I Can’t Wait To Fuck You Up

I Can’t Wait To Fuck You Up

Posted on May 20, 2022 at 11:51 pm by Clay Byrd

Man… The Board couldn’t possibly have a more original idea. 




Fucking foolproof plan. Probably run out another bullshit referee, make a bunch of stipulations about The Highwaymen getting involved. Hell, probably my entire War Games team. Oh I know, you’ll come up with some bullshit hardcore extreme stipulation that greatly benefits Scottywood. Oh I know! We’ll fight with fucking hockey sticks in the middle of Madison Square Garden and I’ll have to wear a Sidney Crosby jersey and let each member of the EPU punch me in the head before the bell rings so I can be just as concussed as the Penguins captain. 


You know what Scott? I’ve been here a year and we’ve never stepped foot in the same ring. Even last year at War Games, I was already gone by the time you showed up and almost got your face cleaved in two by Arthur Pleasant. Let’s talk about that little pale dipshit for a second, how did you let that little weirdo fuckhead walk around with a piece of your skin in a vial and not have anything to say to him? 


I mean, I get it, you had this elaborate scheme where Carey was going to cost you the world title so you two had an excuse to fight. Then after you guys fought, and with your revenge right there, you decided that hugging it out was better for both of you. I mean it’s touching, but there was a guy running around with your skin in a fucking vial like you two were some Megan Fox and MGK bullshit. I mean I don’t think Arthur Pleasant looks anything like Megan Fox, but you get the drift. See Scott, that’s the difference between us. I’m a fucking man, I handle my issues and problems. You let them roll on by, Arthur Pleasant wearing a vial, Bobbinette Carey fucking up the World Heavyweight Championship. I mean, it’s what you do, just take one on the chin and keep on moving on, looking for the next way to make yourself a bigger cuck. 


See if Bobbinette Carey was my bestest friend in the whole wide world, she wouldn’t have cost me the world title in the first place. My friends, my family, my brothers are going to war with me Scott. And they know at the end we’ll walk out of those two cages in the middle of war torn Ukraine with the #97RED leather. Because that’s what family fucking does Scott. It doesn’t do whatever bastardized bullshit you and Bobbinette did at March To Glory, it doesn’t betray you when you’re on the precipice of a career defining moment. It doesn’t take away the one thing that would validate you. 


Scott, that’s not family. That’s an infection. She took the World Championship from you, she took victory over Mike Best from you, she took everything from you… and you made her bleed? That’s not quid pro quo Scott. There’s no bonus points for turning the other cheek in High Octane. You didn’t magically shoot up the rankings, you didn’t magically end up in a world title match… You just ended up being known as the guy that’s Bobbinette Carey’s little bitch.


Bobbinette should have been helping you hunt down Arthur Pleasant to wrestle that stupid fucking vial from him. You two should have been chomping at the bit to beat him half to death so you could get the piece of you that moron kept with him everywhere he fucking went. Instead we had a reveal, Bobbinette Carey popped the balloon and the only thing revealed was that Scottywood was a bitch. 


You should have powerbombed that bitch and ripped her fucking eye out for betraying you. She robbed you of everything Scott, she robbed you of your last chance, she robbed you of your manhood, that bitch took everything from you and you’re still her little lap dog. If by some fucking miracle she manages to make it into War Games she’ll probably stab you in the back the first chance she gets. And you’ll be there to give her a big hug afterwards and tell her she tried really hard after she lost. Because the hardcore artist is the softcore cuck. You little bald headed goblin looking troglodyte, I can’t wait to fuck you up. 



The lake was quiet, the waves barely more than a ripple. The aluminum hull of the boat glided carefully through it. The sunset reflected off the green water in the distance, but perched to strike was Steve Solex. Clay manned the rudder while Scotty stood on the other side peering into the murky depths below. Steve stood incredibly still, nothing moved at all, not even a muscle twitch in the face. Scotty grinned ear to ear while The Behemoth grimaced. 


How he’d let himself get dragged into this was beyond him, one moment he was smashing a heavy bag with his hands wrapped, the next Solex was hustling he and Scotty out of the house. Clay eyed up the cooler 


“We’re here…” Clay looked around at the random nondescript spot on the lake that Solex had decided was ‘here.’ Scotty and Steve both readied the rods and reels, Solex passed one to Clay along with a PBR. 


“So what’s here?” Clay asked Solex as he waved his arms, motioning to the general vicinity of the boat. He took the rod in his hands gingerly, the bandages were reminders of the torturous experience with the sledgehammer and tire only a week before. 


“Nothing,” Solex said as he tossed the line out into the water. Clay nodded, the whirlwind of a week the two men had experienced called for a relaxing evening. Clay took a moment and tossed his own line in, eventually the third ‘plop’ into the water could be heard as Scotty finally managed to get his in. 


“So what’s the plan?” Solex asked as the two men and a teenager sat in the boat. Clay smirked and shrugged his shoulders. 


“Ain’t really got one, and even if I did, they’d figure out how ta fuck it up, GOD always does,” Clay said as he reeled in his line. Solex nodded slowly, Scotty finally chimed into the conversation. 


“Why do you guys call Lee GOD?” The Behemoth cringed while Solex looked a bit perplexed behind the kids back.


“Bad question, adults talking, keep fishing,” Solex said as he tossed his line back into the lake. Clay smiled for the first time in weeks. Clay finally popped the tab on his own PBR. 


“So you got one?” Clay asked Solex, the #1 Dad smiled and shook his head back and forth indicating a ‘no.’ He smacked Scotty in the back of the head and pointed to his posture. 


“Nope Clay, I guess if those fuckers come, we’ll handle them,” Solex mused, running his free hadn through his mustache. Clay smiled, this wasn’t a typical fight like last year. Nothing about this was typical. A roster the MOB had set up, being captained by Mike Best and Lee Best. The tactics had all been different from the violence that was Lee’s typical calling card. Last year The Best Alliance would try to play the numbers against the 214 every chance they got. This was getting picked apart. 


“It ain’t been like that for awhile Steve, they play the head games. They stack the deck, more than we ever did. Mike is a fucking cancer of a human being. He’s not even trying to give an illusion of fighting fair. It’s just whatever bullshit he sees fit. Just like this fuckin’ match with Scott,” Clay pops the cooler open, grabbing a second PBR out of the ice. 


“Figure it’s like this, they wanna throw us off our game. We picked Scott for our team, cause he looks like he’s one of us, acts like he’s one of us, but he was never one of us. Little fucking dork got himself mauled by Jace Parker Davidson,” Clay smirked. 


“Ya think he forgot we picked him and he lost?” Clay asked. 


“No way,” Solex said with a smirk and an eye roll. 


“So what’s the point of bein’ out here ‘gain?” Clay questioned as he cranked the reel in again and recast. 


“Just wanted to show you how much Scottywood was going to matter at War Games…” Solex smirked as Clay cracked up laughing. 




The Behemoth looked into the darkness, the sun had finally set on the lake. Scotty and Steve were getting the truck into position to put the boat on the trailer. 


“Men know how to trailer a boat,” Solex’s words rang out all around the state park they had been fishing in. Clay scouted the area, Steve was dead set on having Scott Stevens-Solex Jr. help him with the task so it would surely take forever. 


“They say it don’t fall far from the tree,” Clay mumbled as he walked up the path. His Best Alliance bag was slung over his shoulder as he made his way up the driveway. Suddenly, directly behind him Clay could hear footsteps. He turned, expecting there to be no one there. Instead he was face to face with his father. Or at least the visage of his father. 


“Been awhile,” Robert Byrd said to his son. Clay shrugged his shoulders and marched ahead anyway, forward up the path. The visage of Robert Byrd followed right along with him, the two Byrd men in lock step formation. 


“Ya never been able ta follow me before,” Clay stated dryly. He hadn’t been to his own vehicle in months. Since that night in Chicago at March To Glory. That ride home was the last night the two Byrd men had enjoyed each other’s company. 


“Never wanted ta,” Robert sighed. “You always had your eyes on the prize boy, you always had your eyes set on Mike Best and the rest of the family. All of this War Games nonsense, what’s the point of all of this?” 


“Get the 97RED belt, keep the 97RED belt, ya end up gettin’ Mike,” Clay stated matter of factly, finally he turned around into the driveway and came face to face again with the specter. Clay held his arms out wide, he looked absolutely enormous, but Robert Byrd wasn’t phased. He was a ghost after all. 


“What the fuck do you want?!” Clay roared at the ghostly visage, and the visage shook it’s head. 


“I want you to get your revenge Clay, I want you to take something that matters to Michael Lee Best, I want you to hurt something he cares about, because he hurt you,” and then Robert’s voice cracked. “And I can’t hurt him for it.” 


Robert’s pale blue eyes met his son’s own pale blue eyes and the knowing eye contact between a father and a son was enough to send Clay backing down. The Behemoth sighed, he had to remind himself that Robert wasn’t as he said: ‘omniscient.’ 


“Plus, the only thing Mike Best cares ‘bout isn’t just Mike Best anymore,” Clay bragged.


“What, he get another girlfriend? Start snorting cocaine up his nose again? What could possibly be more important to Michael Lee Best than Michael Lee Best?” Robert Byrd questioned. 


“Well, he’s got a kid,” Clay said, he held out his hand to his father whose eyes were as wide as saucers. “And he’s in War Games.” 


“Son of a bi…” The old fashioned truck pulled right through Robert’s ghost. Scotty quickly crawled to the middle of the bench seat as Clay walked around to the passenger side. He lifted his bag up and put it in the back of the truck before jumping in the cab. Scotty Stevens-Solex Jr. might have had the most uncomfortable ride of any human being to ever exist. Wedged between one three-hundred pound goliath and Steve Solex’s muscular two-hundred and fifty pounds. 


“Who were you talking to Clay?” Scotty asked, clearly confused by the scene that had appeared in the headlights of the truck moments ago. Solex patted the teenager on the shoulder. 


“Bad question,” Solex said. Clay could feel Steve’s eyes on him as he turned up the country music. The three drove on, and on, the road to Springfield felt abnormally longer than it needed to. Finally Scotty fell asleep, his head slumped straight ahead. Solex turned the country music down and looked at Clay again. 


“Who were you talking to Clay?” Solex asked, his eyes bored a hole in Clay. 


“It’s a long story,” Clay tried to avoid the subject but Solex pressed on. 


“I got all the time in the world.” 


Inside the bag in the bed of the truck a small red orb finally dimmed and faded to black.