Honestly, fuck all of you.
This one is gonna feel good. Almost as good as feeling the weight of Ol’ Red over my shoulder again. Almost as good as hearing Scott Stevens’ hand hit the mat for the third time at the end of one of the hardest matches of my career. Almost as good as knowing that I’m about to main event HOW’s premiere pay-per-view against my best friend in the known universe. Almost as good, because I’m about to get a lot of shit off my chest that has really, really been weighing me down the last couple of months.
Take this one personally.
Because it’s fucking personal.
Everyone is batting their little eyelashes and looking around like “Who, me?” for the last couple of weeks, as I aimed an AK-47 back into that locker room and spit bullets at the roster. As I’ve rattled off about the bullshit whispers of glad-handing yes men who tell me how much they love everything about me, as long as I’m in earshot. But let me just go ahead and blow up your spots now and forever, because the truth is that every motherfucker in the world that I can trust is already wearing a shirt that says THE PRIDE on the front of it, and the rest of you are so full of shit that we oughta turn the logo 97 Brown. Where do we even start?
Oh yeah, Conor Fuse is salty about Rumble at the Rock.
Shock. A guy who shook my hand and told me he was ready to go to war, but as soon as I turned my back started crying about taking the L. Newsflash, folks, I’m gonna be handing out L’s like M, N, O and P are on backorder until further notice, so I’d rub a little Johnson and Johnson into those big doe eyes until there are No More Tears. How do I know Conor is salty? How do I know that Jace Parker Davidson has been pitching fits about my spot in HOW? How do I know that for a solar based deity, the now retired Rah is a bit of a cunt when it comes to the Son? It’s because like I said, none of you motherfuckers can be trusted as far as I can throw Bobbinette Carey on Thanksgiving night.
The number of text messages I get on a daily basis from a locker room full of snitches who talk just as much shit as the people they’re snitching on would astound you. Your secrets aren’t safe. You’d may as well start shooting your shot in private, so I’ll at least respect you– it’s fucking arduous to keep pretending that we like eachother. You don’t have to like me and I don’t have to like you, but I wanna be real clear about something right up front:
I’m not going anywhere.
On spite alone, I’m not going anywhere. I’m the ten time HOW World Champion, and I intend to hold on to this belt for the rest of my career. If I don’t? Guess what, I’ll be the eleven time champion. And then the twelve, and the thirteen, and the goddamned ninety seven time champion, because I will keep coming back like Jason Vorhees with Hepatitis B and short term memory loss. You want this title, then take it from me and then hide it in a fucking cave next to the Arc of the Covenant, because I’ll come back for it. Bury it in a hole in your backyard and hide a dead rabbit on top of it so that I can’t sniff it out. Melt it down into a plate of hard candies and suck them down one by one so that I have to gut you like a fish to piece it back together, because I will keep coming back for that HOW World Championship again, and again, and again, and AGAIN. You know why?
Because I can.
Because I don’t like you motherfuckers.
Because you’re all a bunch of B cups complaining that the nipples on my big ass titties are blocking out the sun and leaving you in the shade. I fucking hate all of you– that’s the real reason I left the World Title division in the first place. I wanted to do HOFC, where I could say all the mean shit I wanted without getting fired, because ever since I hurt Darin Zion’s feelings a little too hard in a tag match back in 2015, I know the length of my leash when HOFC isn’t on the marquee. I was bored of coming up with new ways to not just say “Oh wow, you guys are fucking trash” every week because that’s bad business. But guess what?
I got fucking bored of HOFC too.
But then, a glimmer of hope.
I was stoked as fuck to take on Conor Fuse at Rumble at the Rock. It was something new. Something different. Two guys, some mutual respect, and a hell of a wrestling match. That’s all I wanted. It was nice to not just spend six weeks dunking on a dude and then punching his ticket. It was refreshing to shake a man’s hand and realize that we were both in it for the love of the game. But then, Conor turned out to be another salty little bitch in the HOW telephone game, so now Lion Daddy is back to square one and it’s time to hand out the paddlings.
God, fuck you guys so much.
All I ever hear about is how selfish I am. How my shit always looks the best, and I always have the good commercials. How all I ever do is go into business for myself. You fucking think? When is the last time one of you ungrateful motherfuckers so much as said thank you? Did you thank anyone for the cool ass videos at Rumble at the Rock? Did you thank anyone the last time you made another ridiculous demand of the front office for new fucking ring gear? Do you thank the company for keeping the lights on every month, while it begs for people to help out backstage and everyone sits on their thumbs waiting for someone else to do it?
And you’re goddamned right I go into business for myself.
Who the fuck else is going into business for me? You troglodyte douchebags can’t so much as choke out half a sentence about whether or not I’m talented without throwing that asterisk in that I’m “LEE BEST’S SEED” like it’s some kind of scarlet letter. I haven’t run away from a fight in half a decade, but every other word I hear is about how I’m a coward. I went twelve and fucking oh in HOFC only to hear people tell me that I was a failure. Who the fuck else is going to go into business for me but me? Fuck you, fuck your attitudes, and fuck whatever you think is fair. I’ll keep putting my face on all the commercials– maybe we’ll run nineteen ad spots of my big naked ass this week, just because I run a team that knows how to use Photoshop and After Effects and you don’t. I’ll keep having the coolest gear in the company, because I run a team that makes t-shirts, and you don’t. I’ll keep being the very best in HOW and being unashamed of it, because I am.
And you’re not.
All you whiny little cunts ever contribute is complaints, and I’ve decided to stop mitigating the damage. I’ve decided to stop talking management out of shutting this place down every time twenty four hour rule has to go into effect for one of you. I’ve decided to stop being a “locker room leader”. I’ll watch this place burn to the ground and then drag my father out of his hospital bed to let him piss on the ashes before I go to bat for one of you chronic complainers ever again. I’m here to win matches, win titles, win wrestler of the month and wrestler of the year. I’m here to get shit done and do my job better than anyone else. And if you aren’t?
Then get the fuck out.
Go to Defiance. Go to the secret warehouse where OCW is still running shows and catch Mario talking shit about me where he thinks he can’t see it. Go reactivate your Twitter account and join the sea of two million guys who all look like the same handsome Samoan man tweeting “ACKNOWLEDGE ME”, and find your destiny elsewhere. Because the shy starve here, and if you’re busier complaining than you are hustling, you don’t belong here.
You won’t survive.
The fuck are you even complaining about? Did you have a six inch cunt carved into your body two weeks ago after being drop kicked through rusted rebar? Do you still have an open wound that is spotting like the ninth day of a period, and inch thick bandages wrapped around your torso? Are you, despite those injuries, still getting into a wrestling ring this week and defending a championship, without protest?
Then shut the fuck up.
A member of the Kael family quit because he didn’t like the way the office was booking the shows. That’s the kind of pussy shit we’re dealing with in 2021. Jace Parker Davidson is a midcarder. What kind of pussy shit is this? People used to fear the Kaels. People used to respect the Davidsons. And everyone likes to talk their shit in secret, but nobody wants to step up.
Nobody but Scottywood.
I’ll give it to Woodson, the Little Engine That Couldn’t has bigger balls than the rest of this roster combined. He’s got three strikeouts and a walk at the plate against the Son of God, but at least he’s still swinging. At least he isn’t afraid to shoot his shot. At least he hasn’t taken his glove and gone home. That’s where we’re at these days— the only people willing to fight me are the ones you all make fun of. The Zions, the Deans, the Stevens’. The motherfucking Scottywoods. They’re also the only people around here not named Farthington who show me the fucking respect that I deserve. Who acknowledge what I contribute to this company. Who know the score, and act accordingly.
So you know what?
Fuck yeah, Scotty. Let’s fight this one out.
I’m not gonna dunk on you. I’m not gonna disrespect you. Let’s fucking go. Let’s ante up and go to war, motherfucker, because I respect a guy who talks his shit up front. I respect a guy who wants to fight me at my own game. I respect a guy who isn’t just gonna cut the ninetieth promo about how I’ve never earned shit, ten minutes before I beat the fuck out of them and watch them bury themselves.
I respect Scottywood.
I said it.
This motherfucker just gave up his entire stake in HOW for one more shot at the champ. Instead of quitting when his contract ran out, he negotiated another shot at the top. That’s a fucking man. That’s a championship mentality. He’d rather own this fucking belt around my waist than ten percent of the company it belongs to, becauze he’s an OG who understands what it means to be High Octane. Is he a silly little bitch sometimes? Fuck yeah. Do I love to dunk on Scotty for the questionable fashion choices, and the silly drunken moments? Fuck yeah. Do I absolutely hate everything about him as a human being, and wish that some other transient drifter trucker had won the 50/50 raffle for the rights to inseminate his mother at the local barn dance? ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY. But are we going to tear the roof off the building this week in the main event, and show you pieces of trash what a World Championship match is meant to look like?
Fuck yeah we are.
Bring me the Scottys. Bring me the Zions and the Stevens’, and let me show you who the fuck belongs in the main event. Who goes harder every time they get out there, no matter what they think the odds are. Who don’t have a piece of shit attitude every time they take a loss in a business that only nets one winner a match. I legally own Scott Stevens’ son and if I challenged him to a match tomorrow and let him come back to wrestling, he’d say yes with no questions asked. Zion would take a match with me, no questions asked. And Scotty?
Well, Scotty literally asked for this.
Whatever you wanna do this week, Scotty, let’s do it. If you wanna make it No DQ, I’m here for it. If you wanna make it a Scotland Yard Street Fight, I’m here for it. Shit, bring back the Battledome, I don’t give a fuck. You’re getting this title shot, not just because the office booked it, but because I’m willing to show up. Because *I* have deemed you worthy. Let’s go out there and burn the motherfucker to the ground and may the best man win, because I fucking respect you, and I’m not showing up for anybody with a pisspoor attitude anymore. I’ll take a countout. I’ll take a DQ, whatever. I haven’t been pinned or submitted in like five years, I have nothing left to prove. I’m only fighting the people I deem worthy of a fight from now on, and this week it’s Scottywood. I’d take one of him over a thousand of you. Cause let me let you dickheads in on a secret— I wasn’t afraid to fight Clay Byrd for the World Title.
I just didn’t wanna give you what you wanted.
I didn’t pick Farthington because it’s going to be an easy match. I didn’t pick him because he’s my friend. I didn’t pick him because it was the easy way out. I picked him because I wanted to hear you cry about it. Because I know those phones lit up like Christmas when Clay’s arm split like Sutler Kael after a No Contest. I HOPE you hate the Gentlemen’s Games. I HOPE you’re waiting in agony for the ICONIC main event is over. I HOPE you find it disappointing. Because it’s not FOR you, it’s for me. It’s for Cecilworth. It’s for Lee Motherfucker Best, who will be sitting in purgatory watching matches on HIS pay-per-view, and they’re gonna be the matches HE wants to see. You think anyone wanted to watch Prospector Pete get knocked out for a third time? Nah, fuck that and fuck you.
Clay Byrd is a man of the people
The people no longer interest me.
Because I used to care how much heat I had. I used to care whether or not people liked what I did. I used to care just as much about popularity contests as wrestling contests, to the point that it was becoming a detriment to my actual career. I took two matches against the Hardcore Artists before a World Title shot because I cared what people thought about me. And somehow? Somehow, you took the most needy, insecure, “please like me” motherfucker on the planet, and you just… flipped that switch off.
I don’t care anymore.
I don’t care if you like me. I don’t care if you find what I do entertaining. I don’t care if I’m “over” with the boys. And you know what? It’s the most freeing feeling in the fucking world. Go ahead and talk shit behind my back. Go ahead and say the blogs are lame and you don’t get them. Go ahead and say that my Daddy gives me everything. Lean into THE PERCEPTION. I love HOW, I love this business, and I love what I do. I love wrestling. I love winning titles. I love having my name in lights and seeing my name in the marquee. And guess what? I’m not sick of it yet. I’m not satisfied. I’m gonna keep running roughshod over you motherfuckers until it’s me and three cockroaches main eventing HOW in fatal four way matches, because I can. I’ve been eating for twelve years and you think I’d be full by now, but fuck you, I’m licking the plate and going back for seconds. I don’t give a fuck if you get food in your mouths. I don’t give a fuck if you want a turn. This place is a buffet and I’m eating until I look like three Careys stacked in a trench coat, trying to sneak back in for thirds.
If you don’t like me, then fear me.
Fear for your spots. Fear for your titles. Fear for your main events, because I’m still hungry.
I’m fucking starving.