It’s been three fucking weeks and not a single person has called to see if I was still breathing. No wellness check from the boss. No annoying text from Steve Harrison to remind me how much better he is at life. No Destiny 2 screenshot from Doozer. No nudie pics from LT, no matter how many times I try.
Oddly enough, the last time I asked LT for a dirty picture, she sent a picture of her garden, and no, that’s not a euphemism, it was literally a picture of her garden. She had just laid fresh mulch down… Now, I have to be very explicit in my requests, but vague enough that she doesn’t report me to HR, who is currently being run by a wonderful person, who reminds me of our dearly departed Max Shell.
Where was I?
The last time any one of you had seen me I was walking into the lion’s den, the office of one Michael Lee Best the Third. Some of you were probably wondering why, but the majority of you probably fast-forwarded to the decimation of Darin Matthews at the hands of Hughie Freeman.
There is no doubt that Mike has seen his share of successes in the High Octane ring. The man has won just about every title imaginable. Hell, I’m pretty sure he even donned a mask and beat himself at one point in time. That’s just the kind of guy he is. The kind of guy I used to be like.
Of course no one in the HOW family remembers those days, and I’m not here to reminisce, and tout former accolades. I’m simply explaining the thought behind my sudden visit to the Heir Apparent of GOD’s Kingdom. To say he was less than thrilled by my sudden arrival would be an understatement.
In the end the conversation was very one sided, like all of our conversations go. But weirdly enough, this time I was the one doing all the talking, as he just sat there with his fingers steepled together, and his chin resting on the top. His eyes boring into my soul as if he were judging every word I uttered.
When I was talked out, he simply reached into his pocket, procured a small business card, and said “If you’re serious… But ONLY if you’re serious!”
And with that I was shown the door, a new business card tucked into the back pocket of my levis, well the off brand Wal-Mart styled Levis. Lee doesn’t pay me enough for the name brands…
That was three weeks ago.
During this time I sat at home, in my very lonely two bedroom abode, drinking, and drinking, and drinking some more.
Have you ever heard of Tubthumping? You know, the song, by Chumbawamba?
Well, the last three weeks went a lot like that song.
I drank a Whiskey drink. I drank a Vodka drink.
I drank a Lager drink. I drank a Cider drink.
I thought of the good times. I thought of the best times.
When I was a child, my best friend in the whole wide world said MY song would forever be “Can’t Get No Satisfaction” by The Rolling Stones. I’m beginning to believe that my true song is Tubthumping… But the real question is, can I get back up again?
Flyer, I’m in a conundrum here my friend. I’m supposed to tear you down. Tell you how I’m going to rip you to shreds this weekend! How you don’t stand a chance against the likes of me. Mwahahaha.
But the truth is, I, fucking, suck!
The good news is, judging by your recent performances, you suck as well! Hey, that’s great! If I could, I’d insert a nice joyous GIF right here. Maybe of a nice Teddy Bear offering hugs? Followed by a GIF of a Teddy Bear ripping his face off, in horrific detail!
Why? Because as nice as it is to be slumming down here in the bottom of the barrel with the likes of you, I can’t help but look above and hope that maybe one day I can be at the top of the pyramid again.
Normally I’d be telling you not to think of me as your stepping stone, but here I am, wishing all the wishes I can, that you’ll be mine! First I’ll jump from you, then on to Darin Zion-Matthews. Then onto his Hollywood Sex Money Boiz partner in crime, Brian Hollywoodz. Then from him, I’ll jump onto Jatt Starr for some nice Starr-crossed lovers revenge.
From there I’m a little stuck. My fork in the road appears to have quite a few prongs. I could go for Conor Fuse. Or Lindsay Troy. Or Zeb Martin. Or Sektor even. All four provide their own pitfalls. Zeb being my good friend. LT being the temptress that she is. Sektor and I can argue over who should retire first.
I mean, so many paths up the side of the HOW Mountain. But you probably think, “Slow down, buddy. Don’t get too far ahead of yourself.” I haven’t beaten you yet, right!
I’ve got a secret.
Well, it’s more of a theory than a secret.
I think I may be stacking the odds in my favor here, my friend. You see, I theorize that if you use the name Mike Best enough in a promo you’ll win. Jiles, knows what I mean, considering the number of times he’s been dropping the “Lee” name around the last few days. Sheesh, for a guy who can’t stand the blind fuck, he sure has suckled at his teat quite a lot recently!
Am I right?
I’m probably shooting myself in the foot, you know, revealing the secrets every magician tries to keep hidden. There are rules that we know of, and then there are a certain number of rules that shall remain… (Pause for dramatic effect) Unspeakable. I have a feeling by pointing out my obvious ploy here that I am ruining my chances against you, and setting back my rise to fame, fortune and success!
The Unspeakable Rules of High Octane
1. Don’t be obvious in your ass kissing.
1a. GOD’s above, DON’T draw attention to it!!!
2. Don’t get into a pissing contest with Stoovins (you can’t win JPD, because the guy doesn’t know how to turn it off once you get him going! He pisses for weeks on end! I think he might have Diabetes! I know I do, and it causes me to urinate A LOT!)
3. Don’t Cameo anything for Zion-Matthews.
4. Don’t deliver food to Dooze, you’ll end up with a flat tire.
5. Don’t bet on Liverpool! For whatever reason!
6. Don’t say the “R” word! I’m surprised Uncle Jiles hasn’t clued his new protege about that rule. Boy, to be a fly on the wall of that side Discord!
7. Don’t beat a dead horse, Bobby! Lee hates it!
Boy, there sure are a lot of Rules!
After weeks on end of being idle, see also drunk out of your skull! Three weeks filled with misery, and vomit, and self pity. When, all of a sudden, one night I happen to reach into my pocket and pull forth a crumbled up business card. I suddenly remember the last conversation Mike and I had.
“When you’re ready…”
It’s no secret that we here at Six Time Academy have produced CHAMPIONS!
Not only that, but we’ve produced LEGENDS!
But to make it as a Champion, or to even approach the illusive Legend rank, you have to start as a CONTENDER!
So come on down to the Six Time Academy, home of the Best of the Best, the High Octane Hall of Famer, the current HOFC Champion, the former World Champion, former ICON Champion, former LSD Champion, and former Tag Team Champion… the Star Maker himself, Michael Lee Best*!
It’s no secret that if you want to succeed in this business you need to train. And here at the Six Time Academy we’ve got the best trainers imaginable. From Alex Beckman, to Gio Giordani. And Mike Best is even known to make an appearance!
So what are you waiting for? Come on down today and join the Best school you’ll ever find! Don’t believe me, just ask current World Champion Cancer Jiles!
Cancer Jiles**: What the fuck do you want? Six Time? What the fuck is a Six Time Acad… Yeah, yeah, they’re great. Now stop calling me!
Come join us today! We offer a variety of classes, 7 Days a Week! As Kneesus always says, “There is no day of rest for the Champion!” And with a modest fee, you’ll soon be on your way to being The Best!
(Paid for by the generous offerings of Colin!)
The television goes dark once the paid for advertisement concludes. The salesman that would put Miracle Man Steve Harrison to shame, simply sits behind his desk, offering that one smile all salesmen who are about to seal a deal smile, as Bobby Dean sits there staring at the massive banner hanging on the far wall.
The banner is, of course, of Mike Best. Smiling at the camera as he holds his arms out wide as if he were Kneesus himself. Adorned along the length of his arms, are title belt after title belt. Some from HOW itself, some from other feds not worth mentioning. But it’s obvious that the banner needed to be so big, just to cover the massive wingspan of gold belts.
Bobby Dean can’t tear his eyes away, as he reaches up and scratches at his blotchy unkempt beard. His clothes are stained, his musk overwhelming, as if he hasn’t showered in days.
“So what do you say? Feel like taking that first step to being a Legend?” the salesman offers, in an attempt to break the uncomfortable silence.
“Yeah, I think I am.” Bobby finally answers.
And with a quick flourish of the pen, Bobby’s name is signed, and a massive check is handed over. The salesman, having done his job, stands up and holds his hand out wide, towards the opening door.
“About time you stopped wasting everyone’s fucking time!” the voice of Mike Best calls out as he breezes into the room, grinning like he was looking at a massive 32oz. Porterhouse steak in front of him. “Now get your lazy ass up, and let’s get to work!”
* Side note, he was probably a former Television Champion as well, but Scottywood has been lax in keeping the Title Histories up to date.
** Was not a paid spokesperson. Just crank called him thirty eight times before he finally answered.