Inevitable

Alright, bits are over. 

That’s fair. 

You want something real, then I’ll give you something real. Jokey little themed paragraphs, bars about poker, jokes about lettuce… it’s the kind of shit you do when people have been saying the same shit to you for ten fucking years, man. That’s kind of my whole existential crisis, you know? Can’t stay away from wrestling, but fuck if it isn’t the same bullshit, over and over again, until my brain melts all the way down into my chest and deflates my skull from the inside like a fucking rotten pumpkin. 

But none of that is your problem. 

Sorry, how many “f words” was that? 

Here’s the facts, Jack: in the macro, I am undeniably unstoppable. There is no one that I haven’t beat. No mountain I haven’t climbed. No accolade that I haven’t won. I am unequivocally better than anyone in the history of a company that is unequivocally better than any other wrestling company. No one has been as consistent. I am the wrestler of the decade, not by my own math, but by real, actual math. People gauge their success based on the things that I have achieved– America breaking my title record was fucking NEWS. What have you accomplished? A War Games LSD Championship victory? Do you even understand how disappointed I’d be with myself, if I walked out of War Games with the fucking LSD Championship? 

You brought the illusion of fire, Blanco. 

All smoke, zero flames. 

I was dominating this company when the competition was real. I was a five time HOW World Champion when John Sektor was still the mascot for any breakfast cereal with the word “flakes” in it. I beat Jatt Starr when beating Jatt Starr still meant something. I took the HOFC Championship to the main event of a pay-per-view and had the world on their fucking feet, so pardon me if I don’t get on my knees and beg you for my life like Oliver Twist with an empty fucking bowl in his hands. It was a cute promo, but I’ve heard a lot of cute promos over the years. I’ve heard a lot of people run their fucking mouths. Of course, then that inevitable moment comes around when it’s time to make good on all that trash talk. And do you know what usually happens? 

Those checks bounce, buddy. 

And then, so do those wrestlers. 

HOW existed for seven years before I ever walked through that doorway, but I am a name almost as synonymous with this company as Lee Best himself. And it isn’t just the last name. This isn’t nepotism, or narcissism, or any of the other -isms you spouted off like some kind of armchair psychologist, either. It’s a fact. Water is wet, Canada is cold, and Michael Lee Best is the reason that High Octane Wrestling a name that literally everyone in this business knows. For better for worse, for good reasons and bad, 90% of the applications that drop into Lee’s inbox reference my fucking name on the cover letter. Am I polarizing? Abso-fucking-lutely. But without an iota of exaggeration, there isn’t even an episode of Chaos this Sunday if I don’t make the jump from DREAM Wrestling in the first place. 

Find the lie. 

Any of you. 

Because Lee Best will tell you himself that without me, HOW doesn’t exist in the year 2023. The clock never starts on the fifteen minutes of fame that you’re enjoying right now. You’re just another ungrateful little shit who knows just enough about HOW history to be dangerous, but not nearly enough to be accurate. So if I seem a little bit like an old man standing out on his porch, telling the kids to stay off his lawn, maybe it’s because it’s because, you know… 

IT’S MY. 

FUCKING. 

LAWN. 

I have seen everything. Done everything. Survived everything. Names like Andy Murray, Eric Dane, Lindsay Troy, these legendary wrestlers… one by one, they’ve come to HOW, and where the fuck are they? WHERE ARE THEY? Cause they sure as fuck didn’t survive, did they? They fucked off and opened PRIME, or ran back to WhatCulture.com with their tails between their legs, or went back to eating their fucking Applebees. If you honest to God believe a word that you had to say about me, then I’m praying for you, man. Thoughts and fucking prayers. Because I’m going to beat the absolute fucking shit out of you on Sunday night. 

The absolute. 

Fucking. 

Shit. 

I haven’t forgotten how to go as hard as I used to, Blanco, I just haven’t had to. The talent is so soft these days that I haven’t needed more than my fucking B material to stay on top. I’ve been phoning it in like I called out of work, but I guess it’s time that I get back on the job. I guess it’s time to lace up my boots. At Sunday Night Chaos, you’d better hope that I know how to measure, because I am planning to beat you within an inch of your fucking life, and I am not going to stop until I run out of tape. No more puns. No more jokes. No more phones. Two men enter that ring, and only one of us walks away with the championship. That might be the marketing pitch, Blanco, but it isn’t the truth. The truth is that there has only ever been one outcome in this match. Only one inevitability– I WILL be the HOW LSD Champion. And since you like the poker references so much? 

Know when to walk away, Blanco. 

And know when to run.