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What the FUCK are you on about, Jatt?
That’s the first time I’ve ever skimmed something with my own fucking name on it, so hey, I’ll give you that. That’s an accomplishment, I guess. What an inconsistent mess of words that was, holy shit. This is the golden child of the golden era? This is the guy that my Dad felt so insecure about? This is the ultimate Hall of Famer?
What an absolute joke.
Cause it’s all just a joke to you, huh?
Hey, we’re headed to Tombstone so I guess I’ll be a cowboy now. That’s it. That’s the essence of Jatt Fucking Starr headed into Dead or Alive. If I wanted to watch a western themed robot stumble through some semblance of a plot, I’d be up to date on Westworld, you out-of-ideas, tired catchphrase having ass bitch. I’ve spent this entire last couple months trying to force you to be a Starr, but you aren’t capable of that anymore, are you?
Not incapable of being Jatt, maybe.
But certainly incapable of being a star.
Talking about how I gave myself the ICON Title. Motherfucker, I WON WAR GAMES. You might have missed it, since by that point you were already in an Uber back to your hotel, but I did something you haven’t done in mine or my father’s entire HOW career. I’ve accomplished more in two months than you’ve accomplished in two eras, so put a little respect on my name while you’re busy doing your best Clay Byrd/Zeb Martin impersonation. Or don’t, honestly I don’t really give a fuck, because I certainly don’t respect you, Jatt.
Give me a reason that I should.
I’m eighteen years old. Do you know what that means? It means that I was six years old the last time you held the HOW World Championship. For twenty five days. The only World Title you won this era, and you held it for less than a fucking month. I was six years old when my father stabbed your cunt wife in the eye with a ballpoint pen and destroyed your family. I was six years old when my grandfather kicked you out of the Best Alliance and literally sacrificed you to his own son. I was six years old when Jatt Starr died, and this entire era has been a sad trip down memory lane with a man apparently suffering from fucking dementia.
Do you not remember what my family did to you?
No, no, I know you spent a half cup of coffee talking about how “that was a long time ago”, but you’re either an absolute fucking cuckold to my family or your dementia-addled brain really doesn’t seem to have a clue exactly what we have collectively done to you. Do you not remember watching Bethany Sparrow writhe uncontrollably on the floor in that solitary block, screaming for you to help her? Do you not remember being held at the arms, forced to watch? Do you not remember having your entire life stripped away from you, and then being cast out of not only the Alliance, but the entire company?
And you’re playing cowboy?
And talking about strippers?
My father had his retirement match against fucking Clay Byrd. Against West Texas K-Mart Kostoff. He was on this roster from the day you tried to resurrect your career until March to Fucking Glory. He laid out open challenges for literal deathmatches. Held the HOW World Championship for almost a calendar year, begging for challengers. You could have even had him in a HOFC cage, Jatt– you could have jumped HIM on Chaos. You could have come for HIS title, and HIS legacy. You could have gotten your revenge for years of abuse at the hands of the Best Family, but what did you do?
You dressed up as a girl.
Hired a rabbit with a speech impediment.
Threw piss balloons.
Worst of all, you sucked Best dicks like the Fountain of Youth lived somewhere just beyond their Vas Defrens and you desperately wanted to be young. You went back to the Alliance. You said all those nice words about my dad, when he retired. You prayed at the Altar of Best like they didn’t literally ruin your life and destroy your marriage. My father pissed in your mouth and you thanked him, Jatt. You begged him for more. You’ve had over a decade to be a man and get your vengeance, and you simpered and begged like a purse dog waiting for someone to give them a bone.
And then you attacked his son?
ELL EMM AYYY OHH, motherfucker.
My grandfather looks like the least fuckable member of ZZ Top and my dad has more white in his beard than a Rabbi at a gloryhole, but your decisive choice was to come after the one member of the Best family who is in his athletic prime? The motherfucker who won War Games? The guy who only gave up his undefeated streak in HOW because it was funnier to watch you get your ass beat? And not only are you stupid as fuck, but you’re gonna be lazy about it, too?
Jokes about Gen Z, Jatt?
In the twelve years since your entire life was lit on fire and thrown off a bridge, the best you’ve come up with is a six shooter full of paintballs and the same tired trash everyone talks about my family. Bests are evil, boo them. The son is entitled, boo him. Throw in a little “these kids today” and a hip reference to kombucha, and we always forget that Jatt Starr, Simon Sparrow, Blue Thunder, whatever you wanna call him… he’s out of shit.
You’re just out of shit, man.
You are a charisma void, like you made a deal with the devil in 2002 to be the greatest promo in the business, but now he’s come to collect on your deal. A fucking vaccum– outer space or Dyson, take your pick cause you can’t retain heat and you fucking suck. Have I used that joke before? I honestly don’t remember, and you aren’t worth going back to look. Let’s just call it a clever homage to a man who made one good joke two decades ago, and has just been repeating it and putting it on shirts ever since.
Look, I understand that this isn’t the “money promo”.
I understand that I’m supposed to sell the allure of “Jatt Starr” and try to drag that old alter ego out of you. I understand that I’m supposed to say “I DON’T WANT SIMON SPARROW… I WANT…. JATT STARR!” and all the half-morons in the crowd are supposed to cheer.
I’m supposed to pretend that a different name is gonna be anything more than a cheap coat of paint on a rusted out car. But fuck the money promo, do you know why we’re forcing you to go by “JATT STARR” at Dead or Alive?
Its name value.
Marketing recognition.
ROI, all part of the corporate machine. The nicknames aren’t fun anymore, they’re sad. Like watching a sixty year old wrestler at a comic con with a banner still calling himself “The Kid”. Everyone and their mother (well, except Gilda) knows that I’m gonna smack you around Tombstone like you forgot to pay your pimp, and we’re forcing “JATT STARR” on the billing because maybe twelve more people might buy the pay-per-view because they remember your name back from when the Statue of Liberty was still bronze.
No one gives a fuck about Simon Sparrow.
At least “Jatt Starr” has a little juice left in it.
I am literally making you a Starr because you’re incapable of doing it on your own anymore. And this cowboy baby tantrum is just plain embarrassing. All of this has been embarrassing. The pointless, outdated pop culture references. The stupid fake accent and cowboy outfit. The weird, off putting attempts to both seem young and relevant while also trying to be an old man on his porch telling the kids to stay off his lawn. You’re an inconsistent turd, literal verbal diarrhea forced from a tired sphincter so worn out from years of abuse at the hands of my family that it doesn’t have the tensile strength to hold it back anymore.
You’re not even a piece of shit anymore, Jatt.
You lack the fiber and the solidity.
You can’t beat me on a mic. You can’t beat me in a blog. You can’t beat me in the ring. You would not, should not, in a boat. You will not, can not, aren’t the GOAT. You came for the kid because you were afraid of my father and you saw his seed as an easy target, but let me assure you that you made a tremendous mistake. Cause see, my dad was content to ruin your family, end your marriage, and flush your career down the toilet. But me? I guess I have to keep saying this, over and over.
I am not my father.
Michael Lee Best is a fucking pussy. For as reviled and despised as he is across the wrestling business, he has this simpering angel on his shoulder that’s always telling him to stop just short of doing something meaningful. He writes shitty Tweets and says mean things and makes jokes about abortion clinics. He never had the stones to go far enough. He cried when he severed Chris Kostoff’s head from his fucking shoulders with a garden shovel. He even felt bad enough about what he did to you all those years ago that he humored your sad ass return to HOW, but not me, Jatt. Johnson and Johnson, bitch, no more tears— it’s a new era of Best.
I’ll take you off this plane of existence.
And I’ll feel nothing.
Roll your little wheelchair bitch down to the ring with you, too. Let me finish the job my father started, and we can bury you in a plot with Bethany and the career of Jatt Starr, which have been festering in a fucking hole in the ground for over a decade anyway. I’ll slash her tires and dump her over the stage. I’ll beat her to death with your fucking spurs that are such a funny joke. I’ll jam a fist so deep inside her crusty cunt that I can work her mouth like a ventriloquist dummy, just so you can hear her call you a disappointment one last time before I sent her to meet her mother.
But keep cracking jokes.
Keep playing cowboy.
The show is Dead or Alive, Jatt, but I’m happy to take away your multiple choice— ain’t enough space in this universe for the burned out Starr orbiting the Son. There isn’t enough room around here for half the deadweight old timers who see fit to use this place as a playground to “get their flowers” and take their final lap, either. Kostoff? Yeah, my grandfather is gonna fucking kill him, Jatt. He’s gonna physically end his life. It’s this trait that the Best Family seems to have, whether my father wants to admit it or not.
We are a wildfire, Jatt..
We burn out the old wood.
My grandpa, he thinks you’re the greatest thing since sliced bread. He always has. Thinks you’re fucking hilarious. Thinks you’re a killer. And maybe it’s his shitty dead eye, but he has just never seen the sad parody of yourself that you’ve become. He’s blind to it, like a husband who doesn’t realize what a fucking manatee his wife has become over their twenty years of marriage. To Lee Best, you’ll always be the same Jatt that got into the Hall of Fame in 2005. Left to his own devices, grandpa would keep thumbing you into unearned title matches like a half-soft cock. But I’m gonna be really clear with you, Jatt Starr.
I don’t give a single fuck about you.
If it was my job to sell this pay-per-view, I’d have a PWA contract by now and they’d have stuck me in the main event. So don’t get excited, thinking I’m gonna hype machine you the way that my father used to love to do so much. It isn’t coming. No “I secretly respect you”. No swerve where once the cameras are off, I admit that I’m sweating this match. No moment where it all “clicks” and I recognize everything you achieved when porn still fit on those old floppy disks. You’re a beat up old man playing cowboy at the OK BOOMER Corral, and I’m gonna fucking destroy you. I’m going to show the world what a has-been looks like. I am younger, faster, smarter, and better than you in every single way and you are not going to beat me at Dead or Alive.
You aren’t, Jatt.
Just stop.
Stop trying to build up to some big rally point where you trick yourself into believing that you aren’t walking into the end of your career. Stop lying to the seven people on earth who still buy tickets to watch you say words and do things. Stop insulting the intelligence of the modern wrestling fans, who realize that Jattlantis sunk into the fucking ocean 97 years ago. It’s fitting that your final match will take place in Tombstone, Jatt Starr, because I am going to fucking bury you.
It’s over.
It’s been over for a long time.
Pew pew, motherfucker.