Brian Hollywood wants you to know that he’s a real tough guy.
You can smell it on him– desperation is the stinkiest cologne, and if you get within a country mile of the failed progenitor of The Order, it will fill every ounce of your pores and stick to your fucking clothes. He’s a real tough guy at Olive Garden, screaming at a waiter about tomatoes in a salad. He’s a real tough guy in the back of a limo, flipping off the camera and calling HOW veteran Steve Solex a “rookie upstart” because tough guys don’t do research. He’s a real tough guy backstage at Refueled, fedora cocked just so, as he moves his white knight to Queen’s bishop and dislocates his shoulder. Our hero.
Guys, Hollywood Enterprises is very mysterious and badass.
He has a way of getting things done.
Yeah, we know, Hollywood. Because for the rest of us living in the real world, we don’t get to reset the goalposts every six months and pretend that we’re living brand new fucking lives. We all remember Sex and Money. We all remember you and Darin “Tryhard” Zion hanging out on rooftops with sniper rifles trying to play real life Call of Duty, because your concept of what makes a “badass” forms a perfect circle in a Venn diagram with teenage boys who think it’s awesome to take their pictures with katanas and post them on the Internet.
You’re gonna pretend to be a fucking hitman again.
You certainly have a particular set of skills there, Liam Neeson, but none of us are quite Taken with your bullshit anymore. You’ve thrown so much try-hard, convoluted bullshit at the walls over the last six years that your only confirmed kill is my fucking suspension of disbelief. And you’re gonna backtrack now and pretend like that wasn’t the plan, but from the very second you started yapping about “having a way of making people’s problems vanish”, I had a pretty distinct feeling you weren’t coming out of the closet as HOW’s loneliest magician.
Do you think murder is a cool tough guy move?
Because I’ve killed a man, Brian.
I did it on live television.
Do you want to know how “super awesome” it was? Do you want to know how cool it made me? Because it was fucking terrible. The single worst moment of my life so far.
I still wake up in the dead of night with cold sweats. I spent two years in therapy. I am forever changed, because I removed a human being’s head from his shoulders with a fucking shovel on live HOW television, and I think about that every single day of my life. And yeah, he’s back on television now, having survived a… head transplant, I guess? But it doesn’t change the fact that I did it. I looked into his eyes, and I tasted his blood on my lips, and I fucking cried like a baby when it was all over.
I don’t think it’s badass.
I don’t think it makes me tough.
I did what I had to do, because it was kill or be fucking killed, and not a single moment of it made me want to stand up and tell the world how fucking cool murder is.
But you do. For five fucking years, I’ve put up with you and your insufferable cunt partner talking about murder like most kids talk about Fortnite. Casually regaling us with tales of hitmen on rooftops, like it was the flavorful backdrop of a video game or a spy movie. Because you think that the coolest, toughest thing a man can do is stand on a building with a rifle and kill for money, so you’ve just hard coded it into your life story— cool guy wrestlers who are rich and powerful and are literal murders, because hey, why not?
This is just what you fucking idiots do.
Darin Zion and Brian Hollywood, smoking ground up oregano in the basement of a super badass mansion owned by a super badass rich dude, coming up with super badass ideas about how to be super badass. Children playing pretend, so desperate for everyone else to see HOW SUPER FUCKING BADASS THEY ARE.
“Hey dude, do you know what would be badass?” Zion would say, getting super ridiculously baked on a fucking kitchen spice he bought from a twelve year old. “What if I didn’t talk for two months, and then when I like, finally talked or whatever, it was like, one sentence that I think sounds SUPER FUCKING BADASS?”
“BRO.” Brian Hollywood would richly retort, in his rich clothes because he is rich.”THAT WOULD BE SO BADASS. WHAT IF I SAVED BLAIRE MOISE FROM A STALKER AND THEN GAVE HER A BUSINESS CARD THAT SAID BRIAN HOLLYWOOD PROFESSIONAL PROBLEM MURDERER AND CERTIFIED BADASS. WOULD THAT BE BADASS?”
“Dude.” Zion would giggle, his boner pointing due North. “2020 is gonna be our year.”
But it’s never your fucking year, is it?
I’ve been catching an ass whooping from my old man for five fucking years for telling the world what I really think of you two skid marks on the 97 red boxer briefs of HOW, and you know what? I don’t give a fuck anymore. Because if someone doesn’t shoot you simpering bags of wish fulfillment straight, you’re gonna spend the rest of your careers doing the same tired “fail and reset” cycle of sadness that the rest of us folks have had to endure for half a fucking decade.
Stop trying so fucking hard.
You can’t go a fucking week without reminding us that you live in a mansion. We get it. The place where you shit and sleep is very large, Brian. So why are you a wrestler? What possesses you to risk your top level executive position in your “it was definitely gonna be hitmen until Mike Best called your shot” super secret business over something so trivial as professional wrestling?
Maybe you’ve never stopped to think about it, what with all the sniping and the executive promising you’ve been doing all these years.
God DAMN you make my balls itch, you know that?
Your very existence makes that angry little vein stick out of my forehead, because you have so much fucking potential. You’re ranked number seventeen on the fucking roster, below seven people who don’t even work here anymore. The only person with as many losses as you this era is your dipshit tag team partner and human ventriloquist puppet, Darin fucking Zion. WHY? WHY THE FUCK IS THAT A THING, BRIAN? You’re a former World Champion, dude. You were the fucking man around here. You were the number two seed when HOW came back to life in 2019, and you have squandered every fucking second of it. You two have spent so much time trying to tell us how fucking badass you are that you forgot to FUCKING PROVE IT.
No one gives a FUCK about Hollywood Enterprises.
Abandon it, Brian. Abandon everything you think is fucking cool, because it isn’t. No more big secret sniper boyz business. Shit can The Order, once and for all, because it has sucked from inception. Whatever fedora worshipping, Blaire Moise protecting superhero hitman shit you were about to unwrap for us like an unwanted Christmas sweater, just… don’t.
Just be a fucking champion.
Because you can do it, Brian. I’ve seen you fucking do it. And maybe you’re reading this, and every instinct in your shitty little existing personality is begging you to get butthurt and lose your fucking smile, but DON’T. If you’re angry right now, GOOD– be fucking angry. If this makes you wanna come down to the ring and beat the fucking SHIT out of me at Refueled, then GOOD– beat the fucking shit out of me. Because I am on a victory tour that means dog dick NOTHING if you don’t come out there more worried about being a winner than being a badass.
I’m not fucking around with this HOFC Championship.
I don’t give a shit who thinks I’m a badass, Brian, and I don’t have to. Because when I walk down to that ring, the jokes are over. The Tweets don’t matter. The stupid costumes and inside jokes don’t matter. The ninety seven t-shirt designs don’t fucking matter anymore. I made my bones in the ring, and I built my cred from the fucking ground. Being “the boss’ son” doesn’t buy you respect. It doesn’t buy you credibility. It doesn’t buy you fear. But do you know what does, Brian? Working your ass off, every single fucking week, and building up a head of steam. Coming down to the ring, eating shit, and not pressing the reset button every time you realize that what you’re doing isn’t working.
Get it the fuck together, dickhead.
Noah Hanson didn’t like being told how it is, and he told me to go fuck himself. But you know what? He came down to the ring, and even in a loss, he might have had the best match of his career against me. He hit me in the fucking face with a steel chair ten times. Scott Stevens didn’t like being told how it is, and he had his little butthurt moment, but then he came down to the ring and even in tapping out to his own fucking move, came out with more respect than we walked in there with. 2019 has been my Year of the Career Maker, and now it’s your turn and the ball is in your court.
So what are you going to do, Brian?
Are you going to pull your head out of your ass, and start realizing the truth? That the reason people make fun of your shitty mansion promos is because they’re shitty mansion promos? That the reason they make fun of your shitty fake hitman business is because it’s a shitty fake hitman business? Or are you going to cross your arms, huff and puff, and then press the fucking reset button again?
This is your fucking opportunity, and you’d better not squander it.
You’d better come to the ring with more than a shitty spooky business card and a fedora, because I will eat you FUCKING ALIVE to keep the HOFC Championship. I will chew you up, spit you out, and then forget your fucking NAME if you come at me with that shit. I am a dragon sitting atop his prized fucking gold, and it’s going to take more than a shitty, try-hard white knight to knock me off my throne.
I want you to be a pissed off fucking warrior.
I want the version of Brian Hollywood who earned the right to tell me to go fuck myself and look me in the eyes when he said it. I want the version of Brian Hollywood who in one night, captured EVERY active championship in HOW in 2016. I want the version of Brian Hollywood who has a real fucking chance to take the HOFC Championship, because I am on a crusade to sanction this motherfucker and bring this belt back to the prominence it had back when you were still on top of Penguin World, thinking your shit didn’t stink.
This is the belt that made me, Brian.
This is the belt that brought me my first pay-per-view main event. The belt that made Lee Best step out from the shadows and acknowledge his bastard child. The belt that put all eyes on Christopher America and Michael Best and started them down the path to greatness. This belt is everything to me, Brian Hollywood, and I will not fucking lose it to Agent goddamned 47 and his cabal of Superhero Syndrome mudfucks.
On Friday night, I’m going to beat the fucking shit out of you, and I’m going to win.
Because that’s what I do, and I don’t have to put it on a fucking business card. Because the kind of shit I talk is the kind of shit you have to back up with fists, not with flashbacks. So it’s up to you, Brian– what are you going to do? Are you going to step the fuck up and prove that you still belong here, win or lose? Because if you don’t, I’m going to break your goddamned shoulder and send you back to your mansion with your arm in a sling. And that’s not just how you make a REAL credible threat, you try-hard little cunt.
That’s how you make a real fucking executive promise.