because, well, he could be as old as 38. But, we’ll roll with 31.
He attended college at Florida State on a football scholarship. That’s where he met his best and only friend, Derek Mobley. Their stint at FSU lasted less than two full semesters. A dorm room incident involving a Jacuzzi too heavy for the floor beneath it tossed them on super-secret probation.
Fuck, this is already going longer than anticipated.
Due to Warrick’s immense on-field talent and FSU’s win at all costs modus operandi, Warrick and Derek (a walk on placed at Warrick’s side to keep him somewhat inline) were placed under the ward of FSU alum and big-time booster, Dean. The relationship would not last, sending Warrick and Derek running from Tallahassee authorities over a myriad of crimes.
While on the run Warrick wound up in Colombia selling drugs. He constructed a giant dildo as an arm for a friend named Dustii Spaydz. He returned to the US and befriended a mime in Vegas…named Le Mime. And, well, eventually had to face the music for the mess he, Derek, and their ragtag group of misguided individuals created.
Warrick took the fall for the crimes. Because, you see, while Warrick is, technically a bad guy…he isn’t necessarily a bad guy. Got me?
This landed Warrick in jail. A place he was strangely comfortable. Not because he enjoyed having things slammed up his ass…but because it was a place with people who shared his views on society.
His term ran shorter than the sentence intended. A rich smoke-show of a blonde used her reach to attain Warrick’s release, hoping he’d provide the muscle she needed to get things done. Warrick wound up falling for this woman only to find out she was an evil bitch who may or may not have been the product of several reincarnations.
With Derek back alongside, Warrick vanquished the woman, breaking free from all chains.
Now this…this is where Professional Wrestling comes into play. Warrick and Derek needed to earn a living. They had no real skills. Their only weapons were size and athleticism…and, well, I guess each other.
This landed them in numerous federations. It never took long for success to find the duo. Derek more so than Warrick. For as much talent as Warrick had, his lack of attention, dedication, and drive always landed him in the mid-card.
But, he didn’t care, so long as he could earn enough money to keep his belly full of alcohol, narcotics, and fast food.
Eventually, the inevitable occurred. Derek retired from the world of professional wrestling, choosing to pursue alternative means of income. This left Warrick alone.
Being the chill guy Warrick is, he decided a transient lifestyle wouldn’t be so bad. His charm and ability to strong-arm 95% of people walking the face of the Earth meant he could always work a meal out of someone.
So, he dropped off the map.
Derek, knowing Warrick’s plight, offered his suddenly empty spot within that other promotion for Warrick to take. It was a deal he’d worked out with the promoter, ensuring Warrick would always have the means to live. With Warrick unreachable and a promoter anxious to fill a spot, a bumbling detective by the name of Jack Puffer was wedged into Warrick’s spot, temporarily.
Puffer’s job – find Warrick and bring him back, into Derek’s former spot.
Now, Warrick does not like being told what to do. He doesn’t like being given things…unless he’s asked for them. So, once news of this arrangement found Mr. Hill, he decided to go from scarce to super-scarce.
A life of invisibility increased the difficulty of living that desired homeless lifestyle. Warrick suffered through many hungry and, worse off, sober nights. A feeling of helplessness and uncertainty crippled the man’s senses. He began to rethink the path he’d chosen.
Familiarity in the form of a question lingered over his flea-infested, dirty, curly blonde hair, “Should I return to pro wrestling?”
I mean, it’s not the most ludicrous idea. In fact, it’s probably the most sensible. He already had a spot in the main event waiting from him in this other promotion.
All signs pointed toward taking it. Maybe even allowing this hideous detective to solve something, for a change.
But, Warrick isn’t that kinda guy. As previously stated, he doesn’t like being handed shit unless he’s asked for it. He also hates admitting defeat.
So, he picked up some nerd’s cellphone…a wrestling fan wearing some sort of homemade wrestling shirt and went to Twitter. He’d heard that neo wrestling fans frequented Twitter for their news.
He found HOW. High Octane Wrestling.
It sounded familiar.
Probably because he’d done a stint in HOW many years earlier.
A stint he’d long since forgotten.
Couple of showers later, Warrick made a few phone calls and boom…he was back on the scene.
This brings us to today. A few weeks after his shocking appearance at Iconic. There’s no real need in explaining why Warrick did what he did at Iconic. You can get that explanation, in detail on the HOW news board.
What we’re here to discuss is Warrick’s actual return to pro wrestling. The in-ring shit. You see, in HOW, the powers that be don’t fuck around. Warrick has been thrown directly into the pit. He’s tasked with facing a man who’s much larger in his own mind than he is in actuality. Warrick is squared up with the favorite to win the C Group – Max Kael.
Warrick’s task looms even larger when a person considers the notion he’s never had to plan for or size up an opponent on his own. That was always Derek’s job.
Not to mention he’s still attempting to avoid this fucking detective. If his status in HOW is found out, he might lose that spot in the other promotion. And, while he has chosen HOW, a fallback option is far from a negative.
So, with all that bullshit out of the way…went longer than anticipated. Sorry, not sorry. Let’s check in on Mr. Hill to find out how his preparations are proceeding.
Staring at the vibrant screen belonging to a brand new cell phone, Warrick does his best to type a message into a Twitter DM.
-Send $30 if you want to talk to me-
“Whew,” he wipes imaginary sweat from his forehead, relieved he managed to get that message sent without autocorrect fucking him. “I really hate these things.”
It buzzes. Thirty American bucks have found their way into Warrick’s PayPal account. A true miracle when one considers it took him nearly a week to set the fucking thing up.
-Alright, money received. So, tell me about…-
Warrick is interrupted by an incoming message.
-When did you get into wrestling?-
Warrick frowns and finishes his initial message.
-So, tell me about Max Kael-
“I swear to Buddha or whatever the fuck…this shit had better work otherwise I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do.”
Dressed in quasi incognito gear, Hill looks to his left, then to his right. His whereabouts are outside a fairly recently built strip mall. It contains all the recognizable chains. The anchor tenant is Target.
His phone buzzes.
-Oh, well, umm, I thought I was going to get to ask you some questions…-
Warrick curses and angrily presses words into his phone.
-Yea, chill out dude. We’ll get to that shut later. But first, help me out with this Max guy. If I win I’ll, like, dedicate it to you or something-
Warrick chuckles at his lie…until he reads the word ‘shut’. “Mother fucker!” Outsmarted by the cell phone yet again, Warrick feels a strong urge to chuck it into the ether.
-Oh, wow, cool! So, like, he’s in the eMpire-
“The what?! Empire? The fuck?”
-What is that, some kind of Star Wars shit?-
-No, no, so many people make that joke! Don’t make that mistake, Mr. Hill. It’s the strongest stable in pro wrestling at the moment-
Warrick leans against the stucco façade belonging to the strip mall. An elongated bout with technology awaits.
Several minutes later, he enters the treacherous realm of Target. The entire place induces an impromptu bout with nausea. He fucking hates shopping.
It takes him longer than it would any other person alive, but he manages to locate the aisle containing toys.
-Okay, I’m in the toy aisle and I feel really fucking creepy. So, what the fuck am I looking for?-
-A robot, preferably one that can be put together-
Warrick rolls his eyes. “I’m fighting a fucking robot? The shit kinda fed is this?” He peruses the toy section, looking for a robot. Unfortunately, he’s managed to stumble into an aisle with toys for a younger demographic. And, well, due to his limited shopping experience, he’s unaware that other aisles of toys exist.
-Because, you need something that you can put together. Like Max. His body has been sutured together over the years-
Warrick isn’t really sure what the word suture means but the modicum of common sense he possesses tells him it probably relates to the time he watched a Colombian doctor attach a giant dildo to the stump belonging to his friend, Dustii Spaydz.
He looks. He browses. His frustration mounts. Finally, he spots Mr. Potato Head. It’s the last one.
“Fuck it, this shit will have to do.” He reaches for it, snaring the toy away just before a mother in her twenties could procure it. Warrick, unaware, does a little fist pump, happy that he’s, in some way, located a toy that might help in studying Max Kael.
“Ahem,” the woman clears her throat.
Warrick turns. “Sorry lady, but I don’t fuck women with kids,” he says, eyeing the kid seated with its legs dangling out of the push end of the shopping cart.
“I promised my son that I’d get him a Mr. Potato Head if he was good today.”
“I seriously doubt that kid has been good all day.”
She folds her arms, “Well, that’s rude.”
“Truth hurts, lady.”
He turns to walk away. The mother, morphing into a lioness for her cub, is far from finished.
“What kind of a creep steals a toy from a kid, anyway?” The uptick in cadence informs her child that something is afoot. He begins to cry.
Warrick pauses like Marty McFly hearing the word chicken. He pirouettes and marches toward the woman. Her moment of bravery flutters. She tenses. Warrick gets in her face.
“Listen, it’s not my fault you can’t keep your fucking legs shut long enough to prevent birthing some little brat you have to bribe with shitty toys to make behave.”
He towers over the diminutive, lithe female. She quivers, her voice shakes, but she manages to eke out, “I’ll call security.”
Without hesitation, Warrick’s right hand reaches out and snatches the woman by the neck. He leans in, bends over, and looks her in the eye. There’s a wild, untamed spirit embedded within his stare.
“You try me.”
He releases his grip and stands upright. Her head lowers…she turns, putting her arms around her suddenly silent child. Warrick tilts his neck to the right, cracking it, “Hey, look, your child shut its mouth. You can thank me later.”
And with that, he exits with his Mr. Potato Head.
The day grows late. Most days flow fairly freely for Mr. Hill. He spends them doing whatever he wants whenever he wants. However, on this arduous day, he’s toiled away trading DM’s with a strangely up-to-date, informed HOW fan.
He’s learned a lot about Mr. Kael. Probably not as much as he’s been told, but enough to get the gist of what he’s scheduled to face.
The darkened atmosphere portends some type of dramatic scene. Warrick kneels, alone, in the woods. He’s arranging some sort of structure via sticks, pine cones, pine needles…whatever the hell he can get his hands on. His phone buzzes repeatedly.
“Geezus dude, calm down.”
He stands, wiping his hands against each other. He bends over, locating his phone.
-Did you decide how you’re going to combat the eMpire-
-Yes. Why do you keep capitalizing the m? It’s really fucking weird…is it some type of hand seizure?-
-No, that’s the design. They all have an ‘M’ at the beginning of their…or, well, one of their names-
“How cute…sounds like some shit the Tri Delts would brag about just before getting wasted on trash can punch and dropping to their knees.”
The phone continues buzzing.
-What have you decided?-
-Send me more money and I’ll tell you-
Warrick slides the phone into his pocket. He looks down at the recently, crudely built structure. It seems to resemble a giant ‘M’.
“This lame-ass group is supposed to be the end-all, be-all of professional wrestling.” He folds his arms, shaking his head, “This industry has gone to shit.”
More money hits Warrick’s PayPal Account.
“Sweet, I’m going to drink the good stuff tonight.”
-Keep your fuckin dick in your pants. I’m going to join the group-
-Sure. I mean, they can’t really stop me, can they? I’ll just walk around saying I’m in the empire-
-But…you have to get their permission-
-Well, Max…for one. He’s very protective over who joins the group-
-Is that some kind of characteristic that comes with being a Frankenstein knockoff?-
-No, he just is. Like, there was talk of this one guy joining and he freaked out. Rumor has it he whined and complained…really didn’t want anybody else joining the group-
-Sounds kinda gay. What’s his deal…doesn’t he know increased numbers equal strength or did they leave out the mathematical portion of his used brain?-
-I don’t know, I’m merely telling you what the internet dirt sheets reported-
-They could use a guy like me. Four is a real stable…three is only, ya know, like a shitty indie band-
-Technically they have four…Mario Maurako is still a member, despite the fact that his heart maybe exploded-
Warrick laughs, “Maurako…now there’s a name I remember. Surprised it took this long for that roid head to die via heart combustion.”
-Look, I’m joining and that’s it-
-But you don’t have a name that starts with an M-
-So fucking what, I’ll just tell them to imagine the W is upside down-
-But you can’t!-
Warrick proceeds to ignore the whining wrestling fan. He unearths a flask from his pocket and douses the wooden M in alcohol. He stops short of emptying the container…saving a few sips to coat his increasingly dry throat and sober, rational thought process. He strikes a match against his five o’clock shadow and flicks it at the combustible M.
Hill’s face lights up. The fire dances within his eyes. He smiles, enjoying the savage warmth.
“A pyre, in the shape of an M. This should fucking do it.”
Warrick takes a photo of the image and sends it to the fan.
-Is that a flaming M?-
Warrick growls. The fan doesn’t seem to be getting the message.
-No, dipshit. It’s a pyre in the shape of an M. It’s how you get inducted into the group-
-Really? I haven’t heard of this before-
-Yes, really. It’s an initiation or whatever, trust me. I’m officially a member of the e…-
Warrick hesitates. He really doesn’t want to capitalize that M. He swallows a bit of thick saliva and does what he must to convince the super gullible fan.
The frame freezes.
I know what you’re probably asking…why would Warrick want to join a group of individuals he deems to be so…douchey?
The simple answer is he doesn’t. He’d rather join the cast of CATS…if that shit was still in production.
Fact is, once he found out new members joining the eMpire would trigger Max into a fit rivaling that of a teenage girl whose parents denied her tickets to a concert featuring the latest heartthrob made the opportunity way too enticing to resist.
So, he set out into the woods, set up this M shaped pyre, messaged his intentions to an overzealous fan, along with the photo, and waited for the fan to do what is in an internet fan’s nature. To report the news, make it public, knowing it would eventually reach the ear of Max Kael.
And, I might be betraying Warrick’s plan by going into full exposition mode. But, it most likely doesn’t matter. Max is a bitch. He’s a little bitch who gets triggered whenever his bubble is in danger of popping.
Is he talented? Sure.
Is he dangerous? I mean, yea.
Can he defeat Warrick? Meh, maybe.
But the man’s psyche is about as fragile as a virgin’s hymen on prom night. All this man has is professional wrestling. All he has is HOW. All he has is his past.
Sadly, the present has not been kind to Mr. Kael. He’s been riding the coattails of his two superiors…one with stroke and the other with belts.
And, no, the tag belts don’t count. We all know that was his far more talented friend throwing the guy a bone because he probably whined one too many times about how he feels overshadowed by his two ‘M’ buddies.
As great as the eMpire is, Max is holding them back. For as strong as this table has been, it should be stronger.
Why isn’t it, you ask?
He keeps cockblocking potential members. He knows two members equal a tag team…you need three to officially have a stable and, well, since a stable is so important to these guys, Max has to be kept around. A new member threatens his status within the eMpire.
A person with potential, with a future joining, might push Max further in line. Or, even worse, it might result in his expulsion.
He’d be all alone. Poor little Max Kael with nothing or nobody but himself to grasp at success. A fact that might not bother most, but one which terrifies a man whose better days are barely noticeable within HOW’s rear view mirror.
The eMpire is all Max has. The past is all Max has. And that, my friends, is sad.
A man, a competitor, a warrior…they don’t have to rely on friends. They are able to stand on their own two feet. That and only that is why Warrick will pull the ‘upset’ and smack around the vulnerable, insecure Max Kael.
The dude is already defeated. He’s too delusional to realize it…but, hey, that’s what Friday is for.
The scene reanimates.
Warrick’s Twitter explodes with news of his ‘joining’ the eMpire. He smiles.
“Wrestling fans are so fucking predictable.”
The fire is really gaining steam. His face sweats over the heat dominating the January cool. Mr. Potato Head stares at him, from the ground.
Hill drops to a knee, palming the toy. It’s been warped. One arm is from the box, another is a stick. One eye is from the box, the other looks to be a leaf acting as a shitty eye patch. There is no mouth. The legs are from the box.
“Hmm…” indecision strikes. “Was it the leg that was attached or the arm? Or was it both?” Warrick tries to remember which body parts were original and which weren’t. A lesson taught hours earlier by the fan…one in which he zoned out during, apparently. The realization hits that he’s wasting way too much time trying to recall the origination of Max Kael’s body.
“Fuck it, the fact it’s this mother fucking complicated is ridiculous.”
Warrick pulls a sharpie from his pocket and does his best to draw a pussy between the figure’s legs.
Once finished, he eyes his work, “Mouth for sucking dick and a pussy for taking dick. Perfect.”
He flippantly tosses the toy into the fire, watching it melt away within the flames.
A few minutes pass. He blows a snot rocket into the ground. “Alright, I guess I should head out of here before a gang of hillbillies and their little beta club show up for an attempted ass raping.”
He spins around and attempts to figure out how to exit the woods. He takes a guess and yells out, “To the bar!”