The flight from New York’s JFK airport to Charles De Gaulle in France is long as fuck, nearly seven hours. Nothing like the “Plane Ride From HATE” or whatever HOWrestling tried to spin that shit as. In the end though, Hughie tested the Hire Anarchist Tactical Enforcement guards and ate a fucking taser for his troubles. Dude is gonna be shitting lightning for a fucking week now. No, Woodson just chilled on his flight, AirBuds in his ears, listening to Sirius Radio’s Octane. Like Hughie though, he was flanked by a large number of H.A.T.E. guards on the plane. One Pikey might be heading to Alcatraz to rot for all eternity… but there are so many others still free. Most of whom I’m sure Woodson has pissed off by… relocating… their prized bare knuckle buddy Hughie to a new home. But aside from the H.A.T.E. guards, was someone even more dangerous on the flight… RICK.
That is of course what he would say if he wasn’t passed out across three seats near the back of the plane, snoring so loud that he nearly drowned everything out in the plane. Hence the AirBuds Woodson wore to try and neutralize the noise. A small pierce to pay to try and save the last semblance of a group that as quickly as it came together… has imploded from within. Can Woodson keep things together with RICK long enough to extract the revenge that he has been planning against 24K? Can they work together to repeat their success in beating The eGG Bandits? Can Woodson win his first piece of gold in the Final Era? His third (fourth… fucking WMW bullshit) Tag Team Title?
“RIIIIIIICCCCCCCCCCK” yells Woodson, pretty much startling everyone, including the H.A.T.E. guards and especially Frankie, who despite trying to film some B-roll of the plane flight, nearly jumps out of his seat. The pause though in the ear rattling snoring suggests that Woodson’s call was able to awake the monster behind him.
“Wake your ass up RICK! We’re just about there… in fucking France.” Depressingly sighs Woodson as he looks out the window at the French countryside that they are descending over. Knowing those fuckers care WAY more about their fucking wine than they do about beer… especially beer that doesn’t taste like piss.
“Can I have another beer before we land!” Bellows Woodson across the cabin as the poor stewardess shakes her head, knowing that Mister Woodson has paid way too much to stock the international flight with his personal beer selection to say no to him. She can’t wait until this plane lands and he is the fuck off it.
Reluctantly, she walks over an “Eggnog IPA” by Evil Twin Brewing. Accepting the can, Woodson smirks at the name on the label. After the quick chuckle, he quickly cracks the egg… I mean, can open and take a drink. Nodding his head, he’s actually a bit surprised at just how good this eggnog themed IPA actually tastes.
“I wanted to HATE it… believe me… but HOW can you? HOW can you HATE The eGG Ban… I mean this Eggnog IPA by Evil Twin.” Smirks Woodson at his intentional slip of the tongue.
“Everyone LOVEs an inspirational story, right? Bobby Dean going from IHOP’s french toast fat fuck slam… to comatose vegetable… to slim and trim zombie, rising from the near dead off a stretcher to slay HATE. Fucking eh… Hollywood should be cumming in their fucking pants to buy the rights to that story.” Pauses Woodson for a moment while those who have just ruined their pants can clean them up with the cum rag of The Bandits, Doozer.
“The silver screen is calling you Bobby… I hear that Ghostbuster Three is holding auditions still for some fringe parts. You’d be perfect to play the love child of The Stay Puft Marshmallow Man and the Crest toothpaste mascot Sparkler. Sparkmallow Man. Shooting electric marshmallow goo out of your fucking micro dick.”
“Is that true?” questions Franklin from across the aisle, a bit grossed out by the visual now running rampant in his head.
“Yes, it’s true, this man Bobby Dean has a micro dick.” Nods Woodson with complete deadpan honesty. Luckily this isn’t city hall… and Bobby Dean isn’t around to dispute what Hollywood science can prove as a rock hard… I mean pebble hard fact.
The Beaches of Omaha
June 10th, 2020
Wishing that the trip was over when they landed in Paris, unfortunately there were many additional travel pains involved for HATE before they could touch down on the sand of Normandy. Obviously nothing compared to what happened on those beaches some seventy-six years ago… but in comparison to these days… it sucked.
Commandeering a Black Hawk helicopter, Woodson, RICK, Franklin and the handful of H.A.T.E. guards are being flown the last stretch of their trip directly to the beach area that HOW is currently setting up on for their second show on the historic W-W-Two battleground site. A site that few left alive can fully understand the sacrifice that was given here so that countless generations can live the lives they do today. Until the final days of humanity, we will forever be grateful for what those who served on those beaches and around the world did for us.
“Let us never forget… never take for granted the absolute shit… beyond shit… fucking bullshit that those who served, endured and sacrificed on these sands. To defeat shitty hate… ignorant hate… racist and bigoted hate… the kind of hate that give HATE a bad fucking name.” Somewhat confusingly, but also somehow deeply states Woodson as we start to see the beaches come into focus of Franklin’s iPhone camera.
Looking over in the Black Hawk, Woodson sees RICK again passed out sleeping. He just shakes his head, not out of anger, but out of envy. Woodson wishes he could just sleep through a plane flight like RICK… he’s jealous of that… that and so much more. The kid is nearly twenty years younger than The Corporate Artist and he’s built like a fucking tank. Things are just so much simpler for him at that age. For Woodson, there is too much running through his mind… so many questions that need to be answered to ever dream of slipping into a sleep on the flight. At least on his own accord. Because other than sleeping… there is only one better thing to do while on a plane.
DRINK… DRANK…. DRUNK
His former theme song by Hellyeah starts to play in Woodson’s ear as he has kept his Apple AirPods in under the big ass chopper headphones. His hope is that they would help drown out the sound of RICK’s fucking snoring that somehow was louder than the damn helicopter.
The song though has perfect timing, as Woodson needs another beer. Reaching over to the Yeti cooler he has on the chopper, Woodson grabs a “Solid Gold” by Founders Brewing.
Obviously we have seen that sobriety has gone out the fucking window. That shit happens when your thirty-seventh fucking try at a stable, HATE, has dissolved faster than a wicked witch in a rainstorm and you believe one fucker might try to light you on FUCKING FIRE. So ya, there has been a flash flood of beer flowing down Woodson’s gullet since. Fuck middle grounds. Fuck moderation. It’s all or nothing. Because if you’re gonna do something… you might as well do it to the fucking fullest you can. Right? Maybe? Let’s just say right.
Because we all know Woodson has a drinking… that he drinks too…. that people would classify him as an… Let’s just say that Scott Woodson likes to drink beer and leave it at that. When you hear that someone has paid extra to stock a plane with specific beers, you don’t need to finish those previous sentences to get the picture.
As the chopper touches down on the sands, Woods cracks his new beer open. The U.S. military gets real fucking touchy about drinking on their planes. But as he steps off he quickly takes a sip…
“RIIIIICCCCKKKK!!!!” Yells Woodson as he awakes the monster from his slumber as he starts to collect his shit and get off the chopper with Woodson.
Taking another drink of his beer, Woodson starts to sense some judgement from his son… mainly because he is shaking his head at what must have been his tenth…. or fifteenth beer of the day. So soaking in the judgment… it opens Woodson up to take a moment for a “quick” in fucking air quotes, shoot.
“People wanna make a story about addictions? Welcome to professional wrestling. Booze, pills, sex, drugs, steroids… it’s all old fucking news. We all know that’s how we’ve gotten through decades of putting our bodies through fucking hell… all for the adulation of the fans or for some piece of gold plated metal attached to raw cow hide. But no one gives a fuck about your injuries, my injuries or the giant hole Mike Best left in Bobbie Dean’s head. I mean come on, if no one gives a fuck about Bobby’s brain matter literally seeping out of his fucking skull onto the ring mat… then no one gives two shits about some old man aches and pains. Especially when it comes to someone who is such a giant asshole like yourself, Andy Murray. If you hadn’t fucking guessed my fucking target by now.”
Woodson takes another, this time longer sip of his vice… his addiction as he takes a few deep breaths as he starts to walk down the sands of the beach. Down towards the massive construction area going on to construct something that these beaches hasn’t seen in a decade.
“All they… the fans care about is the show that you put on for them in that ring. Would have thought the King of fucking Wrestling would have learned that by now in his storied fucking career we hear so much about… in fucking feds that mean jack fucking shit here in HOW.” States Woodson for the twentieth? Thirtieth? Who knows how many fucking times with every asshole with a chip on their shoulder from wherever the fuck they came from.
“But don’t worry homeless Bill Murray. All hope is not lost. Because when you retire… after having faced real fucking competition at War Games… you’ll have a great career ahead of you. Digging graves… shoveling pile after pile of dirt, burying everyone you come face to fucking face with. Making yourself look like a fucking “legend” compared to the cold dead corpse that are now six feet deep.” Comments Woodson as Franklin from seemingly nowhere tosses Scott a shovel. Woodson catches it and stares at it for a moment before planting it in the sand and continuing with his walk.
“You are fucking brilliant… just fucking brilliant. Roll in, act like big bad shit, crap over everything and anything you see. So fucking smart, because then if…. IF…. FUCKING IF…. you and Joe manage to beat me and RICK, you will have done what? Beaten a joke? Bravo, you’re career is going to the fucking Moon. But WHEN we… when HATE beats you…. we will have beheaded a fucking KING and taken over your shitty fools gold throne. Exposing you for not a KING… but more like a Knight who says Ni…” tries to continue Woodson, but Franklin quickly cuts him off.
“NIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII” Screeches Frankie, make anyone’s blood in earshot curdle as the noise echoes across the beach.
“Because it is all a fucking facade Murray. The suite in section who gives a fuck, the blabbering on and on about PTC days and feds that have long since closed because they couldn’t keep up with the likes of HOW.” Chuckles Woodson as he almost cherishes the fact that PTC is a fucking graveyard now. That they are dead and fucking gone… while the HOW powers on in 2020 despite all fucking obstacles thrown at it.
“I remember PTC too Andy… Bookers of the Opera, Argyle Sweaters, Pretty Chitty Wrestling…. but it’s gone… over… dead. You claim HOW is where “the best of the best are the worst of the worst.” Finally something I can agree with you on. Because while you were schlepping around the world in whatever half-ass fed you wanna name drop about, I was here in HOW since 2008. Beating the best of the best. Beating Max Kael, Mike Best, Jatt Starr and so many other legends you have no fucking clue about!” Yells Woodson as he tries to reign it in, tries to calm the fucking storm that has been brewing inside of him since March to fucking Glory.
“This Andy… this is so much more than just about some Tag Team Titles for me. Yes, winning them again for whatever time you wanna call it, and tearing them away from your smug ass grasps would be awesome… this… this means so much more to me. It means something that I would never… never fucking expect you to understand. For the months you have been here? Fuck, I’ve been in HOW for more years than you have been months here. Something I’m sure means nothing to you. Nothing because you have no fucking loyalty to HOW. You could really care fuck all about this place. Sure, I might sound like a broken record… but it’s a record worth hearing. You might have zero fucking respect for me. I understand… few fucking do here. But you also have no fucking respect for HOW. Not like I do, after all I have fucking sacrificed for it.” States Woodson as he stops in the sand and looks down at it. Down at the sand that so many men sacrificed so much fucking more in. Sacrificed it all so that people like Woodson could walk freely on it today, so that he and HOW could do what they are doing next week on it.
“But don’t get your fucking ego too inflated Andy… this isn’t all about you. There are two and a half other teams in this match. The Bandits, The Bruvs… and Bad Breath Bergman.” Comments Woodson as he looks back at RICK who has been nearly sleepwalking behind Woodson and Franklin.
“RIIIIICCCKKK” Shoots back his tag team partner as Woodson nods his head as if he actually understands what that mangling of words actually fucking means.
“I know, I’m sure he has cleaned up the ass breath issues by now. But what he hasn’t cleared up is the fact that he has to team with Andy Murray. Fuck, that shit reeks worse than anything I could ever imagine coming out of the mouth of Bergtosis…”Smirks Woodson as he trails off from his new nickname.
Walking up to the construction area, he sees a crew unloading one of the War Games cell sides off a truck. Woodson runs his fingers along the cage cell as it is carried towards the ringside area.
“I’m the only one in this match that knows what it’s like to be inside that cell.” States Woodson with a small smirk still on his face. But the thought of past War Games quickly wipes what is left of that smirk off his face.
“I debuted in HOW… in that fucking cell. War Games 2008. Team Best Alliance. Eliminating two wrestlers on my way to an eighth place finish out of sixteen. This shit belongs to me… and if anyone things I won’t go down without the fight of my fucking career… well then get ready for something more than you ever expected. This is War Games. The craziest night of the year. Fuck ICONIC, March to Glory…. and even Alcatraz. THIS…. This here is THE event of the year. The event that will let you go down in HOW history. Whether it’s for the World… or the Tag Team Titles… THIS… THIS IS FUCKING WAR GAMES. So gather up all your pills, your eggs, whatever the fucking Bruvs have… and get fucking ready. Then get ready some fucking more. Because nothing… NOTHING will ever fucking prepare you for what you’re in store for come War Games. Once that door is locked behind you… and you are alone inside that cell. Oh… it’s fucking beautiful.” Smiles Woodson as he finishes his beer and hands the empty off to one of the production crew members who just shakes his head, but being smart enough to know who handed him the can.
“This is War Games fuckers… if you’re not ready… go the fuck home. If you think you’re ready… then let’s go. But please… please… don’t HATE me and RICK when we… when we walk away as the HOW Tag Team champions and everyone is left holding their dicks in their hands, ready to just keep jerking themselves off. We’re coming to fight… we’re coming to destroy fuckers. We’re coming to take those HOW Tag Team Titles. Might as well just wave that white flag now… surrender… give up… because it is fucking inevitable.” Nods Woodson as Franklin reluctantly hands him another beer which he cracks open, foam spilling out over the edge of the can and onto the sand.