I Gambled & Lost, Now A Lottery

Honestly… where the fuck do I start?

This seriously might be the toughest thing to write in my entire career.

Like what the fucking firetruck was that shit?

I kneed another fucking drink…

So after thirteen years of having my back… of being what I thought was my fucking friend.  I put everything I had on the line for that title shot Carey… EVERYTHING!  I had a chance to do something that no one in this era of HOW can claim, pin Mike Best… after I already did something NO ONE has done yet… kick out of Mike’s knee. 

But we couldn’t have that Carey… could we?

You can spew out all the fucking excusses you want.  Reason after reason why you were justified in stabbing me in the fucking back so you can feel better about what you did.  You can claim I didn’t care enough about you, that I was too focused on Mike, that I didn’t seem upset when you may have been dead at Alcatraz.

For someone who has become obsessed with woman empowerment, you’re really being a needy emotional bitch right now.  We both know all that is fucking bullshit… and no one in HOW is buying it for a fucking second.

Like I told Jackie boy, you knew exactly who the fuck you were teaming with when you didn’t, but really did come back a few months ago.  I’m an emotionless fuck who only cares about hurting people.  It’s not a very difficult concept for most people to get through their fucking heads.  So to even agree to team up with you Carey, to not want to tear the fucking flesh off your body with barbed wire… should have shown you beyond any doubt how I feel… how I felt about you.

Sure Carey, keep claiming that it was you that elevated me to this level in HOW… but I didn’t need you when I took Mike to his fucking limit in HOFC months ago… and it was me that pinned Solex in our tag team match.  But sure, keep… what do you call it?  Gaslighting? … or whatever fucking term you have for marginalizing my achievements.

The truth Carey… the fucking truth is that you realized that the Bobbinette Carey that came back to HOW this year is not the same Carey that was here before.  That won the HOW World Title, twice!  That won War Games and was inducted into the HOW Hall of Fame.  Everyone else can use the tired ass excuses that Shane really won you that War Games and World Title… or that your Hall of Fame induction means less than others… but fuck them.  The Bobbinette Carey of old was a fucking beast and one of the best HOW has ever seen.

This Carey though… this Carey has been a fucking let down.  You got sucked right back into the same old shit with Mario… except this time, you have somehow managed to get booed for standing up to a man whose whole schtick was abusing women.  You know how much of a cunt you have to be to pull that off in twenty twenty-one.  One with a capital fucking C… that’s how much.

You saw this too Carey, you saw this and the fact that I wasn’t the same Scooter, who would just tag alongside you.  I was the alpha of our team now.  I was the Starr of our team and you couldn’t fucking handle that.  I was getting the credit for beating Mike and Solex… cause I deserved it.  I was getting the calls for interviews… cause no one wanted to hear your annoying ass voice.  I was getting the World Title shot at Mike Best… because I fucking deserved it… even if I had to give up the only bargaining chip I had left to get it.

I really thought you were smarter than this… that is my real fault Carey… thinking you had any brains left in your fucking head.  Your dumb ass ruined the only good thing you had in HOW.  For what?  A moment in the spotlight?  For a week of everyone talking about you?  Open your fucking eyes Carey and look past the now… look forward to when I get my hands on you.  You’re certainly not gonna consent to the absolute fucking ass kicking I am going to give you.  Then everyone will be talking about you for one last time… you’ll just sadly not be able to understand any of it.  Save a bed next to whatever hospital Mario is in, because you’re gonna need it soon.

I let you have last week, I was processing… I was drinking… a lot.  Plus it was actually quite enjoyable watching you beat the shit out of Mose… plus then watching you flip out after just hearing my music… wow Carey.  I wasn’t even in the fucking building!  Plus did you really think I would have had my music play before I attacked you?  For fuck sakes!

I really did fucking underestimate just how fucking dumb you were…

That brings us to this week Carey… you scared?  About what I’m gonna do to you when I actually do come to the arena?  No… no….  It’s Lethal Lottery week Carey and trust me, as much as I want to spill so much of your blood on the canvas that it makes your period look like a fucking paper cut… possible HOW title shots win my focus.  No, you should be scared about actually having to wrestle a match by yourself.  No partner to carry you… to hide your faults.  

Like what if you get eliminated first from the battle royal?  What if Sektor or JJR beat you in under a minute and barley break a fucking sweat?  What if Mike Best knees your fucking face off?  I’m certain you aren’t gonna be able to kick out of that shit.

Oh Mike… you lucky fucking bastard.  I kicked out of your fucking knee… and it took a referee who makes Ray Charles look like he has twenty-twenty vision plus a vengeful bitch for you to beat me and retain your title.  Yes, a win is a fucking win Mike, I won’t be a fucking hypocrit… you beat me… but don’t you be a hypocrit now and say that it was real.

We both thought this would be over after that match. That there would be nothing left in our story… and that would have been true if one of us beat the other clean.  If Stevens was in any way a capable referee.  I mean you know what they say, those who can’t wrestle… can’t fucking referee either!  You were supposed to control this match Stevens… the biggest match of twenty twenty-one in HOW and you fucking failed!  You let Bobbinette Carey fucking ruin it… and now… now what was supposed to be finished… is far from over.

What if I draw Mike Best this week.  What if we go one more time and I actually beat him?  Oh that would be fucking hilarious, cause Carey will have thrown everything away for what?  NOTHING!  Fucking nothing Carey!  And I will still murder your ass for stabbing me in the fucking back.

I’ve proven to everyone in HOW that I belong at the top of the card.  That I, more than anyone can compete with the fucking GOAT of HOW, Mike Best.  So you may have thought you cost me my last chance at the HOW World Title Carey… but you didn’t.  I know I can win it… and without the anchor that is Bobbinette Carey holding me down… that title will be mine again.  While you Carey, you’re gonna be stuck opening shows, feuding with Zion over who is the biggest loser.  Sadly that’s about the only fight I think you can win in HOW these days.

That and maybe who has the biggest collection of plastic toys in HOW.  Yeah Carey, I know, your toys are your best friends… not because you think men are toxic and horrible and they can do a better job… but because no man wants to stick their dick in such a fucking bitch.  Yes, get angry Carey, get pissed off and triggered… because I want you to feel just a fraction of how I feel after you ruined what could have been the greatest day of my fucking life!

I’m gonna let you survive until ICONIC, because I wanna see you wipe the floor with that waste of a human Mario.  Plus why waste my time on someone even you Carey can fucking destroy.  It’s the very least you can do after all the bullshit you have dragged me through over the past two months… only to STAB ME IN THE FUCKING BACK!!!

Then after Carey… after you fucking die.  Or at the very least you will wish for fucking death after the pain I inflict on you.  Never before have you been on this side of The Hardcore Artrist… and soon you are gonna beg… beg motherfucker beg to never have.

Manchester, England
December 3rd, 2021

Scotty looks down at his taped up hand, the blood still penetrating the bandages that cover the wound the two broken beer glasses caused yesterday at Carey’s Pub.  Fuck that Jack Dawson dude.  I mean he made some good points, but they weren’t anything The Hardcore Artrist needed told to him, as if he was some kind of fucking idiot.

It was the end of a shitty couple weeks in Ireland, most that he doesn’t fucking remember after the loss… yes the loss to Mike Best.  Fucking eh that is a hard to swallow.  But it is in the past and Scotty has moved on to Manchester, the home of this week’s Refueled and Lethal Lottery show.  A chance at redemption, a possible second chance… or like fifth fucking chance at Mike Best.  Or maybe a real second chance against JJR… or maybe the opportunity to reclaim his LSD Title for the sixth time.  There are too many variables to try and prepare for each one….

Besides, when has Scotty ever been known for actually preparing?  Yeah, let’s hit the fucking gym bro!

Show up and fucking fight, that has been his strategy for years now.  Admittedly, things could have been better, but no one can argue he hasn’t put up a tidy little resume with this approach either.

So as usual, Scotty has found himself at a pub.  Not one named anywhere remotely after Carey though this time.  Honestly I don’t even think he knows the name of the one he walked into.  They have beer… and that is all that matters today.

The bartender places a pint of some IPA down as Scotty quickly grabs it with his non-bloodied left hand and takes a much needed drink.  Tomorrow is a shit day, the birthday of someone who turned Scotty’s life upside down.  Someone that Scotty once trusted… but would also turn their back on The Hardcore Artist.

No, not Bobbinette Carey, her birthday is in March.

No, not Lee Best, even though it is actually his birthday coincidentally.

But it wouldn’t be a very far walk to make either of them fit that statement too.  

Fuck, he really has a horrible sense of who he should trust in life.  Does his back just have a giant bullseye on it and a sign that says stab me here”?  No wonder he seems to rather work on his own.  You can’t get stabbed in the back if you never trust anyone.

He’s even sent Frankie back home to the states.  Mainly because he is such a mess after Bobbinette’s turn… but part because what happens when Frankie finally thinks it’s time to step out of the shadows of his father and try and grab the spotlight.  He’s done with the fucking distractions.

Except for beer… beer can always distract him he thinks as he takes a nice long drink of his IPA.

Whose birthday is it?  That isn’t important… they are no longer important.  What is important is to have some drinks today, power through the fourth and get ready for the fifth, for Refueled, for the Lethal Lottery.  Great, you kicked out of Mike Best’s knee two weeks ago… what are you going to do this week?  How are you going to take that momentum and continue it.  How are you not going to shoot yourself in the fucking foot and limp off into fucking despair.

The past is dead and gone… there is no use agonizing over what happened… when you need to focus on what can happen… what will happen.  The future is the only thing that you can do something… not everything, but something about.  Like he can;t change what Carey did… but he can make sure that she never does it… or anything, ever again.

Scotty finishes his first beer as the attentive bartender quickly has another hazy IPA ready for The Hardcore Artit as he goes to take that always enjoyable first sip of a fresh beer.

“I’m gonna take a guess and say whatever they are trying to pass off as beer there doesn’t follow the Reinheitsgebot?” Sarcastically questions a woman with light reddish hair and a decent German accent.

“Nope… this beer has actual flavor.” Smirks Scotty as he half jokingly replies.

“Can’t argue that.  But I think I need to try one just to make sure.” Smirks back the woman as she motions towards the chair next to Scotty at the bar.

“I think that’s a smart idea, have to make sure with these kinds of important thing.” Reptiles Scotty as he motions back towards the chair and calls over the bartender.

Fucking eh Scotty… what did I just say about distractions?

I swear he’ll never learn until his whole back is covered in knife handles like some kind of knife handle turtle shell… except he won’t have any kind of turtle powers.

Whatever… here we go again I guess?

The bartender brings the woman over her own IPA as the two cheers at the bar.  Maybe this day won’t be so shitty after all.  Like I said, the future is what you make it… maybe for once, Scotty can make it… good?