Hippo-Cracy

Hippo-Cracy

Posted on October 12, 2021 at 1:27 am by Mike Best

It’s just like a rape. 

You know, I almost called this match off. I almost told the office that I’d proven my point, and that a match for imaginary titles would just be legitimizing the most pathetic ten minutes of HOW television that has aired since Carey’s last ten minute return to HOW. With a pending HOW World Championship match on my plate, there was absolutely no reason to engage in another petty grudge match against Team Scottywoke, so I was this close… this close… to just calling the game on account of stupidity. Boy, I’m glad I didn’t. 

See, because I’m the Christopher Columbus of HOW. 

I’m not challenging the Scooter and chick who needs a mobility scooter because they made a mockery of me and the HOW Tag Team Titles. It’s not because they disrespected my family’s organization and claimed a false victory over me, thinking there wouldn’t be any consequences. It’s not because I’m a wrestler who solves disputes in wrestling matches like a wrestler in a wrestling company. 

Nope, it’s because I’m white. 

And I’m just like a rapist. 

Wrestling is JUST LIKE A FAMILY, folks. Jesus, and I thought the marks were sitting in the crowd, not hanging out in the back talking about white male fragility. Boy, I’m getting sick of this pre-written bullshit Carey came up with two years ago and keeps trying to paste my face onto. I’m  sick of her trying to paint HOW as this toxic Ohio Indy company that has held her back because of the color of her skin. I’m sick of her shitty kids and trying to learn the names of her moron family members— it’s like trying to watch a Korean drama on Netflix without subtitles. Lots of meaningless mouth sounds, and my brain just keeps tuning out. But more than anything I’m sick of?

I’m sick of her trivializing trauma for wrestling promos. 

I was sexually assaulted as a thirteen year old child. This isn’t some bullshit lie I’m pulling out in response to another lazy Carey promo full of excuses about the white glass ceiling, either— this is well documented. Talked about it on a podcast right here in HOW, multiple times. A family friend drugged me, blackmailed me, and forced himself on me multiple times in a fucking trailer and then threatened and intimidated me into keeping my mouth shut until my early twenties. He’s rotting in prison somewhere right now, if he’s even still alive at all, and it isn’t because I sent him up the river. Someone else did. 

Which means he got to do it again. 

Because I was scared to talk. Because I was humiliated. Because I felt violated and confused and terrified. It messed with my sexual identity and my mental health and my self confidence. It inherently changed me a human being. It shaped my personality and my sense of humor and my sense of self, and made it impossible for me to trust older men or people in general. I was afraid to speak up and someone else suffered for it just like I did. I think about it every single day. And do you know what it was JUST LIKE?

It was JUST LIKE WRESTLING, FOLKS. 

My colonization of HOW was JUST LIKE being held down in a filthy bedroom in a run down trailer and having a grown man’s penis forcibly shoved in my mouth, while he kept telling me over and over again to be quiet and I’d probably start to like it. Winning nine HOW World Championships was JUST LIKE being FUCKED IN THE MOUTH AS A THIRTEEN YEAR OLD BOY by a man I thought that I could trust, who kept telling me he loved me and he was sorry while he did it. And challenging Scottywoke and the Hungry Hungry Hippo for fake titles they didn’t earn but feel entitled too is JUST LIKE banging on a locked bathroom door and screaming at a crying little boy about how if he tells his parents, no one is going to believe him. 

You can actually go fuck yourself, Carey. 

This is the first time I’ve ever discussed my assault in an actual wrestling promo, and it’ll be the last time, too. Because I took the worst thing that ever happened to me and I survived it and I used it to make me stronger. I used it to fuel my desire to succeed and overcome the damage that it did to my body and my sense of self. Because I don’t need to use it as a wrestling plot device.  But not you, Carey. You are an eternal excuse machine, who blames every moment of your life that was less than perfect on race, or gender, or trauma. You have never failed at anything in your life, right? 

It’s just systemic oppression.

It’s just the white man keeping you down. 

Two weeks ago at Refueled, when you got knocked clean out in the middle of the ring, it wasn’t by racism. Or sexism. Or oppression. It was my fucking knee that had you looking up at the lights, just like it’s going to be this weekend. You and Scotty stole a victory from me, and then you got on television and made a big dog and pony show about awarding yourself tag team titles to celebrate the occasion. With a cake that has my face on it. That’s why I asked for this match. That’s why I’m taking those titles. That’s why this is happening. 

It’s not fragility. 

It’s fucking WRESTLING. 

Not that you seem to understand literally anything about the sport you’re a Hall of Famer in. Your actions have consequences, not because you’re black, or because you’re a woman, but because you’re an asshole. A pompous, grotesque green Princess Fiona who is failing to understand that this is MY SWAMP. I’ve been standing in it for twelve years, never faltering from the top, while you’ve been out sucking down cheeseburgers and prioritizing anything in the world but professional wrestling. You’re out of shape, out of your element, and out of excuses— and that’s not body shaming, Wokeozuna, this is a sport and you look one stick of gum from being rolled back to the juicing room. Do some fucking squats and then cut a promo about how hard it is out there for women in the business, because there are a lot of women actually taking care of their bodies who haven’t made it half as far as you have on your own name value. 

I don’t know what’s fatter, your ass or your ego. 

Jesus, you had the balls to turn down a match at Rumble at the Rock against a man who slapped you on live television. You’d rather do it on a bigger stage. You’d rather do it at ICONIC. How fucking dare you. A whole roster fighting for a spot on the show, but not Queen Carey, matriarch of the Kingdom of Calories and Excuses. I’ve never met a wrestler in my life who complained so much about having to wrestle. It bet if it was a HoHo on a pole match, you wouldn’t be talking about rape and micro aggressions. 

God, you’re the fucking worst. 

You make me miss Lindsay Troy. 

Yeah, she’s sometimes an annoying bucket of social issues but at least she’s coming from the right place. At least she’s doing it in earnest, trying to make a difference. You don’t care about women. You don’t care about victims. You don’t care about black people. You care about YOU— it’s all about your struggle, your accomplishments, YOU YOU YOU. You brag about being the only black woman in the Hall of Fame, but that shouldn’t be a point of pride for you, it should be a point of sadness. You talk about your struggles, but not what you’ve done to change the industry now that you’re an influential figure in it. Your interest in social issues comes from bragging that you overcame it, not in actually seeing it change. Cause fuck all the other victims, right?

Mama Carey got hers years ago. 

Let them climb on their own. 

Go fuck yourself, Bobbinette. Scooter annoys me, but at least I respect him. At least he comes out fighting and stays consistent. Last week, I beat him with a roll up. With an intelligent wrestling maneuver after a clever feint of the most dangerous move in pro wrestling. A match they only had to take place because you didn’t have the fortitude to accept a tag match outright, and made a bunch of excuses rather than accept the challenge. You did that to him, Carey. You cost him a loss, and then tried to tell him that you guys are a REAL team. He didn’t have to wrestle me one on one last week, but you “deferred” to accept my challenge and I had to go another route. Because you talk about how hard you’ve fought in your career, while eternally trying to avoid having to actually fight. 

Christ, the Hall of Fame should have an expiration date. 

You should have to renew your spot like a driver’s license. It isn’t fair that your ring means just as much as mine, when I’ve consistently taken on all comers for twelve years and you’ve barely shown up to work every time you’ve re-signed. It isn’t fair that we’re treated like equals. I don’t THINK I’m better than you because I’m white, or male, or the son of Lee Best. I KNOW I’m better than you because for a dozen years, I’ve proven it by losing less than a dozen fucking matches. By not being pinned, submitted, or knocked out since the Obama presidency. The color of my skin doesn’t win me matches. Bryan McVay doesn’t yell “THE WINNER OF THIS MATCH BY VIRTUE OF HAVING A PENIS”. And even if my last name has afforded me some opportunities, it was always up to me to capitalize on them, Carey, so shut your entitled mouth. I don’t like hearing you talk and it’s rude to do it while you’re chewing your fucking cud. 

I’m taking those imaginary titles. 

Cecilworth Farthington and I are going to become the unsanctioned 39% HOW Tag Team Champions, and we’re going to do it in the name of every victim who didn’t use their story for personal gain. For every black female wrestler who isn’t in the HOW Hall of Fame. For every survivor of domestic or sexual abuse who didn’t have the privilege of a national platform to use their story as a wrestling gimmick. You should feel absolutely disgusted with yourself right now, for trivializing the men and women of the world who have told their stories to abject silence, and just wanted to be heard. Not to win a wrestling match. Not to garner sympathy for a return to the ring. Not to blame others for their failures. 

Embosser would be disappointed in you, Carey. 

You cried “Me Too” until the movement was wasted. 

 

———————————

“He could have killed me.”

Another hotel. Another strange new bed. Another town full of babies and morons. It was nights like these, staring blankly at whatever is happening on a silent CNN on an oversized lobby television, that he sometimes questioned why he still did this night after night. 

Not wrestling, of course. 

He loved wrestling. There was absolutely nothing in the world that felt like getting into the ring and watching the rest of your life melt away for fifteen minutes. Hell, that had been the worst part of getting into that HOFC cage week after week— three minute long fights didn’t do much for the soul. It was like busting a nut thirty seconds into a one night stand. He had always loved wrestling and he hoped that he always would, so it wasn’t the wrestling that he was questioning. 

It was these petty ass grudge matches. 

“He wanted to break my fucking knee.” Michael mutters, into a stale cup of coffee. “He wanted to end my career. And he could have.”

The lobby is abandoned— bereft of sleep, he’d found himself venting his aggression into another angry Mike Best blog at three o’clock in the morning, when the walls of his room felt like they were closing in. The coffee was terrible, and had obviously not been refreshed… they advertised that it was available 24 hours, but they hadn’t said it would be warm. Or even recent. 

He tosses his phone aside, disgusted as he finishes watching another bullshit Carey promo for the eleventh time. Why did he let her get under his skin? He knew she was full of shit. Farthington knew she was full of shit. Everyone knew she was full of shit but Bobbi herself, but she’d be gone again in a month anyway. What did it matter? Why was he so angry?

Why was he even wrestling them again this week?

Who the fuck wrestles a grudge match Go Home show for fake titles while preparing for a shot at the World Championship? He was facing Conor Fuse in legitimately one of the biggest matches of his career in just two and a half weeks, and Conor sure as fuck wasn’t wrestling this week. He was preparing. Resting his body and waiting to go to war. 

Because he was a smart kid. 

“You got the remote?” Michael hollers toward the front desk, looking around for literally anyone. 

No one. Ghost town. Whatever lazy piece of shit pulled third shift tonight was probably napping in the back, not that anyone could blame him. Anyone with half a brain cell would be sleeping this time of night. He pulls his eyes away from the television, not really giving half a fuck what Brian Laundrie’s neighbor’s best friend thinks happened to Gabby. 

The night was dragging on endlessly. 

Michael tugs at the brace around his knee, readjusting it to protect the moneymaker. He’d tweaked it a little pulling the feint on Scotty, but it was nothing to be too concerned about. Not this time, anyway. He can’t help but wonder how many more times he’ll get lucky enough to fire that thing off before eventually the gun jams up. 

“A fucking roll up.” he grunts. 

Maybe not the most satisfying way to beat a guy who talked about going full Misery on your knees, but a win is a win and unlike the night Solex shit the bed, this one counted for something. Sure, he could have had his career ended by a man with nothing to lose. Sure, it could have fucked up an entire pay-per-view. Sure, it accomplished nothing and Scotty would just be further convinced that a roll up was just a sign of cowardice, instead of a supremely intelligent strategy against a man expecting a knee. But it counts. Another two points in the rankings, and a shot at tag team titles that don’t actually exist. 

This was so goddamned stupid. 

He wrestled Scotty for the rights to pull Cecilworth Farthington into a one week wrestling contract, on the go home show before a World Title match, to face two dipshits for fake championships in a match that won’t count toward rankings, and all just to avenge a birthday cake. Just because someone made fun of him. Just because he can’t stop taking things personally. 

“I’m taking years off my fucking career.” He sighs, taking another sip of cold coffee. 

He winces, setting the shitty paper cup down on the table next to his phone. It was no wonder he couldn’t sleep— even when he wasn’t in the ring, he was seemingly always wrestling with something. 

Standing up from the comfy chair, the Son of God snatches his phone and stuffs it into the pocket of a pair of oversized grey sweatpants. He throws his keycard over his neck, heading for the front doors and out into the open air. He was up to almost a pack a day again— great for his cardio— but it doesn’t stop him from pulling out another death stick and popping it into his mouth under the canopy of the front doors. 

“Years off my career.” He laugh this time, letting a puff of smoke drift out into the night.

Every once of these passing contests was a match he wouldn’t wrestle down the line. Look at guys like Dane and Murray, guys who used to be at the top until they developed string cheese knees to go along with their unstoppable egos. Guys who were wrestling in bingo halls again, because their ability in the ring stopped matching their confidence years ago. Because they couldn’t stop taking the bait. Because they let their egos get in the way and shorten their careers by a fuckin’ decade. 

Even still, he can’t stop but think how great that fake title might look on his left shoulder, along with Big Red on the right. In twelve years, he’d never even kept count of how many times he’d actually been a tag champion. The whole division had been a mess of Best Alliance reigns and freebird confusion, to the point where they were being brought back on television as a stupid bit by faltering Hall of Famers for heat. Here was Scotty in another meaningless tag team, still pretending he cares about tag team wrestling. Here was Carey, pretending to be the voice of reason when she’s the entire reason this bullshit match was even on the table. 

“Wonder how long till they feud.” He chuckles, taking in another lungful of poison. “Fucking marks for themselves.”

He tosses the half smoked cigarette out into the parking lot, watching it smolder itself out in an act that could only be called metaphorical. Another shitty hotel, another shitty town, another shitty grudge match. Someday, he’d figure out how to stop taking it all so personally. How to stop letting one shitty middle school bully hold so much power over his entire adult life. How to pick the matches that matter, and preserve the years left on his career and make the most of the time he has left. Someday. 

For now, he’s going to become a 39% Tag Team Champion. 

Christopher Columbus, eat your heart out.