- Event: Chaos 037
There was a little known proverb, lost to the annals of time, from somewhere in the far east, probably Essex or Slough. This proverb was about how a wise warrior knew when he was fighting a losing battle and should know when it is time to turn tail and run away. Don’t ask what the actual proverb was, it’s lost, isn’t it? They probably lost the episode of TOWIE it was said on. No one knows it any more but the meaning was well known enough. It’s just common sense, isn’t it? Only an idiot would carry on fighting when he knows he’s going to lose…
So on Chaos, Shane Reynolds managed to win the HOTv Championship from Steve Solex. It was a close fight but Reynolds shocked the world to pull out the win, picking up a championship just a few weeks into his return run. He no doubt felt pretty good about himself, after all Solex was one of the top dogs of the federation right now and the HOTv Championship held a lot of prestige. Winning that belt would elevate his upcoming grudge match against Bobinette Carey beyond just a 10 year old bit of stale personal beef to a match with actual stakes, the belt made the beef a succulent Steak Diane, medium rare.
Of course this left Ward’s match with Solex without a title to contest. Their gourmet triple stacked beef burger was certainly an exciting prospect on its own. It wasn’t just about a grudge smouldering for a decade over a captain not magnanimously handing the World Championship to a teammate. This was a fresh and open wound, a rivalry of deadly proportions which the fans were frothing at the mouth to see resolved.
On the one side you had Evan Ward, douchebag of the year, left catatonic after the literal attempted murder by Solex at War Games, seemingly out for revenge against his assailant and potentially wanting to give him a taste of his own medicine… On the other side you have Steve Solex, so furious at Evan Ward for pissing in the Final Alliance’s breakfast (There are rumours that he literally did that. We don’t comment on rumours, but they are true.) and betraying Lee Best’s trust that he tried to kill Evan on live television, and now even more furious that Ward was somehow even more of a douchebag despite being an immobile vegetable, so he’s super pumped to be finishing the job at 97Red.
That is a feud so heated, so explosive (the Warchair’s power supply is a bit unstable) that you would not want to get in the middle of it… but that, dear readers, was exactly what Shane Reynolds did when he stepped into the ring at Chaos. He was too blinkered by his little squabble with Carey that he couldn’t see the predicament he was putting himself in. After what happened once his music hit and he raised that belt, one would hope he now has some inkling of the situation before him. Stuck in the middle of a raging fight between these two, you would have to be an idiot not to duck out the way and let them have at it unimpeded. Reynolds was squarely in the way and it was an absolute certainty that both Evan Ward (and/or Trent) and Steve Solex would be after his blood to get that championship back in contention in their match. But Reynolds wasn’t the idiot in that proverb, that was obviously Trent.
Why would Trent be the idiot you ask? Apart from the fact he’s just generally an idiot, obviously. Just look at the situation he had got himself into. He had somehow become the caretaker of a wrestler who, previous to being catatonic, was totally out of his mind in a self-destructive downward spiral so bad he literally tried to piss everyone off so badly someone would try to beat him to death in a giant wrestling cage. Now Ward was all but comatose and Trent was contractually obliged to follow the instructions laid out to him on some really bad quality VHS tapes. Despite being unable to lift a finger, Ward was still pissing off the roster and, thanks to said tapes, making threats and claims which it was physically impossible for him to back up.
Any sane person would have just walked away from all of this. Somehow it was Trent’s job to get Evan Ward, the Catatonic Calamity, to win wrestling matches. Not just any wrestling matches either, but matches against top tier, legendary athletes known for their extreme, overkill approach to wrestling, in title matches no less! To anyone else, this would be a no-win situation. It would be, as far as common sense goes, the very definition of a losing battle. In his current state, on his own, Evan wouldn’t stand a chance against Solex or Reynolds. Even Brian Hollywood would walk right over him right now. Literally. Ward would just flop on the floor and his opponent could just step on him, which would obviously be bad. Unless you’re into that sort of thing.
But Trent had found himself in the position where he had to take that ragdoll of a man and somehow make him wrestle in one of the most violent, brutal, barbaric federations on the planet. Credit where credit is due, though, Trent has really committed to the part. He deserves to be committed to an asylum for it, but it was commitment nonetheless. He was far too stupid to think he could do anything else and, as anyone who knows Trent knows, he loves getting into massive fights regardless of how bad the odds were.
Trent was fully aware that Evan was out of shape. He had been sitting in the Warchair for weeks without exercise. Ward had managed to win the tag match with Townsend and Trent was certain that had revived some of his muscles and fighting talent, but since then he’d become lazy. No matter how much encouragement the big man gave him, Ward refused to hit the gym. When Trent made him get on the bench and put the barbell in his hand he just lay there turning purple without even trying to pump the iron. What a wimp. Trent had been impressed with how Ward stepped up to the plate on Chaos when they decided to let the former HOTv Champion know he was a fucking idiot for letting the current HOTv Champion beat him, but Trent could tell it took its toll on the little guy. Poor thing looked totally puffed out after just a few minutes out there.
Trent decided it would be best to do some cardio work with Ward to help him get his stamina back up, so he had taken him out jogging. It was a nice and chilly summer’s morning down in Montevideo… Hang on, Uruguay is in the southern hemisphere. Fuck. It was a nice and warm winter’s morning in Montevideo. The sun was shining behind overcast clouds and Prado Park was relatively quiet. A few people were walking through it to their various destinations, some were visiting the few attractions and landmarks within it, a number of people randomly hanging out and not many jogging through it for exercise.
One might think Trent had chosen this particular park because it was a nice, quiet, wooded park, perfect for some exercise and reflection, but one would be wrong. Trent chose it because he was lazy. The not-so-dynamic duo were staying at Hotel de Prado which sat on the northwestern edge of the park. This made it extremely convenient for this little jaunt and would result in the jog finishing at the steps of the hotel. This was definitely not so Trent could do a Wish Dot Com recreation of that scene from Rocky because that would be stupid.
So Trent was jogging along in his gray sweatpants and gray sweatshirt and red bandana alongside Ward who was jogging along wearing much a smaller version of the same outfit. We say jogging but, obviously, we mean driving in his Warchair. Because he can’t jog. Sweat was dripping down Trent’s red face as he jogged and his clothes were beginning to soak through. He really should not have eaten that quadruple ghost-pepper burrito for breakfast.
“Here’s how I fucking see it, dude.” Trent said to his little buddy, who held (via the magic of elastic bands) an untouched burrito in his hand as he ‘jogged’ along. “That emo fuck is going to fucking come at you with a fucking point to prove. He’ll be fucking furious you beat the shit out of him after his title win and be looking for your fucking blood. Wouldn’t be fucking suprised if he gets one of those fucking cult twats to interfere in the fucking match to fucking even the odds against you. Can you fucking imagine?” Trent scoffed. “What kind of fucking cowardly shit would set a fucking grunt on their opponent instead of fucking fighting themselves?”
“….” Ward didn’t say.
Trent threw a sucked look at him. “Dude! This is fucking different! Looking after you is literally my fucking job, ain’t it? If your gonna fucking hold that motherfucking contact over my head I’m gonna fucking follow it by the fucking letter. It fucking says to protect you from fucking harm and help you to fucking wrestle through your fucking injuries. That’s all I’m fucking doing. You’re still the fucker wrestling your matches, I’m just, ya know, a fucking helping hand.”
“….” Ward didn’t respond.
“No, dude, you fucking have it all wrong.” Trent huffed as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “I was fucking helping you hit your fucking moves. You’re a fucking high flying lunatic, dude, half your fucking moves are flippy shit. What the fuck do you expect me to do other fucking lob you at assholes? You’re gonna have to get fucking used to it, dude, we’re gonna have to get fucking hardcore if ya wanna fucking get that title and defend it down in that fucking prison island.”
“….?” Ward didn’t ask.
“Nooo, not fucking Alcatraz,” Trent replied. “Fucking Australia, dude. The OG fucking prison island. You fucking know what Solex is going to do to you, he’s a fucking known quantity ain’t he? Solex will try to fucking kill you. Again. That’ll be fucking intense. The fucking shape you’re in, that’ll be a fucking tough match, but lucky you you got a fucking perfect warm up match against Shane. I mean, Shane’s ain’t a fucking bad wrestler. He’s fucking old school extreme, fucking flying off skyscrapers way back fucking two decades in SSE when I was fucking tearing up shit. That fucking place made HOW look fucking soft. Fucking pyramid cages and scaffold matches over fucking pits of spiky objects, the flaky fucks didn’t get stabbed in the eye they got fucking blown up with C4. Dude can take a fucking beating. So calling him a fucking warm up match? Fucking relative. It’s a fucking warm up in a bloody furnace before you jump into the fucking pits of hell.”
“….!” Ward would have exclaimed if he could.
Trent stopped and looked at Ward with a frown. “Fucking hell, dude, you fucking serious?”
“….” Ward should have replied.
“I fucking told you to go before we fucking left! For fuck’s sake.” Trent looked around but they weren’t particularly close to a bush. “Urgh. Fuck it, I can’t see anyone paying a fucking bit of attention.” Trent pressed a button on the top of the chair and it flushed.
“….” Ward would have sounded relieved.
“Now don’t fucking make us stop again.” Trent said as he began to joke and the Wartoilet trundled along beside him. “Now where the fuck was I?”
“ARGH!” Yelled a jogger behind them, slipping over on the trail of shit. “WHAT THE FUCK?!”
“Ah, yeah.” Trent continued, oblivious to a second pedestrian falling atop the first victim of the oil slick from Ward’s ass. “Fucking Reynolds. You gotta be on fucking form, dude, you gotta bring your fucking A game or he’ll fucking beat you just like he beat that fucking gun toting Dishonourable Discharge Ken doll last week.”
“….” Ward didn’t make an accusation.
“I wasn’t my fucking fault!” Trent tried not to sound overly defensive, but failed. “You fucking wanted us on commentary and it was your fucking idea to do that fucking America gets shot bullshit.”
“…” Ward didn’t correct Trent.
“Yeah it fucking well was,” Trent was adamant, you could see it in his face that he wasn’t going to take any shit from this silent catatonic shitmachine on wheels (an old lady had just become the 3rd victim, she might have broken a hip.) “I watched that fucking video, the one labeled fucking ‘Instructions: PPV Opponent In Title Defence Who Happens To Be The Person Who Injured Me Brackets Obviously Clyd Boyd Close Brackets.’ Dude, I don’t fucking know why you wrote the fucking word ‘Brackets’ on there like you were fucking dictating the label. And why the fuck was it in my handwriting? Fucking little plagiarising shit. Anyway, it clearly fucking told me to fucking piss him off doing some fucking commentary bullshit. It’s not my fucking fault I was too fucking good at it!”
“….” Ward didn’t say firmly.
“Oh, well fuck, yeah, you must have fucking told me to do that fucking America shit when I was fucking tripping.” Trent admitted. “Your fucking vision ghost trip told me to fucking do it. That was some real fucking good shit I smoked that night. But you gotta fucking admit, that was classic fucking television.”
“…” Ward didn’t complain.
“Pfft, everyone’s a fucking critic.” Bemoaned the big man. “But even fucking so, it ain’t my fucking fault. We all fucking thought Solex was a fucking shoe-in to win. Reynolds ain’t the fucking rust bucket every fucker thought. Dude’s not as fucking spry as he used to fucking be, that’s for fucking sure but fucker ain’t letting that stop him, right? But, dude, it’s fucking fine. Like I fucking told ya, this is a perfect fucking tune up match for you. Get you back in the fucking swing of shit.” Trent ignored the lady who swung her foot through the shit and accidentally kicked it in the face of a nearby kid. “This fucking workout now’s sure to have got your fucking stamina up a bit, you’re looking fucking puffed already, dude.”
A bump in the path had caused the burrito to jump out of Ward’s hand and into his face. Ward may be catatonic, but ghost chillis to the eyes still made him weep.
“Let’s fucking wrap this up and go light a fucking joint.” Trent proclaimed as they reached the steps of the hotel. “Fucking hit it!” Trent slapped a button on the Warchair. It flushed again. “Shit, wrong fucking button.” He hit another button and speakers popped out the back and raised on hydraulic arms above Ward’s head.
Doooo duh-duh-dooo, duh-duh-doo-duh-duh-doo, duh-duh-duh-doo-doo-doo duh-duh-duh-doo-doo-dooooo… DUH-DUH-DOOOOOOOOOO, DUH-DUH-DOOOOOOO! DUH-DUH-DOOOOOOOOO, DUH-DUH-DOOOO!
Trent started jogging in the spot and throwing punches around in a circle before running up the steps and throwing his hands in the air like an idiot. They really weren’t that big of a set of steps. A dozen or so at most. Meanwhile, Ward’s chair spins around doing a really bad impression of Trent doing an awful impression of a famous movie. The Warchair lurches forward at the steps, its tank tracks gripping on and lifting the chair up as it surges up the steps. But only a few steps as it topples over backwards, the steps were too steep and the oversized speakers made the chair too top heavy. It fell over with a hard crash which scared any birds out the trees which hadn’t been scared away by the music or Trent’s Rocky impression.
“Fuck! You fucking okay, dude?” Asked a very concerned Trent. Ward stared up at the sky, unmoving and undisturbed by the impact or the pile of human excrement his headrest landed in. “Yeah, you’re fucking fine. Fucking see you inside, dude!”
And so, we leave our heroes, for one to go get wasted and eat burgers and pizza as celebration for 15 minutes jogging in a park, while the other was left stuck in a tipped over Warchair, tank tracks spinning impotently while painting the hotel steps brown. Trent really was not a good caretaker. After that intense workout regime Evan Ward was now exercised and back in shape, in far better shape than he ever had been all week. He was ready to get in that ring and tackle Shane Reynolds head-on in the most explosive and intense battle of extreme, high risk, high flying escapades ever in on Sunday Night Chaos. Shane Reynolds had never faced an opponent like the Catatonic Calamity before and that would be his downfall… Yeah, right.