I don’t even like wrestling anymore.
In fact, I fucking hate it.
It’s just not for me anymore and I’ve come to terms with that.
The drive is gone. The motivation is lost.
The only thing that drives me at this point…the only thing that motivates me…is loyalty.
Loyalty to my friends and to HOW.
Being loyal to the Byrd, Bergman and Harrisons of the world is the only thing that keeps me going anymore. Those three have had my back through all of the bullshit I’ve been through over the last year or so. I’ve gone from Number 1 Dad, to MercDad, to skitzo headcase, to brain cancer victim…all the way to whatever version of myself I am this month. And in this consistently inconsistent life of mine; those three have remained the constant.
Even with all of that good shit…fuck wrestling!
I fucking hate it.
Then why stay? Why continue if I don’t love it anymore?
Because it’s the only thing I know.
Because it’s the only thing I have left.
As this fucked up world gets crazier by the second, High Octane Wrestling – oddly enough – seems like the only sane place left on the planet. At least I know what I’m getting in HOW…but Jesus Christ, if I have to listen to Jace Parker Davidson say anything else this week I’m going to fucking shoot myself.
This guy talks and talks and talks and talks and talks and talks…for fucking ever.
The only person I’ve seen who loves himself as much as JPD loves himself is that Maroon 5 dickhead used to be on that singing show with that chick that Fred Durst and Carson Daly argued over who she gave head to first.
Christopher America’s not the only one that can reference Eminem songs, just sayin’.
God I hate that prick.
Anyway, all I’m saying is that I can’t even walk down the fucking street anymore without running into at least 20 different varieties of human. Every last one of them hunched over their fat guts, staring down at the fucking phones with their blue hair dangling over their eyes while they walk past one another on the street, never even bothering to look up and make eye contact with another person.
In a world gone crazy, Scott Stevens almost seems normal.
But not quite. He’s still the same asshole, he just slapped a different label on it.
The fuckin’ Demi-god.
Get the fuck outta’ here. Get all the way the fuck outta’ here.
You’re the same dude, Stevens. If you put lipstick on a pig, that motherfucker is still a pig. Put a new label, some quotes around your name and get some new ink…it doesn’t change the fact that you’re the same Lonesome Loser that you’ve always been. I don’t know where you get the balls to talk shit to anybody in the wrestling world, let alone HOW.
But here we are…in 20-fucking-22 listening to Scott Stevens say the same shit he said 12 years ago and make the same dumbass excuses for why his wrestling journey hasn’t been up to snuff the last two years. Holy shit man, you’re easily the least popular World Champion in all of HOW’s history. There’s absolutely, positively…no doubt in my mind. Jatt Starr was more popular pretending to be Simon Sarrow than you’ve been in your entire career and that Sparrow shit was just flat out bad. And like Forrest Gump, that’s all I have to say about that.
You were such a bad champion, Stevens, that I was inducted into the Hall of Fame before you, and I’d never even had a straight up match for the World Championship up until that point. I know that doesn’t say much about me, but that says a whole fuckin’ lot less about you. Don’t get it twisted, bud…there is no mutual respect here. We are not the same, you and I. You pretend to be this chosen one, yet somehow, I’m always the one that gets picked over you. Isn’t that weird? That no matter how far up Lee Best’s ass your head is, no matter how much you try to suck on your way to the top…you’ll never get there. You’ll just sit on the bottom, perched on Lee Best’s dick for the rest of your career as he whispers sweet little nothings in your ear seeing what stupid fuckin’ thing he can get you to do next.
This match isn’t yours to win Stevens and JPD, and the same goes for you, Jattimus Erectimus…you fuckin goon. The Tag Team Championship is coming home with Bergman and I, and back to The Highwaymen.
I owe this one to Joe Bergman.
And I owe this one to The Highwaymen.
“I fuckin’ told you kid, they’re multi-vitamins!” Solex shouts at that shring of an LA Times reporter, Michael, as he stuff the clearly labeled bottle of “Dianabol” into his bag.
“And what’s with all the syringes?” Michael asks as he points at a leather hygiene bag in Solex’s duffle.
“I’m a diabetic!” Solex shouts, clearly lying as he gives off a bit of a smirk.
“How long have you been doing this stuff?”
“Since before you were born, kid. That’s the life I live,” Solex responds as he continues to smirk.
“Really?” Michael asks, his voice a bit higher pitched than before.
“Look, when I see a guy like STRONK – a guy that can’t string together five words to create a complete sentence – come to HOW and do as good as he is…I’ve got to close the gap. I’ve got to take every bit of advantage that I can to get myself back to the top of this business. When I see STRONK punch a fucking stallion in the face on live TV, I’ve got to punch a grizzly in the face. And the only way to get there, Michael…is like this. I need to work harder, eat healthier and take more medicine (ahem) than him, and I have to do it now.”
“Yeah, but…do you really think it’s necessary?” Michael asks as he watches Solex zip his red Adidas duffle bag up and hoist it over his right shoulder.
“Super necessary, my friend. Now grab your shit, the Uber’s out front,” Solex says as he yanks open the front door and no-look points to the black Escalade parked in front of the house.
Michael grabs his black leather carry-on, walks past Solex and out the front door.
“Super necessary,” Solex says once more and he slams the door shut and heads down the front steps toward the car.
Michael stops at the back door of the car as it opens via the driver’s key fob.
“Where are we going?” Michael asks, as he places his bag into the back of the car.
“Chicago, where else?” Solex responds, asking the question rhetorically.
“What’s in Chicago?” The driver of the Uber asks as he takes Solex’s bag from his grip.
Solex just stares blankly at the twenty-something year old. The young black man stuffs the bag into the back of the car and then stares right back at Solex. The two continue to stare at one another, Solex seethes more and more with every second that passes.
“Are you from here?” Solex says, gritting his teeth.
“From Orange County?” The young man responds.
“Yes, Blake. Are you from here?” Solex says, this time using the young man’s first name in some sort of power move, probably driven by white-privilege.
“Well..yeah,” Blake responds, shrugging his shoulders.
“You don’t know who the fuck I am?” Solex asks, gritting his teeth even harder and lowering his voice to more of a roar.
“Should I?” Blake asks, not being flippant for even a microsecond
“I’m Steve Solex, you little prick.”
“Yeah, that’s what it said in the app,” Blake says, his temperament still pretty light.
Solex, impressed by the kids confidence, pauses for a moment and tricks himself back into a more mellow attitude.
“Is this your ride?” Solex asks, changing the topic of conversation.
“Yes sir, it is. Why?” Blake asks, raising an eyebrow as if Solex is insinuating something.
“Nothing,” Solex says as he walks around the side of the car and opens the passenger side door. “I like it.”
Blake slams the back lift gate shut, walks around the car and hops into the driver’s seat.
Solex shakes his head as he shuts his own door, clearly expecting the Uber driver to close the door for him.
“How much do you make doing this?”
Solex looks over at Blake with one of those “are you serious right now?” looks. Blake starts up the car and looks back over at Solex.
“What?” He asks, raising his eyebrows.
“Driving Ubers, Blake. How much do you make driving Ubers?” Solex asks, clearly frustrated with the young man.
“Not enough, Mr. Solex. Not enough at all,” Blake responds as he shakes his head.
Solex smiles as Blakes drives the car away from the curb and into the road.
“Why?” Blake asks, as he brings the car to a stop at a stop sign.
“You’re gonna be my driver, from here on out Blake,” Solex says.
Blake smiles and shakes his head.
“Sure thing, man. You just open the Uber app and look for me. You’ll find me in there all day long,” Blake says.
“I don’t think you’re understanding me, Blake. You’re gonna be my driver from here on out. No more Uber, no more pissy Karen’s, no more assholes running late for the airport and definitely no more low-tipping pricks giving you a hard time. From now on, you work for me,” Solex says in a firm tone.
Blake looks over at Solex as he keeps the car stopped at the stop sign. He nods his head with his eyebrows raised and the corners of his mouth curled downward.
“Ok, and what do I do?” Blake asks.
Solex looks back at Michael in the back seat and points at Blake.
“Good question, eh?” Solex mocks before turning back to Blake.
“You take me to the airport, and I’ll call you and Michael when I get back from Chicago. We’ve got some stuff to discuss after I win myself some gold,” Solex says, a bit more amped than before.
“Alright,” Blake says. “How long will you be in Chicago?”
“I’ll be back next Tuesday night, at eight-thiry. I’ll text you my itinerary when I’m in the air today. Don’t fuck this up and be late,” Solex says, smirking but still serious.
“Yes sir,” Blake says as he pulls the car away from the stop sign and heads toward the airport.
The scene fades to black.