This is gonna be a hard talk to have with you, Stevens.
We’ve been riding up and down the roads together for a lot of years now. I’m the guy who brought you in back in 2012, and while we’ve never exactly been friends, I feel like I’m the one guy who has always truly shot you straight. I’m the guy who tells you when an idea is good, and I’m the guy who tells you when it’s dogshit. I feel like my words carry weight for you, and I feel like I’m the only guy with a shot and making these words stick. So man to man, no clever wordplay, no stupid jokes, I think it’s time that we had a really honest discussion about your time in High Octane Wrestling.
It isn’t going to be nice. I’m not going out of my way to be mean, but I mean everything that I’m about to say, and you aren’t going to like it. They aren’t called hard truths for nothing, and I feel like if we don’t have this conversation, bad things are going to happen to you. I feel like if we don’t have this conversation, you’re going to get to thinking that you’re going to be the Miracle on Ice. If we don’t have this conversation, Stevens, you are going to get hurt or worse, and I don’t actually want that to happen to you. In a perfect world, I don’t want any harm to come to you… but this isn’t a perfect world, and there is an obstacle in front of you right now that you’re going to be tempted to try and overcome.
You need to stifle that desire.
I don’t want you getting your hopes up this week.
Look man, you’ve been saying it for a long time— that you were gonna get back there again. That someday, you’d fight your way back to the top and become the HOW World Champion again. And I’m not gonna tell you that you won’t, bud— that might happen for you again someday. You might get back there again someday. You might shock the world… someday. But that day isn’t going to be Saturday, and this belt around my waist isn’t for you.
This is my fucking belt, Scott.
This is the belt that I waded through War Games for, through six of the most talented wrestlers alive and Perfection. This is the belt that I battled through actual hell for in Tampa, Florida against the Minister. This is the belt that I have literally put my life on the line for at Rumble at the Rock, and the simple fact is that I care much more about this belt than I care about your well being. I care more about this belt than I care if your children grow up with a father. I care more about this belt than I care about the repercussions of defending it with my life. And look, statistics being what they are, the odds are real good that eventually someone is going to take it away from me. Eventually, I will no longer be able to call myself the HOW World Champion. Eventually, it will be someone else’s time in the sun, and with every successful defense, it becomes more and more probable that the next one will be the last one.
But it isn’t going to be you, Stevens.
And it isn’t because you don’t have the talent, or the know-how. It’s really easy to get on the “Fuck Stevens” train, but the fact is that deep down in there somewhere is a guy who managed to beat me for the HOW World Championship five years ago. Deep down in there somewhere is the 2012 Rookie of the Year. Deep down in there somewhere, the guy I recruited to HOW is still begging to be set free– the problem is that he’s chained to the main you’ve become, and I don’t even think you’re capable of letting him out into the yard anymore to take a piss. I don’t think you have the mental capacity to be that guy anymore. I don’t think you have the mindset, or the drive. I don’t think you have the dedication to take this belt from me, because if you did?
You’d have done it by now.
To take this belt from me, you have to want it more than I do. You have to need it more than I do, and I just don’t think you fucking do. You get on television once or twice a year with a fiery white meat speech about how you’re doing to turn it all around and climb back to the top, but what happens next? Nothing. Stevens sees his shadow, six more months of losing records, Six more months of the same old bullshit, until Lee Best hands you a hot microphone and tells you to do it all over again. The Scott Stevens that exists today isn’t just the ghost of a wrestler, he’s the husk of a fucking man. Going through the motions, wanting to be on top again, but not having the dedication to his craft to put himself there.
He just waits around to be a main eventer again.
The first show after No Remorse, I put out an open challenge for the HOW World Championship. A literal deathmatch at Rumble at the Rock– you claim that you want the World Title back more than anything, but did you answer the challenge? No, you stood in the fucking back like a doofus and ate a fucking sandwich at catering, along with everyone else. Two weeks ago, I put out an open challenge for a HOFC Rules match. A great opportunity to throw your name into the hat and prove that you were still up to the task. Did you answer it? No, Brian Hollywood did, while you dug through a Thesaurus looking for new words for “says”. You made no attempts to be a part of War Games. You got suspended for lacking enough fire to be successful, and didn’t even have enough fire to fight the fucking suspension during the LBI. You have balked at any and all opportunities to be a success in the new era of HOW, and yet you still get on TV once every six months, look right into the camera, and lie.
“I’m going to be great again.”
Put it on a fucking red hat, Stevens, because you’re not just lying to us, you’re lying to yourself. While the rest of us run the rat face, fighting tooth and nail to be known as number one, you’d rather sit in the fucking back and wait for Lee Best to offer you your quarterly slice of cheese. You’d rather wait until you’re randomly picked to be a mandatory title defense, hoping that lightning will strike and reward you for your exactly zero hard work. You treat this fucking company and this fucking championship like a lottery ticket, and it is beyond disrespectful. It’s disrespectful to Lee Best, who has given you a thousand opportunities and do-overs, just to watch you piss them all away with your shitty, butthurt attitude. It’s disrespectful to the fans, who are the entire reason we’re able to punch each other in the face for a living. Most of all, though, it’s disrespectful to guys like me– guys who leave it all in the ring, every single night. Guys who earn their keep and earn their paycheck, instead of waiting for a fucking handout.
I’m tired of it, Stevens. I’m tired of you.
I’m tired of putting you over to the moon, looking to light a fire under you and get the crowd excited for another inevitable letdown. I’m tired of lying to everyone and coming up with nice ways to say that you’ve got a puncher’s chance. This week at Refueled, I’m not looking for you to bring your “A Game”. I’m not looking for you to dig deep and find your right. I’m not looking for you to give me the fight of my life, Stevens. I’m done expecting that from you, because I’m tired of being disappointed. I’m looking for you to show up, take your ass whopping like a man child, and collect your paycheck.
It’s over, Scott. It’s been over for a long time.
I really can’t stress enough that this isn’t reverse psychology. I can see you trying to rub two brain cells together and make fire right now. I can see you getting ready to cut the same promo on me you’ve been cutting for years— “Oh, I’m such a loser. Oh I’ll never be anything. OH WAIT SUDDEN INSPIRATION!” We’ve all heard that song, Stevens, drop a new fucking single already. Sing a different tune, you hack fuck.
Stevens says this is his year.
Stevens says this time will be different.
Stevens says, Stevens says, Stevens says.
You stupid Bobby Boucher fuck, go get me a water and shut your fucking mouth. I’m surprised there’s any salt left in you, for as much as you fucking cry about everything all the time. Boo hop, you didn’t get into the Hall of Fame. EARN IT. Boo hoo, no one gives you any respect. EARN IT. Boo hoo, you wanna be the champion. FUCKING. EARN. IT. You can hate me as much as you want, Stevens, but you can never argue that I have earned my place in this company. That I have earned my position as top dog. That I have sacrificed EVERYTHING to achieve what I have achieved.
This business is my entire life.
For fifteen years, I have put the business of professional wrestling before all other things. I have alienated friends, sacrificed relationships, and thrown away my personal life for fifteen fucking years, and I don’t regret a second of it. Every single friend I have is a wrestler. Every family member I have is a wrestler. I don’t have days off. I don’t have hobbies. I eat, train, talk shit, and fight. That is what I am, that is WHO I am, and that is all I want to fucking be, because there are a limited number of years on this Earth that I can do what I do on a high level, and I don’t wanna waste a single one of them on anything but being the absolute best wrestler on the planet.
Can you say the same?
Can you say that you’d happily watch the rest of your world burn, just for one more run with the belt around my waist? Can you say that you would cast aside your wife, and your children, and your family to be the top dog in HOW? Most importantly, can you say it without lying to me? Without lying to yourself? Without lying to everyone else that you’ve been lying to for years, when you said the words but didn’t fucking mean them? Because if you can’t say that– because if you don’t mean it— then you have become a liability to me, and you have become a liability to yourself, and it’s time for you to call it a day. Because if you can’t say that?
Then it’s time for you to retire, Scott.
No, I’m not kidding. Get the fuck out of HOW, before I send you out of here in a bodybag. This is not a safe haven for the half-hearted, and you either whole-ass it in HOW or I will drive a knee through your face and eliminate you from this Earth like a fucking war criminal. I am a predator, and the more doe-eyed you stare at me, the more likely I am to tear your goddamned throat out, Stevens. The more weakness you show, the more it makes me fucking salivate. The more you piss and moan and complain about how it should be your time again, without putting in the fucking effort to back it up, the more I want to make an example of you and put you out to pasture forever. No spot in the Hall of Fame. No Christmas’ with your children. Just a two minute In Memorium on an episode of Refueled and another unmarked plot of dirt in the Stevens’ family pet cemetery, where they bury the rest of the bitches that had to be put down once they’d passed their prime.
It’s only fitting that they bury you next to Rover and Spike, buddy, cause it’s been nearly a fucking dog year since you achieved anything.
When I hit you on Saturday, stay down.
Don’t try to be hero. Don’t delude yourself. Don’t make a mockery of what little prestige you have left, just to prove a point to me or the world. It isn’t worth it. Your pride isn’t worth the hurting that I will put on you to protect what is mine. I am a territorial animal and a loaded weapon, and the safety is off from here to Rumble at the Rock. Everything that I have worked for, for over a decade, has lead up to this title run— my GREATEST title run— and you don’t want to be the thing standing between me and the finish line.
This is the record setter.
This is the one they’ll remember.
This is the one that’ll make it all worth it.
Don’t let a randomly booked title defense cloud your judgement. Don’t let Lee Best’s generosity confuse you. Don’t go thinking that you’re gonna step to me and survive, because the Scorpion’s venom dried up a long time ago and that stinger has gone limp. I am the greatest HOW wrestler who has ever lived, and you cannot and will not take my title. You cannot and will not take my place. You cannot and will not take away my purpose.
This is what I was born to do.
And I don’t care who has to die to prove it.