Dear Clay (not Steve)

Dear Clay (not Steve)

Posted on March 1, 2022 at 11:32 pm by Jatt Starr

 

Dear Mr. Clay Byrd,

 

I write you during my weekly calligraphy course so I apologize if you are unable to read all the words.  This is by no means a slight on your literacy.  Especially after hearing about you teaching that Pygmy Tribe to read and write during your time in the Congo whilst searching for the Lost Jade Phonograph of Machu Picchu.  

 

  I know.  Placing this letter on the windshield of your big old pickup truck.  At least, I hope it was your pickup.  It had Texas plates and lacked crude nudie ladies on the back windshield or Calvin urinating with a twisted grin on the mudflaps, so I assumed that I could eliminate Scott Stevens as the potential owner of this vehicle.   As a Texan, who is a bigger disgrace:  Scott Stevens, DeShaun Watson, or the Houston Astros?  Ha! 

 

And if the person reading this is NOT Clay Byrd.  Please refrain from reading any further and immediately find Clay Byrd.  Clay Byrd WILL reward you.  I cannot say what the extent of the reward.   It could be five dollars or, if you are a relatively attractive young lady with capital knockers, he might take you out.  

 

CLAY BYRD…..

 

It is my absolute pleasure to inform you that you are not related to Thaddius Byrd, the degenerate, tweaking, meth-addicted, skidmark, donkey fucking, shit eating, asslicking, asshole, shithead, fuckwit, cumstain, vile, ugly, bitchass, twat, fuckface asshole that shot my poor Gilda.

 

Using several strands of hair located in that hat that you allowed me to have, I had an ancestry and DNA reports done on you.   Don’t act so shocked, I have had DNA and ancestry reports done on many people in the HOW without their knowledge or consent.  Darin Zion, Brian BARE, you, Sutler Kael (by the way, NOT a blood relation to Max Kael), Brian Hollywood, David Noble, etc.

 

Now, onto more pressing matters.  

 

Fear not, as a gentleman, I shant be making any snide remarks of your resemblance to a certain Philadelphia hockey team’s mascot or any comments on squandered opportunities.  The truth is, I respect you too much to besmirch your good name.

 

Call it what you will – The universe, the gods, Kismet, irony, the ghost of Max Kael – As it turns out, Mario and myself are staring inevitable defeat in the face as we will be forced to face you and Steve Solex.  

 

I do not envy you.  Steve Solex is no gentleman.  A drunken, abusive clod.  He represents the toxic masculinity that Mario and myself stand against.  Misogyny, alcohol consumption, and poor choice of facial hair.  His moustache should be reserved for Canadian mounties and wannabe firemen.   It must be absolute hell dealing with such a rapscallion.

 

It does not matter, does it, Clay?

 

Whether it is Steve Solex or Big Boy Pat, Professor Keller, Stronk Goodbar, Chico, Chris CK, Barra, Splinter, Draven Stark, Carmen Jennings, Eric Dane, Antonio Giovanie, Paul Paras….you get the point….the result will be the same.

 

You could team up with a half-eaten chicken wing, the result would be the same.

 

A dominating victory over Mario Maurako and the Professor of Sparrowdynamics (Trademark Pending).

 

I know what you are capable of.

 

Bards would sing of your exploits if bards were still a thing.  

 

Wrestling the Loch Ness Monster and choking it out.   Taming two Great White Sharks and using them as water skis.  Discovering Atlantis and saving it from the giant alien squid named “Iramalac”.  Then, there was escape convict that you decapitated with a single clothesline, an epic clothesline lariat that was so fast, it also broke the speed of light.  Rescuing those children forced into labor after finding the Ark of the Covenant by defeating the Cult of Kali and bringing the Sankara Stone back to the local village.  Locating the Holy Grail.  The less said about your Crystal Skull of Akator adventure the better.  But, then there was that time when you killed sixteen Chekoslavakians during your stint as an interior decorator.

 

However, there was this rumor that your apartment looked like shit.

 

That reminds me, we cannot forget about the rumors….

 

That you can dribble a bowling ball.

 

Some kids pee their name in the snow, you pee your name in the concrete.

 

That when you do a push-up, you are pushing the Earth down.

 

That most people have 23 pairs of chromosomes but you have 72…all of which are lethal. 

 

The rumored affair with Marilyn Monroe’s cousin’s daughter’s hotter roommate.  

 

There’s hundreds of them out there.

 

I know what’s going to happen.   It has kept me up these last few nights.  I have broken out in cold sweats.  The fear and anxiety has been building at an alarming rate.  Speaking of rate, my heart has been pounding what feels like a hundred times a second.  The chest pain it is causing is most definitely real and most definitely concerning healthwise.  That feeling of impending doom, like you are sinking in quicksand, the more you struggle, the worse it gets.   The labored breathing, like an asthmatic kid forced to run laps in seventh grade gym class.  I feel like I could have a coronary before our match even begins.  Can it be that you are so powerful you can destroy me without even stepping foot in the ring with me?

 

Yes.  It is fact.  I know and accept this.  But it does not help with the anxiety.  

 

Clay, I beg of you….please let us survive this match.   In fact, should you decide to whack Mario in the back during the match thereby disqualifying you and your team and you lose no momentum or credibility in the eyes of the fans and Mike Best.

 

You don’t really need this match, do you?  You have the opportunity to end Mike Best’s career.  I know, it’s just another milestone for you.  Conquer Bigfoot one week, conquer Mike Best – The greatest wrestler and biggest douchenozzle in the history of the HOW and murderer of Max Kael.   Trust me, when you beat him, I will throw you a parade!  Have I mentioned how he mutilated my ex-wife by stabbing her in the eye while I was forced to watch?  Have you heard about the time that he bombed a medical clinic?   He’s the vilest of scumbags.  

 

You should prepare for your match against Mike.  You shouldn’t waste your time with the likes of me.  I have won one match since before “Rumble at the Rock” (ironically, when you hit Jace Parker Davidson with a chair, disqualifying you and Sektor).  Yes, my last victory was against Two Man Advantage, but that’s not saying much.   That is like winning the Indy 500 when all the other cars 1974 Pintos.

 

I lost to Bobbinette Carey!

 

Bobbinette Fucking Carey!

 

I cannot say that is the lowest point of my career, but it is pretty damn close.  I was disrespected by Darin Fucking Zion!  With you, he would probably have kept his mouth shut if you had a daughter in a coma, fighting for her life.  With me?  It’s a big fucking joke!  

 

Do you know when I am not in calligraphy class or training or watching videos in preparation for a match, I sit by Gilda’s bed and tell her stories.   They are stories of hope and perseverance.  I look at what awaits me and Mario at “Refueled” and there no come from behind victory.   There is no “Rudy” moment.  There is no “Rocky” moment.  There is no “Gymkata” moment.

 

Sitting on that uncomfortable ergonomically correct torture device called a chair next to her bed, over the monitors beep-beep-beep away and the pumping of her ventilator, I cannot tell her a story inspired by this upcoming match.  

 

“Once upon a time, there was a great giant who had all the talent in the world and he was forced to team with a drunken little troll in a tournament to win a chest full of gold and jewels..  His opponents were established knights with hearts that were pure and courage that burned like a thousand suns, Sir Simon of Sparrow and Sir Mario of Maurako.  Both esteemed gentlemen who believed in the women’s right to vote and fair wages and to battle the status quo of the patriarchy.   They fought for those that had no voice to speak, for they were philandering to the mute community – As it was common at the time, those that spoke out against the monarchy, namely King Michel le Deviant, would have their tongues cut out.    

 

On the day of the tournament, Sir Mario and Sir Simon stepped in the combat area, their swords drawn, ready to battle with honor.  Suddenly, the Giant brought his huge foot down and squished Sir Simon and Sir Mario as if they were ants at a picnic.  Once their remains were shoveled off the combat area, the Giant and the Drunken Little Troll that did nothing, were declared the victors.  The End.”

 

That is pretty fucking terrible, now isn’t it?  That would not inspire me to wake up from a coma.  It’s tragic!

 

And I haven’t the heart to tell Mario.  Currently, he is already ordering cases for the tag team championships!  He’s convinced we will end up as the Number One Contenders for the HOW Tag Team Championships and ultimately beat whomever becomes champion for them.   

 

Did you know he has called Michael Oliver Best’s office several times requesting that we be introduced as the soon-to-be current HOW Tag Team Champions?

 

I can’t tell him we’re screwed.  It would break his heart and maybe even his brain.

 

I know you do not owe us a damned thing and I know you may even think less of me for even daring to request this from you.  However, I would consider it a great favor to me if maybe you take my earlier request into consideration.  It would really be Aces of you.

 

My calligraphy teacher is giving me the stink eye, so I am just going to keep writing.  She has one of those shrill voices that pierces your eardrum and goes into your brain slowly causing insanity.  As long as everyone keeps writing, she won’t start talking.   Her name is Rebecca Specklewood.  Some of my classmates refer to her as “Becky Peckerwood”.  A little classless and uncouth.  She’s not in the biz.  Doesn’t feel right shitting on a civilian’s name.  Not that you really needed to know any of that.

 

Do call people outside of HOW civilians?  Regular People?  Civvies?  Normies?  Dumbasses?  Is it like “The Walking Dead”?  Do we all have different names for the civilians? 

 

And come to think of it, whatever happened to Gary Cooper?  The strong, silent type.  Are you of that mindset?  I am carrying on about my feelings on this match whereas others can just walk in with a glare and win a fucking match with a look.   

 

You are capable of that.  I, on the other hand, am not.

 

I fully expect you to reject my proposal.   But I promise you this, just because you are a modern day folk hero, do not think for one second that I will not come at you with everything I got.  Everyone is already expecting you to win.  I have my daughter to think about.  And maybe a miracle can happen.   Maybe Simon Sparrow and Mario Maurako eliminate you and Steve Solex.

 

Maybe I hit the Sparrow Express at the right time.  Maybe I put it all on the line.  Maybe I have to dive through the ropes for an advantage.   Maybe I have to resort to less-than-gentlemanly means to gain the upper hand.  Hair pulling, eye scratching, a kick to the groin.  I will pull out all the stops.  And even then, it would be a miracle if you or Solex get pinned 1-2-3.   

 

And if a miracle can happen inside that ring, then maybe a miracle can happen for my daughter.

 

I have to believe that a miracle can happen, Clay.  

 

Warmest Regards from Your Number One Fan,

 

Sir Simon Sparrow