Alulu Brewing is located just outside downtown Chicago, it’s a hole in the wall kind of brewery, low key, relaxed. It’s the perfect spot to chill while I metally prepare for the uphill battle I’m faced with this week. Going up against Cecilworth Farthington… a man that neither Carey nor I have been able to figure out not just in the past few weeks, but ever. He’s probably the best wrestler ever in HOW. I mean Mike Best can run his little fucking mouth the best and get into every corner of your head. But Farthington, he’s the best wrestler, straight up without any games, he’ll wrestle circles around you. The only thing we have in our favor this week with him is the giant fucking anchor tied to him… Jace Parker Davidson.
I need a beer first before I dive into this one. I motion to the bartender and he brings me over another of the Straho Chaos… or Choas hazy double IPA. Apparently the owner doesn’t know or care to use spell check. But the name of the beer is fitting regardless for the return of Chaos and the ending of the fucking roman numeral Refueled shows. This isn’t ancient fucking times! No one wants to deciper fucking letter as numbers!
I take a sip of my beer as I just shake my head and get back to the man that is clinging to the teets of The Board. The man riding Mike Best’s dick so hard that even his future kids will have scoliosis. Please, ride a horse and save a Mike Best! Won’t someone please think about Mike Best! Dude pretends to be this big time badass, but Carey could have him wrapped around her finger with just the thought of some side boob… or side feet… yeah, that’s probably more realistic.
Then there is the team of Bergman and Zion. Now I’m sure Jace and Farthington are drooling over what they think is the soft easy target of Darin Zion. Chomping at the bit to tear him down like everyone else in HOW seems to love to do. I’m pretty sure it is the only hobby ninety-seven percent of the company has. But I’m excited about this tag team. This is what the division needs… real teams. Not two guys from a giant stable who will win the belt and freebird it around like a cheap whore at a college frat party. Where is Carey to ask the Tag Team Titles if it ever consented to being freebirded?
It was a cool idea back in the day… but it cheapens the fuck of the belts now. Whoever is bored and not booked in The Board that week will just defend them. Maybe Jace’s rug burn on his dick gets too bad and he gets someone to fill in for him instead of having to vacate them. They become an afterthought, they lose their value and it no longer seems special to “win” them.
So I’m not gonna shoot on ya Zion, not gonna dunk on you, I’m gonna be that Anti-NinetySeven percent of HOW and root for you and Bergman to be that top notch tag team that I think you guys can be. I mean you get in my way Sunday and I’ll Game Misconduct your asses all the way back to MVW, so maybe avoid that and help me and Carey take down our true common enemies.
The guys sitting around that tiny, little, micro circular board table, jerking each other’s egos off until they all come at the same time to believe they are truly the best in HOW. Just because yesterday you won a few… or even a lot of matches, doesn’t mean any of this shit is as automatic as you believe. You fuckers think you’re untouchable… well just wait until we knock you off that pedestal your fancy board table sits upon and fall into the Hell that The Hardcore Artist is going to raise.
Zion actually trash talked you already…
Really? For fuck sakes Zion, as always you know how to shoot yourself in the fucking foot. At this point you might as well be crowned the HOW Parapolegic Champion cause you got less limbs left than a stubborn diabetic. Don’t try to build an alliance with someone who could help take down Cecilworth Farthigngton… no, piss him the fuck off and see just how much of your blood he can spill on the fucking mat. Guess you wanna find out just how it feels to have barbed wire shredding your fucking juggular as I do you your biggest fucking favor and silence that shit digging voice of yours.
I would have thought that Bergman and the other guys over at MVW would have rubbed some kind common sense off on you. But I guess you just got a self-inflated false sense of confidence. Thought you could turn ino the fast lane, when you really need to stay in the slow vehicles lane so you don’t get fucking rammed from behind. Honestly have no idea what the fuck you said Zion, I’m sure it’s some recycled bullshit that is just gonna make me roll my fucking eyes and sigh at your pathetic fucking attmept at trash talk.
He said you need to love yourself more or some shit and said you were a shell of yourself.
Where is the fucking face palm emoji? Fucking eh Zion… here is one sentance to shut your dumbass down. To be a shell of yourself, means you used to have actually had to be someone… to actually have some talent. So thanks for that compliment, I wish I could say the same about you, but the only shell you got is the empty one that sits atop your neck. Gonna crack it open and find all the packing peanuts that got stuffed in there in place of ever having a fucking brain. Maybe ask Oz for one, sure he can find a fucking hamster and trasnplant that inside your fucking melon.
Fuck, guess I’m joining back up the the ninety-seven percent who fucking dunk on Zion. I need another fucking beer I think as I motion to the bartender until I hear the unmistakable voice of Bobbinette Carey behind me.
“This place is located down a damn murder alley Scooter!” Nearly shouts Carey across the small tap room with like five other people in it. I slowly turn around and see her holding a kendo stick in her hands.
“One, It’s not a murder alley… even for those who aren’t white, before you go there. Two, why do you have a kendo stick? Three, why are you bitching about a murder alley when you have a kendo stick? See how that works Carey, One, Two, Three?” I jab as Carey looks back at me a bit confused.
“Oh yeah, I just made that joke in my head the other day when you counted reasons for not driving all over as one, two and then four. But then I figured it’s not your fault, you’re usually knocked out when the referees count to three.” I chuckle as Carey raises the kendo stick as if it is going to scare me. I’m The Hardcore Artist… kendo stick shots are like being hit with a pool noodle.
“You’re an ass Scooter, you know that, right? A real firetrucking ass. And my counting was to see if you were sober enough to catch it! It was on purpose. We are actually on the same team this week, if you didn’t remember.” Snarks Carey at me while I just shake my head.
“Fourteen years an you are still asking that question? Plus we’re only on the same team if you don’t freak the fuck out about getting on that boat this week. Don’t worry, I’ll eventually toss you a life jacket when someone inevitably tosses you overboard.” I laugh before having another drink of my beer.
“That’s not even funny… not even a bit Scooter. If someone throws me overboard, I’m haunting your ass til the end of time if I drown.” Warns Carey as she finally starts to lower the kendo stick.
“Sit, calm down and have a fucking drink. They got a matcha seltzer here that I think you’ll like. It’s also good advice for Sunday, have some fucking drinks.”
“Wrestle drunk? That is your advice Scooter? I’m not some unprofessional degenerate.” She scoffs as she sits down setting her kendo stick next to her.
“First off… drunk is only based on your opinion of what the word means and how you feel. Second… what’s wrong with being an unprofessional degenerate? Has worked for me for fourteen years here. Being professional and whatever you are, hasn’t seemed to be doing much favors lately. So have a drink and let’s fucking do this shit. What’s the worst that can happen? It’s not like we have to actually be safe in the ring. It’d be pretty sweet even if we say accidently dropped Farthington on his head and broke his neck.” I smile as the thought paralyzing Farthington brings me great joy. The only downside is that he will own Zion for life in the HOW Paraplalegic Title hunt.
“See that extraness right there. We are professional wrestlers, you shouldn’t want to actually do legitimate permanent damage to people. I mean yeah busting somebody open is fun and everything, but doing actual damage to where they can’t wrestle again? I guess I have a conscience. But this is HOW and one of those could cost you dearly.” Says Carey, wrinkling her face.
“And the kendo stick, I saw it and I’m thinking about bedazzling it putting some ribbons on it, maybe giving it a little more pop.” Carey says in a giddy tone as she rambles on. I look at her confused and disturbed by her statement. The bartender brings her the matcha seltzer drink referred to by Scottywood.
“You do any of that girly fucking shit and I will stab you in both eyes… then find your protege daughter who you hate and stab her in both eyes. I’m the fucking Hardcore Artist, not the manager of a fucking Claire’s!” I shout back, fucking enraged she’s even consider this bullshit.
“I think I need a signature weapon. You have your barbed wire hockey stick..” She counters back as I wanna rip my no longer existent dress’s from my bald head.
“No… just fucking no… fucking eh, I’m just… I don’t know. Let Farthingtinnand his pet win, we all know that was always gonna be the outcome. I’m done, fucking done. See you at Chais Carey… hopefully, if you can get over a fear of water.” I nearly yell back as I throw some cash on the bar and make my way out into the so called murder alley.
“Scooter…” Cary tries to say back but I’m
Already out of the brewery and heading down the alley. We’re teaming… hopefully on Sunday, but after that… I have no fucking idea.