Fuck Free World, 313

We call it “counter punching from the front”. 

 

That’s the answer to the question “What the fuck was that?”, which I assume you’re asking yourself, if you’ve just come from watching Mariella Jade Flair and her Frito scented panties cut her own personal WhatCulture.com “10 Weakest Promos In Wrestling” compilation of dogshit. 

 

Ten takes, and not one of them is hot. Tsk. 

 

You know that scene at the end of 8-Mile, when Eminem talks about how he’s trailer trash and his idiot friend Cheddar Bob shot himself with a gun? Then he hands the microphone off to Papa Doc and says “tell these people something they don’t know about me”? Well that’s counter punching from the front, kids– I like to call it B-Rabbiting, for obvious reasons. And if you’re good at what you do, it will leave your opponent fucking speechless. It will make anything they say or do look foolish, and eliminate any and all material they have to work with. You’re counter punching words that they haven’t even said yet, and it fucking works. Dan Ryan is the Godfather of the frontal counter punch– he birthed the fucking genre, and the man is a classic. I’m the Godfather II, because I might have come second, but I come harder. 

 

Mariella Jade Flair is the Freddy Got Fingered of preemptive shit talk. 

 

Since no one ever explained to Princess Snowflake that “trash talk” and “words that are garbage” aren’t the same thing, not only am I not fucking speechless, but I’m inspired. So inspired that I cancelled the long, probably not altogether exciting training session that I had planned for today with Savannah Wilde. So inspired that I tossed fifteen hundred words of premium, in-progress Mike Check material into the garbage. So inspired that I Googled a list of the worst movies ever made, just to make sure that I didn’t give her too much fucking credit. 

 

You really, really fucked up, Mary Sue. 

 

And I’m gonna keep right on calling you that, by the way– just naming a list of things that I might talk about doesn’t work when you literally list everything there is to know about you. “Oh he’s gonna talk about my shitty boyfriend Kevin that literally no one has ever cared about and make a bunch of jokes about my dad.” Well yeah, dipshit, that’s exactly what I’m going to do, because they are the only things that have defined you since you walked in the door. You are the most static human being in the history of HOW, and we literally had a dude named Static on the roster. You’re a dumpy prepubescent cunt who is defined by your shitty boyfriend and your family legacy– what, you want me to make fun of the way you do a moonsault? 

 

Fuck you, your lack of depth isn’t my cross to bear. 

 

I cannot possibly emphasize to you what a terrible mistake that you’ve made. I had nothing, Flair. I had nothing for you. Why would I, now that it’s statistically near impossible for me to make it out of the group stage of the LBI? Even if I win every remaining match I have, Lindsay Troy needs to lose the next two in a row for me to even have a shot. Making it to March to Glory couldn’t be a bigger pipe dream if I was thinking about plumbing in my sleep, and the second I realized I’d been all but mathematically eliminated, I stopped giving a single fuck about this LBI.

 

See, you’re right– I really, really wanted to win this Lee Best Invitational. It was essentially my last chance to achieve the one thing in High Octane Wrestling that I’ve never achieved. I’ve literally never done it. One bum knee into one angry ringpost later, and I realized it was over before it had even really gotten started. I’ll say it here loud and proud— Lindsay would have probably grabbed a hold of my knee like a chew toy and left me at Dan Ryan’s feet, because she’s a loyal bitch and a good fucking dog. She’d have probably tapped me out on live television and cemented her legacy in HOW. But you know what happened instead? 

 

Instead, she fucking didn’t. 

 

Fuck Lindsay getting a real win out of me. Instead, gave up. Instead, I smashed her so hard over the head with a steel chair that Dan Ryan is gonna have to avoid the soft spot when he’s forcing her head down another half inch and waiting for the gagging sounds to start. She can go ahead and win the whole goddamned LBI, because no matter how far she makes it out of our group, she’s still gonna lack that big win from Mike fucking Best. And do you know why? It’s because I did it on purpose, stupid. I’m not pretending I lost my temper. I’m not pretending I made a mistake. I knew exactly what I was doing– I was throwing a pissbaby tantrum. It’s because just like you, Mariella,  I’m a whiny child, a Daddy’s boy, a mark for myself, and a sore fucking loser. 

 

It’s just that only one of us wears it on his sleeve. 

 

No, not Mariella Jade Flair, the heir to the wrestling empire that no one outside your own little circle of jerk gives a single fuck about. You and I could never be anything alike, could we? For example, I lost a hard as fuck match against Lindsay Troy last week, and no one is “dragging me away from wrestling for my own good” while I tell everyone who will listen that “it’s not a ragequit, it’s a ragecation”.

 

“LOL STAHP SNAPCHATTING MY BOYFRIEND” 

 

I just wanted to remind everyone what kind of trash talking talent a GRAND WRESTLING DYNASTY can produce. I’ve done stronger lines than that off of your boyfriend’s trembling buttcheeks, you homophobic piece of carny trash. Maybe he’d pay more attention to you in bed if you weren’t no-selling his thrusts out of fear that they’d make you show some fucking weakness. I assume it’s always cowgirl with you kids, since you have to walk away for two months every time you don’t get to end up on top. 

 

God, you are an insufferable cunt. 

 

That’s a gender neutral cunt, by the way– whether you were a nineteen year old girl or a forty year old man, a cunt isn’t the Frito-scented power fantasy between your legs, it’s the Frito-scented power fantasy that’s in your heart. My lack of respect for you has nothing to do with your genitals, and everything to do with the fact that you’re fucking irritating. You’re an itchier little pussy than a cat with a UTI, and you have given me a singular purpose in the Lee Best Invitational. 

 

I want to destroy the fucking Industry. 

 

Not in a metaphorical sense, either– y’all are doing a great job of that on your own. I set a psychological trap for The Industry, and you all managed to walk right past it and start punching each other in the face with very little provocation. I’m talking very, very literally– I’m going to single you out, one by one, and beat the fucking shit out of you until the final match of the LBI. I gave ol’ Lindsay Troy a crisp new gash across her forehead, which was fortunate, since the last hot new gash The Industry debuted has been melting down like a nuclear overreactor ever since she lost to Max at Rumble at the Rock. 

 

And you’re next, Mary Sue. 

 

On Saturday night, the world will watch in disappointment as I beat a nineteen year old girl half to death with my bare hands. I’m going to use my fists, Mariella, and not in the same way that Daddy did during all those prepubescent “wrestling lessons” that you weren’t supposed to tell Mommy about. I will pummel humility, vulnerability, and fucking weakness into that two dimensional skull until it’s so concave that Kevin can use it as a fucking soup bowl, and I will do it without regard to the rules, without regard to my own well being, and without regard to the outcome of the match. 

 

See, I’ve already lost the LBI, dipshit. 

 

My dream is already dead. I’m thirty three years old, and I’ve achieved everything that I can possibly achieve in HOW. It’s adorable that for you, “if the LBI ain’t my jam this year, there’s always next”, but despite your inability to sell a fucking ticket to a wrestling show, the fact is that there may not be a next year. This is the final era, you fucking moron. I don’t want to do another War Games. I don’t want to do another Solitary Confinement match. I didn’t enter the LBI because I wanted to be the World Champion. All I had left was to WIN THE TOURNAMENT, and now that it’s all but impossible?

 

All that’s left is to finally have some FUN. 

 

And I have you to thank for it, Mary Sue! THANK YOU! Here I was, about to grit my teeth and think about silly things like STRATEGIES and TACTICS. Here I was, about to interfere in a bunch of Lindsay’s matches, trying desperately to get her to lose the next two, so that I might still have a shot at the one thing I’ve never done in HOW. Here I was, Mariella, about to take this all very, very seriously, and use real wrestling holds and everything. 

 

And then you opened your dumb cunt mouth, and I remembered: 

 

I’ve already done everything. 

 

I’m a fucking HOW lifer. I’ve put in my time– I’m not some Johnny-come-lately trying to push his fucking way up the card in High Octane Wrestling, fresh out of Fisher Price and thinking he’s going to be the next big fucking thing. I’m not some hot shit kid coming into the big pond and trying to play with the other fish. I’m Michael fucking Best, and I’ve been here through thick and fucking thin for the last ten years. 

 

I have spent a decade jumping through hoops in High Octane Wrestling like a good dog. “THAT’S IT MIKEY, GET ME A BANNER! GOOD BOY!”, while I learn to stay and sit and rollover in my own grave pre-mortem. Wearing a tie to an office and making merchandise for people who shouldn’t lace my boots. Exchanging texts with Lee Best on my fucking birthday about what color the dollar sigs on someone’s fucking ring gear should be, just so he can walk out to the ring and cuckold me in front of the Chicago crowd because I got a title over without his express fucking permission. 

 

Don’t make me get the newspaper, dickhead. 

 

God, isn’t it so annoying when text leans slightly to the right, Dad? 

 

I’m just done being a fucking puppet. Tired of being told to be positive. Tired of being told to think about THE PERCEPTION. Tired of being manipulated into the inevitable SHOCKING TURN OF MIKE BEST ON THE EMPIRE. I’m a Hall of Famer. Twice, if you count that dollar store ring that I picked up from OCW before Marcus Welsh vomited on my best friend’s shoes and then stopped talking to us forever. I’ve won War Games. I’ve won Solitary. I’ve won everything. And you wanna talk “made up titles?” While I admire your dedication to doing no research whatsoever in your efforts to BRabbit me, I’ve won so many titles in this company– including the ACTUAL REAL HOFC CHAMPIONSHIP THAT EXISTS ON OUR WEBSITE– that if I never win another one again, I’ll still go down as the greatest of all time. 

 

“But Mike, better than Cecilworth?” 

 

Statistically, yes. Better than Cecilworth. Better than Max Kael. Better than Rhys Townsend, and John Sektor, and David Black, and Jatt Starr, and a bunch of other names you don’t recognize because you don’t do research. 

 

I don’t give a single fuck if they’re better than me right now.

 

And make no mistake, Cecilworth and Max Kael are fucking better than me right now. I don’t wanna wrestle them. I’ll lose. They’re fucking better than you, too, as evidenced by the Industry’s illustrious record of ZERO FUCKING WINS AGAINST THEM. So you know what?

 

Who gives a fuck if I never win the LBI? 

 

I’m the only person to take a single L to The Industry, and it’s… 

 

Freeing. 

 

The pressure is off..

 

Let Lee Best send an army to that arena to pry me off your dumpy little frame on Saturday night, MJ. Let the referees ring bells, let Dan Ryan and his band of fairweather friends rush the ring with knives and torches… shit, let the ghost of Eli Flair rise from the grave and tell me a six thousand word story that I couldn’t give less of a fuck about.  

 

It won’t make a difference. 

 

I’m going to humiliate you on live television, commit some kind of violent act as you lie unconscious in the middle of the ring, and then I’m going to draw a fucking dick on your forehead.

 

I’m gonna beat the fuck out of you, Mariella, and that’s a fucking promise. 

 

Sorry about your shitty counter punch.