- Event: Chaos 042
Pretty sure I’m in the right place this week. The walls are a boring beige colour, as if not to elicit an extreme emotion one way or the other. There are some motivational posters… but they kinda piss me off.
“IT ALWAYS SEEMS IMPOSSIBLE UNTIL IT’S DONE”
“BE THE REASON SOMEBODY SMILES TODAY”
“THE BEST VIEW COMES AFTER THE HARDEST CLIMB”
Seriously, these are doing the exact opposite they’re supposed to. It’s almost making me want to quit on the spot. Here ya go, Stronk, have at it. Your reign of terror continues. No need to be dethroned.
And yet my eyes can’t look away.
“GREAT CHANGE IS PRECEDED BY CHAOS”
At least I found something I can get Lee on his birthday.
This is painful. I haven’t felt agony such as this since the last time I listened to a Steve Harrison promo. GOD, where did he go?
Ohhhh, right. I ran him outta the company.
CHALK ‘EM UP.
And now, on Sunday, when it’s NFL season, Lee has booked one of the biggest potential matches in order to keep up with the NFL season. It’s a smart investment, I bring eyeballs to the screen unlike no other!
Inadvertently, I also have the chance to run someone else out of the company.
FOREVER.
And he is someone who makes me wanna flip the channel to whatever else is on. A horrible, miserable, dipshit of a World Champion. I hate him so much!
But as I sit here, twiddling my thumbs, I’m not so sure I want to banish him to the dark depths of hell or the amazing big breasted titty-invested fun of angel heaven. Perhaps I should mail this match in, take my two world title reigns with me and leave it as that. Most importantly, it evens out the score and brings our feud to the frequently-used-but-never-outdated rubber match.
I understand your confusion, dear reader. It’s like WTF happened between today and yesterday? sTrOnK replied to you. Granted he didn’t say much. Had one of his puppeteers do the speaking. This should give you additional ammo to go in there hot and bothered. Ample ammo to run apeshit and do your thing.
Listen, I have 3K worth of rambling to go through. I can’t promise I won’t get back to the anti-Godson mental state. If you didn’t realize by now, OG Conor Fuse is a hell of a hot mess and boy, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I love not knowing what end is up and what side of the bed Imma wake up on. That’s what wearing your heart on your sleeve means. It’s what carrying this company means. This mofo Conor spitting facts! It’s about being the lovable, most adorable fucking 97champion High Octane has ever seen.
And I want it back!
That much I DO know.
Now… I need to work through my thoughts and figure out the sTrOnK gOdSoN problem. There was a time I craved for a villain such as the powerlifter. I spent hours BEGGING Lee for a fight I could sink my teeth into. Someone who was on my level, maybe better, and wasn’t named Mike Best who comes and goes AS HE PLEASES. It’s true. He admitted it during HOFC.
Stronk is a whole different beast. He poses a crucial threat to Conor Fuse. Or else he wouldn’t be the champion. Or else I wouldn’t waste my breath. I can grandstand. I say he sucks. He pisses me off. He annoys me. I believe I am the better wrestler. In other words, it doesn’t mean he’s trailer trash. Many truths at once! An opponent on my level, someone I can connect with and we could do this cat and mouse game forever.
So why do you wanna kill him all over again, Conor?
Great question, Conor. I’m hoping to answer this soon. Hence why I’m here.
“Mr. Fuse?” The voice interrupts. It’s a light, warm, fluffy voice, that’s how I’m going to describe it. Where I went last week, the woman had a much lower, disgruntled tone. It was off putting, yet her hands were extremely on-putting, lol. Regardless, I’m already feeling most welcomed in this facility.
“Yes, yes that’s me,” I reply, uncrossing my legs and standing up in a jiffy. Realizing I’m the only one in the waiting room, it’s clear her comment from across the floor was alerting me to snap out of my trance, not as in a ‘Where’s Waldo’ search for yours truly.
“The doctor is ready for you now,” she smiles warmly and opens the door. I make my way through the lobby and into a narrow hallway.
“She’s at the end of this corridor,” the woman assures as I trail closely behind. I can’t stop looking at more motivational quotes nailed to the walls. Jesus Christ, this place is full of them. Remind me to send some of the lowly HOW saps here after they get bent outta shape from a loss. They should be leaving this building with the most amount of gusto in the world!
Until they lose to me. Then come straight back to these slogans.
“DIFFICULT ROADS LEAD TO BEAUTIFUL DESTINATIONS”
“IF YOU WANT SOMETHING YOU’VE NEVER HAD, YOU HAVE TO DO SOMETHING YOU’VE NEVER DONE”
“THE PAIN YOU FEEL TODAY, WILL BE THE STRENGTH YOU FEEL TOMORROW”
“DON’T EVEN BOTHER STRONK, YOU’RE FUCKING BURNT TOAST”
Okay, okay. I made the last one up.
— — — — —
Dear #97, The High Octane World Championship Belt,
It’s me, Conor. Did ya miss me? It’s been a while. Are you feeling cold on Stronk Godson’s shoulder? After all, there’s no way he can enjoy you like I did. Was it fun being dangled in front of Christopher America’s penis for a calendar year? I’d add more questions, but you haven’t been spread around like the village whore in your earlier days. Instead, you’ve been carefully plucked from a couple worthy competitors, making your availability that much more prestigious.
I want you back.
Let’s be honest, Stronk doesn’t know what to do with you. I don’t think he knows what to do with… anything. In a way, I feel bad.
“STRONK SMASH FUSE.” – an actual quote by Stronk Godson.
This is the best Stronk can come up with, cosplaying The Incredible Hulk. Yes, his sheer size and stalkiness alone projects him to be worthy of your delight but he is missing fundamental aspects regarding what makes you a world champion to begin with.
Pause. It’s not about Stronk. It’s you, my world title. I do miss you. Yesterday I said you’re a MacGuffin but let’s be honest, you’re the one who places a halo above my head. You are the only proof I need to show this industry. From HOW to PRIME to SHOOT to DEFIANCE to any other ALL CAPS federation or wrestling name, its possessor should be recognized as nearly untouchable. As the absolute best talent in the world. The person who holds you high, they can be everything in one. Funny, clever, witty, awesome, hilarious, trustworthy, responsible, resourceful, loyal, serious, threatening. Need I go on? A fucking laundry list of human qualities. If I hold you in my arms, I can be a complex mix of these, and dammit I already am.
We are the perfect match.
Holding you also means I have evidence while I shove your golden plates into my opponent’s face and say: You don’t measure up. I wag my dick harder. I stroke my ego further. I truly become the Locker Room Leader.
While Mike Fucking Best resides IN the same locker room.
See, you are the means to rewriting my greatest wrong, Rumble at the Rock 2021. Since my loss to Mike in Alcatraz, I have become a next level talent. Holding you for a 3rd time means I can walk into October, two years later, with the same belt and the same opportunity before me.
AND REWRITE THE NARRATIVE.
I have fixed myself. I am no longer that scared little boy. There are zero voices in my head that tell me I am not good enough. I have proven I’m worthy of seeing you for a 3rd time. For I have tossed video games to the side and thrown out the Conor Fuse aerial playbook. I am going to fight Stronk Godson to death. You may not think that’s smart. You could consider me off my rocker.
I rate it as brilliant.
Five fucking rounds of HOFC. Seven. Ten. Ninety-seven. It don’t matter. I am the real life incarnation of the Energizer Bunny with blonde hair and better looks. I am determined to beat Stronk at his own brawling game. Wanna know why?
BECAUSE I ALREADY FUCKING DID.
Sure, you weren’t in the room but dammit you’ve been caught up by now. You literally rest on the victim’s shoulders. I played by his rules, at his own game, and I came out in SPADES because I used my fists as CLUBS, stomped on his HEART and came out shinier than a DIAMOND.
Gonna do it on Sunday. You will be mine. And I will use you for good, I always have. I will command the CENTER of the High Octane universe. Hell, I’m willing to represent you further. SHOOT has a problem with us? Fuck ‘em. Anyone of those sandbagging nimrods couldn’t last a second here. Anyone else wanna play? I will become the face of the company. My beautiful mug will be pictured taming the next jaguar on HOW promotional material. I am everything your current holder thinks he is.
And then some.
It’s time to come home, World Championship. I have grown since we were last together. You deserve a great man and someone who knows their own self worth.
You are THE means to propel me to the top, even though I’m already at the top, waiting.
Sunday night, you can join me.
— — — — —
“In the past week have you…” she pauses as if to insinuate a list is coming. “Had thoughts of ending your life or hurting yourself?”
I give my head a shake in the “no” direction.
“Had concerns about your safety at home or in your relationships?”
Lol. Also a pretty easy no. It’s not like any of my relationships can hurt me when I have pushed them away. Safety in my home? Bitch, please. My home is the most vanilla space on the planet.
I lean forward and provide my answer with emphasis. “Strong no, ma’am.” Then lean back in my chair, cross my legs and lift my head. “Carry on.”
“Had trouble with your relationships and responsibilities such as home, work, school, social?”
Pfffft. It’s been a piece of cake recently. “Not one bit. I’m on cloud nine. Like Mario cloud nine but side note, I’m dropping that whole shtick so I gotta use normal people terminology now. It is working. I beat three others in a number one contendership match and then defeated the World Champion in a tag contest. I never win those!”
Suddenly, I snap back into reality and the chair I reside. Realizing she’s staring at me, trying to make sense of what I rambled on about. This is our first interaction with each other. Duh, Conor! She’s probably lost in your story.
“Uh-huh,” she merely replies and looks down at her notes for the next question.
“Had trouble with drinking or drug use?”
I give a roll of my eyes. “Imma stop you there, I’m as clean and sober as a whistle.”
Which actually might be a scary thought if you think about it. Conor Fuse channeling his inner Scottywood could be a sight to see.
Needless to say, I don’t think she took a liking to my last response. She simply says “uh-huh” for a second time and glances down to the last question on her sheet of paper.
“Had thoughts of harming or hurting others?”
“Uhhhh,” Damn. Caught off guard. “Define harm.”
Her eyes suggest I might have to tip-toe around this, I don’t want to be locked up or anything. At least not yet.
“Ma’am, sorry, I should explain. I’m a wrestler.” There. Done. Clarified. “Hurting people is kinda my life. It’s what keeps me drinking from the well.”
She scribbles down notes based on my explanation.
“I’ve never known a life not wanting to hurt anyone.” I don’t know why I continue on but my mouth just won’t close. “Take, for example, our World Champion. I’ve wanted to hurt him for an entire year, ever since I realized murdering that large, oversized muppet of a man was enjoyable.”
“You… murdered someone?” She inquires but remains relaxed.
“Atttttttttempted murder,” I reframe the conversation, raising my hands and waving her off in the process. What am I waving off? I haven’t a clue. “I didn’t want to do it. It wasn’t my plan. Nothing premeditated.”
I can feel my shoulders shrug.
“When I realized the repercussions of my behaviours I was stunned to say the least. It took me ninety-seven hours to realize it was the right thing to do and I can’t wait to do it once MOARRRRRR!”
She’s incredibly puzzled. “So you are planning to kill someone?”
“Only legally,” I explain. “Like you have to agree to a waiver. He knows what he’s signing up for.”
“Okay?”
Hmmph, I thought our discussion would be going a lot smoother by now. Either way, it’s nothing I can’t solve. Think of it like a wrestling match, Fuse. Your opponent has thrown you a few curveballs. Even though a curveball is a baseball reference, it’s kinda one of those general lines so you get what I mean.
Dude, I get what you mean. I’m you!
“Ma’am, it’s wrestling. Anything goes in wrestling. People murder as if it’s going outta style.” Using my arms again, I dismiss the notion this is anything to be concerned about. Meanwhile, she’s gone back to jotting down notes. A LOT of notes.
There’s a long drawn out period of silence. My new game plan is to wait until she speaks.
More writing. More scribbling. By God, is she writing a novel? Maybe she’s putting together the 3K I require for victory.
Finally, she lifts her eyes. “So to be clear that is a yes on ‘having thoughts of harming or hurting others’ in the past week?”
I tilt my head and decide there’s no holding back now. If this is gonna be an open, honest, HELPFUL relationship then dammit, I can’t hide facts.
“Absolutely. Ten fold. Almost every fucking minute.”
I think she’s putting this down verbatim.
— — — — —
Mr. sTrOnK gOdSoN (and ASSociates by proxy),
I’m glad you have nothing of substance to say to me. Because, in fact, there is nothing you should say. No amount of words in a specific order or lack thereof can live down the embarrassment at the soles of my feet one year ago. The bottomline is I humbled you. I made you work for this position you currently find yourself in.
You have me to thank for the title around your waist. I pushed you here, when last year I sobered you straight. You weren’t good enough then.
Ya certainly gotta be doing something right now. Even if I’m not a fan.
I’m a fan of that title, though. It’s meant to signify the best.
On Sunday, I am taking it from you.
However, I am considering… wondering… contemplating… examining… regarding… inspecting… observing… that maybe JUST MAYBE… perhaps… possibly… conceivably… by chance… mayhap… peradventure… or any other word that shows up in Thesaurus.com or Google that I may have missed…
I could spare your life.
Shocking, I know. Given my 4K ramble from yesterday.
Reality is: I can use an enemy like you. It wasn’t so long ago I was DYING to have a long-term, ongoing rivalry for the history of my existence. And the thing is… we aren’t soooo different, dude. Despite possessing significantly polar skills and brain capacity, we both made it to the top of High Octane when personalities such as ours are often overlooked. Almost ALWAYS overlooked.
For that, Stronk Godson, I won’t use the aLtErNaTiNg cApS. You do have my respect. As hard as it is for me to admit it.
After running your name through the mud twenty-four hours ago, I’ve realized I may have made a mistake. Not unlike me. I’ve been known before to never truly know what I want. It’s a tough world out there, Stronk. One decision can come with a butterfly effect FULL of possibilities or disappointments. And I have been disappointed FREQUENTLY.
It.
Fucking.
Sucks.
Sutler. Harrison. Jiles. Clay. A few of the names I had hoped to battle throughout my entire career, gone POOF.
You’re different. You are. You’re led by people who refuse to take no for an answer.
Make no mistake, Stronk. They are using you.
Perhaps I should do the same.
I can string you along. I’m smarter than MOB, more diabolical than Shelley. I’m cute, quaint, can bat my eye-lashes fifteen times in two seconds.
Why can’t I have you in my life? Why can’t we do this forever?
Sure, I could kill you. Or I can use what is possible as an ultimatum. You either play the game of wrestling with Conor Fuse for the rest of your life… or the hammer DOES come crashing down.
We could have a shit ton of fun here, Stronk. I’m not gonna say I’ve retracted my comments from earlier. Murder may still be an option. When I walk into the Civi Center on Sunday, who knows what I’ll feel.
Simply opening up my mind to other possibilities, Stronk.
I guess that’s why I sought a therapist to begin with.
— — — — —
“And then I was all ‘hey, wha’ happened?’ So I stood there, moronically watching CPR performed. They even used those little shocky metal thingies, I dunno what they’re called. Nothing worked. So fuck me, right. They loaded him on a stretcher, placed a white blanket over him and wheeled him away.”
“I can’t believe how traumatizing this was for you,” she responds.
Yep, we’ve been conversing for over thirty minutes. Eventually she understood what my job entailed and that, no, I am not a wannabe mass murderer. In fact, I feel like we’ve made some solid progress because I’m beginning to realize the hate and rage built up inside me over the past x-amount of years is also a reflection of my childhood and how my parents never seemingly had time for me. Lots to unpack here, dear god.
“It was sssoooo traumatizing. I know it was for him, too.”
She raises an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, how do you know this was traumatizing for him? You said he died.”
“Simple,” I lean back and wait to deliver the blow. “Still alive.”
“So he didn’t die?”
“No! That’s the twist! He was dead, for a short period, you see. Then he bounced back! And this whole time I’ve been struggling with thoughts of… do I want to do it again?”
She is clever, she’s a good therapist. We got off on a rocky foot but she hasn’t written down a note since the risk assessment questions. I feel a lot more comfortable now, knowing not every word is being documented.
“Well…” she slowly begins. “Do you?”
“Want to murder him for good?” I clarify.
“Yes. Do you want to murder him again, considering the shock and worry you previously mentioned?”
For the first time in years, I don’t think I have a sentence or word to provide.
“I- I don’t know.” It takes me a good two minutes to spit this out. I gotta say, she allows me the space to think things through. “I certainly can’t STFU about it every time we run into each other.”
“I’m sorry,” she interjects. “STFU?”
“Oh, right. Gotta stop doing that stuff FFS. STFU means Shut The Fuck Up. It’s internet lingo.”
She nods and calmly looks around the room.
“It’s okay not to know, Conor,” she goes back to my initial comment. “You are not required to provide an answer.”
I’m not?
“It’s okay to have internal conflict,” she explains, as if she knows I struggled understanding a directionless approach is okay. “Your ‘I don’t know’ could mean many different things. Sometimes it means you DO know, but you don’t desire any of the outcomes. Others it means you need more assurance before you can make a decision.”
“Yes!” I catch onto what she’s throwing down. “I do need more assurance. I need to know if I’m killing off a bitter rival for the next x-amount of years. If so, keeping Stronk around sounds reasonable. If not… if he’s going to vanish and fade away. FUCK HIM.”
“Lots of people want exact certainty before they act.” She adds. “But in life, we don’t know. I can’t tell you what tomorrow brings. I can’t tell you if Stronk will stick around or not. But I’ll tell you what I think is going on.”
All ears, doc.
“I think you have deep trust issues.” She states with a lower and more harsh tone. “Earlier you talked about others leaving you. I think you’re scared this will happen your entire life. That’s why you told me you’re not befriending anyone right now.”
Correct. I’m not.
“It’s something to have a think on, Conor,” she conveys as she slowly glances towards the giant clock on the wall. “But for now, our time is up.”
I am ecstatic. Enthralled. This was the greatest fucking hour of my life! And I have had solid hours of awesome in the past.
I pop outta my chair, lean forward and stick out my hand.
“Thank you so, so, so, so fucking much. Let’s do this again next week. I’ll book with your receptionist.”
She returns the handshake.
“I hope everything goes as well as it can, Conor. Please do book a time slot with Nancy.”
I snatch my belongings and make my way over to the entrance door.
“Well one thing’s for sure, doc,” I mention, before pulling the handle and slipping outside. “I won’t be coming back here next week empty handed.”