- Event: Refueled LXXIV
Alright, so. I’ll admit it. I’m impulsive. We all know this.
I didn’t think the whole amnesia thing through.
Sue me.
I told her that I figured out I was a wrestler, based on the bruises, the pills stuck in the change purse of my wallet, and the tattoo on my arm where I literally wrote that I’m the greatest Cruiserweight in the world.
Cruiserweights are more a wrestling thing. Lightweights are MMA.
I figured out my name and address from my wallet, showed her what I assumed were my kids. Wondered if they were ours but she very quickly denied that. Her figure wouldn’t have maintained it’s youthful appeal, plus her hands. You can always tell the age of a woman by her hands.
So I had her lead me home, to my quaint little humble apartment in downtown Los Angeles. Six floors up overlooking Slum Road. We talked along the way and there, and she assured me she had my best interests at heart.
I knew better.
But our goals are aligned for now, and let me just say.
That ass don’t quit.
She left to go rent a truck or something, I forget exactly what her crazy plan is. So I’m sitting here alone in my very familiar apartment. It’s weird having to fake not remembering where you put the can opener, so I’m glad it’s just me and my thoughts now.
What the hell did I wrap myself up in? Have I just been a pawn this whole time? Her pawn?
Probably. Whatever. I get moved along the chessboard all over, crazy directions. Sometimes I go where I shouldn’t. Sometimes I don’t play by the rules. It’s what always made me a great fit for the LSD division. In my eyes, a division with no limits, rules, regulations. Where men, could just be men. Now, I have a chance to fight John Sektor again, avenge the last time we brawled at Iconic, and take home the one prize that I’ve wanted in this sport I’ve never held.
I wander over to a far corner of the room, where I have a bunch of framed prints of old Pay Per Views. MJF versus Kael vs. Me for the LSD title. Me versus Conor at March to Glory. My loss to Sektor at Iconic. A nice reminder of the possibilities I’ve squandered.
I sigh, tossing my hands through my thinning green hair. Probably shouldn’t have dyed it as often as I have, but it’s a signature look. I walk over to my fridge, opening the door just long enough to see the light bulb inside flicker and then pop it’s filament. Whatever. I only have old Turkey and baking soda in there anyway.
It’s nearing midnight, the moon illuminating my apartment through slivers in my window pane. My ratty old couch I usually sleep on will let me rest off this stink of failure from Bottom Line. I plop down on my bed for the evening and take a moment to look above my wall mounted TV. I had painted the walls ’97 red when I signed on Lee’s dotted line. When I joined, I’d have expected to fill the wall with championships by now.
Those expectations were probably my great undoing.
All that being said, you can never tell what’s going to happen in this sport. One of the reasons I love professional wrestling?
On any given night…
… it could be YOUR night.
**
It’s 6 pm on a Thursday, two days before my fight with John Sektor.
And it’s gonna be one hell of a fight.
Whatsherface has properly informed me of the upcoming contest, the importance of it all, and how it’s vital I go in with the focus and determination of a much younger version of myself.
Sometimes I’m wondering if she’s just setting me up to fail later.
Whatever. Can’t worry about her or that future. I gotta worry about one of the best technical wrestlers on the planet. Saturday, in the Main Event at the Pepsi Center in downtown Denver Colorado, High Flyer vs. John Sektor.
Lots of people say it may be the last time anyone sees my name in lights.
I say it’s the first time you’ll see the NEW me.
I keep those extra weights on my thighs when I train during the week. 2 hours of light cardio. Leg work three times a week, spa treatment, once a week marathon. Run some catch-as-catch-can with Tony, former Olympic hopeful. Toss my body repeatedly into a tree or a wall. Toughen myself. Get a smoke at the end of it all. The one I get a week.
The first day back after my binge of unworthiness in Chicago, I was sweating up so much old unfiltered booze and drugs through my pores I’m pretty sure blondie got a contact high. But my body’s used to making champ weight, used to flipping from fun to fame. Most people do a soft reset by detoxing. Those people are idiots.
At the end of the day, I came to HOW for new fights, to create new memories and push myself further than I’ve ever been before. Then. I met Max Kael.
Err. I met the LSD title.
And I sought it with the fever and desperation of a madman. Max Kael and I became blood brothers as we painted entire towns red with our gore.
Then John Sektor comes out and says I can’t have the LSD title?
That he wants to… turn it into some… PURE… championship?
He wonders what Jack Harmen is going to do to win the LSD championship… he’d hadn’t considered what I’d do to defend the LSD championships HONOR. Just IMAGINE what I’d do to take it away from a man who doesn’t RESPECT the heritage. I don’t care what it stood for when it was created, I don’t care what Sektor thinks it should stand for…
I care about what it represents.
The HOW fans, they’ve said it, time and time again, and I absolutely agree… The LSD championship is the BLOODY GREATEST in this sport.
Keyword bloody.
Who the hell do you think you are to say violence can’t be poetry!? Can’t be an ARTFORM. Unprofessional my ASS. And for you to dare say that I’ll never even touch the LSD title. You sad little fu manchu, “I wish I was related to Lee Best” beer for brains barbarian, I’ll do whatever I want whenever I want to. Hell, I’ll come out Saturday, grab that shit and take off through the crowd just to fuck with you.
Now who’s belt is it? Possession is 9 tenths of fuck you.
But no, no, I want the belt, legit. I gotta earn it. Prove myself. I want to BEAT you. No, no, not WANT…
NEED! I need to liberate the LSD championship from it’s puritanical captor. John Sektor. You are simply a bad fit for the LSD title. Said it herself to me. I hear it in the whispers in the wind. The voices unseen. You see, you want to turn the LSD title away from what it loves. What it craves. What is IS. You should know by now John, it craves violence. You can’t change nature. Yours, mine, it doesn’t matter. Every night in my dreams since the first day I met her, she said it herself, I can’t stay with John. He just doesn’t give me what I need. And I see it, every time I see a dull glimmer in her shine. She just isn’t getting what she needs from you in this relationship, John. And it’s not her, John. Unequivocally, it’s you. See, you’re not letting it soak in the blood of the unworthy. You leave it… thirsty, hungry for its pound of flesh.
Saturday, I provide satisfaction. I finally stop TEASING everyone, show HOW exactly HOW good I am. I do what Max Kael fought so valiantly against, and honor his death in one fell stroke.
Saturday, I raise the LSD title above my head.
Or die tryin’.