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John Sektor is a pussy.
What, too soon?
Alright, fine, put a pin in that. We’ll circle back later.
For now, let’s talk about that other mustachioed moron. You know the one, the Grand High Poo-Bah of HGH himself, Steve Solex.
Hi Steve!
It’s nice to finally make your acquaintance.
Now that you’re trying to figure out how words work, maybe next time some dumb fuck producer gives you a microphone you won’t open that fat mouth of yours and swallow one of those combat boots you like so much before you can figure out how to get to a point. Don’t get me wrong, I get what you were tryin’ so hard to do out there last week, but it’s gonna take a little bit more practice before you get all those marbles out of your mouth and maybe you can get through a sentence without stumbling and stuttering worse than a ‘74 Gremlin with a potato stuffed in the hind end.
Now, I feel like it’d be a missed opportunity if I didn’t take a moment right here at the start to ask you just exactly who in the fuck you think you might be? Seriously. You’ve got the nuts to walk into my interview time with your veins lookin’ all vascular and your teeny weeny peeny shriveling even further up inside your track-marked ass?
I mean, based on what?
The fuck have you ever done?
Not even just here, Steve, I mean like…
Anywhere.
Trading a few wins with Stoovins a decade ago in some feeder league isn’t the answer. Neither is treading water for the ensuing decade. Take a look back big shooter, how long’s it been since you’ve had a winning record? Or even a winning streak? Fuck’s sake, Solex, who was the last guy you even beat? I could probably find out, yanno. A quick google search and at the very most a fast-forward through a few old episodes of Refueled and I’m sure I could find out everything I’d ever want to know about what kind of a doofus you used to pretend to be, or a hardass, or whatever.
You know why I don’t?
It’s because you’re not worth the effort, Steve
You’re like your grandma’s gravy, bud.
Thick.
I know you were some kind of hot shit war hero, and you wanna know what?
I don’t give a fuck.
Not a single one.
I’m not an insurgent and you’re not G.I. Fuckass, coming to save the day with a bunch of blue lasers and awkward conversations about knowing and battles or whatever. You’re a never was loser that couldn’t hack it as a wrestler, you’ve been circling the drain of relevancy for at least twice as long as I have, and the only reason Lee Best gives you the left side of his ball bag to swing from is because it gave him a tingly feeling down there in the cockles when you beat up that broad in your big ol’ Grand Gesture. I can tell you this much too, Steve, if you don’t think that blind fuck isn’t planning on squeezing you dry until he can book that Joe Bergman return and cash in on the ass kicking you’re gonna take then, well, buddy ol’ pal, I’m afraid maybe you ought to stop injecting all them steroids directly into your eye sockets.
Clearly, It’s affecting your vision.
You’ve got balls, however small they may be due to a certain supplement that we all know you mainline like you’re spiking the fountain of youth directly into the bloodstream. The point is, I could almost admire the kind temerity that it takes to look down your nose at a guy like me, Solex. I say almost because it’s that kind of abject impudence that’s gonna get you dropped on your head and embarrassed. I’ll hit you so goddamned hard it’ll knock that stupid mustache sideways, dickhead, and when I’m done with ya I’m gonna send your roided up ass crawlin’ back to your Weird Uncle Lee as a message in blood for him and his yappy little yard dog, Sektor.
That message?
It’s time to be finished fucking with Eric Dane.
You’ve been to war, Steve, and I respect that. I know it takes a special kind of maniac to see the things that you’ve seen, to normalize the things that you’ve had to normalize. I can’t even imagine the kind of shit that rambles around inside of that thick skull of yours and I don’t envy you for it one little bit. However. What you need to familiarize yourself with now Steve is the idea that the kinds of things that you’ve done for your country, I’ve done for my own well-being and my own personal gain.
Think about what I’m telling you.
Prove to me, the world, and your blind bitch of a boss that you’re not as dumb as you look and understand that I’m being as serious as a heart attack right now. If you think just because you’re running with the likes of Sektor and the Starr and The Doozer that you can steamroll over me without a fight then you’re gonna get your self off on a Section 8 sooner than fucking later. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME? Look me in my fucking eyes, Steve, and know that inside of that squared circle I’m a goddamned Green Beret serial killer. I’m SEAL Team Six, Solex, and you’re just another schmuck with his tongue rammed up a guy’s ass that hasn’t done a goddamned thing for anybody besides himself in his entire miserable life.
I’m that incapacitating case of PTSD that you forgot about, Solex, and if you fuck with me or if you don’t take me seriously I’ll break your brain before I break your body, and I’ll send you back home to your mama in a fuckin’ bag.
Get it?
Good.
You’re dismissed, soldier.
The left side of my body is on fire.
Stalking through the series of unfortunate events that is the HOW backstage, the only thing I’m really sure of right now is that my arm isn’t dead, but it isn’t responding. Useless, it dangles beside me as I walk on down the hall.
I can’t tell if it’s the shoulder or the elbow, everything from my collar-bone down feels like a thousand hot nails tattooing a never ending sleeve all at the same time, all the way through the bone. It’s fucking excruciating. As usual, I can’t even get a strip of KT Tape down my arm from those asshole Best Arena trainer types. They won’t even look me in my eye, let alone give me even the most basic of medical attention until I stuff myself neatly back into Lee’s pocket.
Fine.
Fuck ‘em.
They got bills too, am I right?
Speaking of, I need to get a place up here.
In Chicago.
Local.
Driving back to New Orleans is gonna be a motherfucker with a broken… dislocated… I dunno transmogrified left arm. I’ll probably have to hang it out the window or something for at least half of the trip. It’s fuckin’ embarrassing.
The next day or two is gonna end up the kind of bullshit that could have been avoided had things just panned out a little better for me. I can’t let it get to me though. Don’t have the time to if I’m being honest. I gotta get home, get this arm situation figured out, and get my ass ready for Solex and whatever out of control bullshit that Blind Dog Lee has planned out for me next. It’s gonna be a rough few days, no doubt, and there isn’t even a light at the end of the tunnel.
After Solex, Sektor stands by ready to put an end to me.
As a group, the Best Alliance is growing by leaps and bounds.
Every act of violence that I’m going to put those two through before this is all over and done with flashes across my cortex simultaneously. Endorphins dump into my system and all of a sudden my arm didn’t hurt quite as much.
It isn’t broken after all.
That means I don’t have to miss any time.
They didn’t get the job done and now they’re gonna have to come at me one on one, right out in the open, and the only way any of them are gonna earn a shred of respect from me is if either of them stand there and bang with me like a fucking adult…
Like a man.
I can’t see it happening.
Knowing full well that my reprieve from pain would be temporary I jumped into action. I grabbed my shit and hit the bricks as soon as I could get to the Navigator in the parking lot. I was halfway home before the pain came back fully. My mind raced as I put miles underneath the truck. I needed to get this arm unfucked, and I knew I was in for another round of shit from Graysie if I had the shit luck to run into her.
If you haven’t been paying attention, that had been the story of my life for as long as I can remember. Truth be told I needed to have a long conversation with the kid anyway. I had a lawyer friend poke around into my contract and it turns out that everything that Angus had thrown at me and Scottywood had signed off on about MVW was one-hundred percent above board.
Don’t ask me how, obviously I don’t know.
Fuck, I need get a place up here. I’m not gonna have time to get back to New Orleans every week if I’ve got chaperone Graysie’s second trip through middle school while I’m trying not to get myself killed in Chicago or on Alcatraz.
I’m getting too old for this shit.
Where the fuck is Mel Gibson hiding these days?
Did I say you were dismissed?
I lied. Pay attention.
You remember when I said ol’ Johnny Sek was a pussy?
It’s not because he jumped me from behind. Who am I to fault a guy for taking advantage of an opportunity as it’s presented? It’s because he brought you and that other fuckwagon Jatt Starr out and the three of you dorks gave me a real nice shit kickin’. All and all I’d call that par for the course for this guy. A guy who as far as I can tell has never managed to make it through an entire day without a hive mind to tell him what to do.
It’s a pattern.
The Machine.
The Best Alliance.
Every other group that he ends up being the big secret third member of. I can’t even remember the rest of them. The fact is that he knows he can’t beat me like a man, so he’s gotta get his little stooges to help him get it done.
Ask me if I expect to beat Sektor at the Rock?
I don’t.
I expect the Best Alliance to get together and put on another “impressive display of force” at my expense. I figure it’s 50/50 odds on whether I make it off of that island standing on my own two feet, or drooling into a pool of my own fresh blood. So, that said, I’ve got a saying when it comes to situations like this.
Any port in a fuckin’ storm.
You all might get me in a rush, but before I go down I’m gonna take a few of you cocksuckers with me. I’m a cunthair away from putting Steve Solex in a hole in the ground, and then at Alcatraz it’s Sektor. Maybe I won’t get John, maybe Jatt and Dooz and The Minister and nine other guys can make sure that I don’t make it out of there alive.
I’m fine with that.
Do you want to know why?
Because what happens if I do get past Sektor?
What then?
That’s why Lee’s throwing you two masters of upper-lip grooming up against me so hard. He knows where the threats are. Any good Captain should have an intimate understanding of anyone and everything on his boat, right?
Even the outlaws?
Even the rats?
I’ll see you both soon, but Solex…
Understand.
I’m going to make an example out of you.
Maybe if you’re smart, you’ll learn something from it.
Probably you won’t.
More likely you’ll conveniently forget what happened the minute you wake up in the hospital. You’ll keep running your mouth, but you’ll start putting your sights on lower hanging fruit. I’ve ran through your type more times than I can count, Solex.
A man’s man.
A military man.
A family man.
A big muscle guy.
You’re a revolving door of low end stereotypes there big chief.
Do us both a favor and get to the bottom of it, otherwise I’ll cripple you for wasting my time.