Leave it to Stever – The Reboot

Leave it to Stever – The Reboot

Posted on February 18, 2022 at 9:27 pm by Steve Solex

Cue the shitty 1950’s family show music and roll the credits, cause it’s time for…

LEAVE IT TO STEVER!

A montage rolls over the screen. Steve….ahem…Steven Solex is shown play catch with Scott Stevens Jr. in his front yard. He tosses the ball to little Scotty and it goes right past the little bugger.  Both of them look at the camera and give the biggest shit eating grins you’ve ever seen. The montage cuts to Steven Solex sitting with his new wife Constance Solex at the dinner table.  Little Scotty walks into the dining room with muddy shoes.  Steven goes to scold the child, with fire in his eyes.  Little Scotty slips and falls.  Steven stands over the boy, wags his finger and again, they both look into the camera, grinning ear to ear.

The montage fades as  a message appears on the lower third of the screen…

Filmed in front of a live studio audience.

A round of applause from the live studio audience brings in the first scene.  Steven Solex is shown leaned back against the cream colored, formica, counter top in his 50’s, vintage style, kitchen.  Steven’s wife, Constance, is at the stove in front of him.  Her hair freshly curled, her makeup done, and a frilly apron covers her neatly pressed, green rockabilly dress.  Well, I think it’s green.  Like always, this shit is in black and white, so get your head right.  Steven is dressed like some sort of business man.  His striped button down shirt is creased perfectly and tucked into a pair of slacks.  The Windsor knot in his tie is loose and the top button of his shirt is undone. Setting the perfect picture of a man who just worked a hard day and earned every cent he made.

“Want a beer, hon? You look like you’ve had a hard day,” Constance says, keeping her attention on the skillet in front of her.  The crowd awes at the sweetness…and I gotta tell you, that’s enough to make me wanna puke, but I gotta hold it back…cause it definitely won’t be the last of it.

“Yes, please,” Steven says with a groan. Minus the groan, his tone has changed, in fact his entire voice has.  He’s no longer gritty, or demanding, he’s back to the cornball Dad that so many loved just a couple of years ago.

With a smile, Constance pulls the lever on the teal – I’m assuming it’s teal, this is black and white fuckers – vintage, refridgerator and reaches inside.  She pulls out a can of Krueger beer and with the label facing the camera – cause we need those fuckin’ ad dollars – she swifty hands it off to Steven.  Steven pops the can open and takes a long swig, audibly gulping it down.

“Ahhhhhhh!” He lets out the sound of refreshment much to the delight of the applauding audience before he sets it down on the counter next to him.

“What the..?” Steven says heading toward the window as the sound of a horn playing the rhythmic tune of La Coocaracha is heard from out front, just loud enough to temporarily drown out the sound of the 1942 Chevy Truck that rumbles to a stop at the curb in front of Steven’s freshly manicured, bright green, grass lawn.

Solex grins from ear to ear and tightens his tie back up, snuggly against his Adam’s apple.

“They’re here! Sweety, they’re here!”

The crowd erupts in cheers as Steven and Constance rush to the front door.  Constance struggles to remove her apron and twirls around erratically as the crowd bursts into laughter. Steven swings open the front door, a gust of wind nearly knocks him backward. Standing in the doorway is the monster of men, Clay Byrd.  Clay stares down at the wooden porch at the doorstep.  His dusty, brown, gambler fitted, cowboy hat covers his eyes while his red bandana, strapped firmly around his neck blows in the wind.  The sound of a western whistle comes over the silence as a tumbleweed blows into and out of view – left to right – just behind the cowboy.

“Howdy,” Clays says, in a low gritty voice, with a toothpick clenched tightly between his teeth.

The crowd cheers as the whistle dies out.

“Where is he?!” Constance blurts out.

“Now, honey…we talked about this,” Steven says, placing a hand on his new wife’s shoulder, and looking down at her with that look a husband gives a wife when she’s about two seconds away from embarrassing him.

“Come on in, Clay.  We’re happy to have you, and you’re the first guest in our new home!”

The crowd cheers this bit of news, but immediately goes silent as the behemoth grunts and takes two thunderous steps through the front door, his spurs jingling as each heel of his cowboy boots strikes the hardwood floor.

The crowd suddenly explodes with cheers and awes as Scott Stevens Jr. peaks his head out from behind Clay. Steven immediately drops to a knee and gets eye to eye with the young lad.  Constance covers her mouth and knows with praying hands as her eyes well up with tears.

“Hey little buddy!” Steven mildly shouts, his voice as cheesy as ever.

“I’m your new Daddy!” He continues, and once more the crowd erupts into a frenzy of cheers.

“What in tarnation? You know, this is Scott Stevens’ boy, right?” Clay says, the toothpick coming loose from his teeth and falling to the floor.

“Not anymore!” Constance shouts, cutting Clay off.

“Constance!” Steven shouts her down, before she stirs up any trouble with Clay.

“You’ll have to excuse her, Clay. Her…” Steven leans in and whispers, “friend is visiting.” 

“What?” Clay asks, a look of disgust on his face.

“Her (cough) friend (cough) is visiting,” Steven says, slowing his words and annunciating.  

The crowd oos at the, obviously, taboo statement and Constance turns bright red.  She quickly storms out of the room, stomping her red heels on the hardwood floor on the way out. 

Steven stands back up to his feet and looks Clay in the eye.

“Look here (adjusts his belt) ….partner.  You said you needed my help, this is help, friend.  Maybe not the way you envisioned it, but this is good for Constance and I.  We’re starting our lives together, and there’s no better way to get started than by adopting a son.”

“Y’all have lost your city-lovin’ minds.”

“Maybe, so.  But it works for us…and it obviously works for you…(adjusts his belt)…partner.”

The monster looks Steven up and down, and cracks a smile.

“Whatever you say…partner.  He’s yours if you want him.”

The little boy peeks out from behind Clay again, and again Steven drops down to a knee.

Clay reaches behind himself and pulls the kid out, front and center.

The crowd awes as the little boy timidly holds his hands together in front of himself and stares down at the floor.  Steven sticks out his hand for the boy to shake it.  The boy reaches out and grips Steven’s hand, but a loud buzz frightens the child and he jerks his hand back almost immediately.

The crowd and Steven laugh as Steven reveals a handshake buzzer secured in the middle of his palm.  The boys begins to laugh uncontrollably, but then kicks Steven right in the shin.

The crowd gives the trouble oos as a look of pure rage comes over the face of Steven Solex.  He rears back and readies himself to slap the boy across the face. The crowd gasps in horror as Steven looks up and back at his opened hand. His hand shakes as it steadies, and then suddenly…he stops. He looks into the camera and laughs the corniest laugh you’ve ever heard. Like some shit out of the Honeymooners. The young boy then begins to belly laugh uncontrollably.  Even the monster begins to laugh…albeit, not so enthusiastically.  The crowd, realizing the joke, joins in on the laughter and just then,  the scene freezes on all three of them as the 1950s TV show music begins to play and the scene fades to the credit roll.

——

Burning down the Six-Time Academy might have seemed like a sideshow on paper.  Right now, it’s probably the last thing you would expect from a man who’s on a team in the Muarako Invitational.  Especially from someone who is on a team that has a real shot of winning the whole fuckin’ thing.  Like, why would you try and get Mike Best in the mix? We’ve got enough going on as it is.  But, never mind that…cause it happened. Clay Byrd burned the Six-Time Academy right down to the motherfuckin’ ground…and I’m almost positive he pissed on the ashes.  If he didn’t, he should go do that right fuckin’ now.

This doesn’t interest me though. I don’t give a fuck about Mike Best, the Six-Time Academy or any of it.  But Clay called me.  He needed my help. And who am I to say no to my current tag team partner. 

It was a bit odd, however.

He asked me for help, and this isn’t something I’m used to these days. With all the bullshit I’ve been through recently?  Under any other circumstance, it might not make sense…but this is Dad-business, and I’m the best in the business at being a Dad.  

I’m numero fuckin’ uno. 

The number-one Dad and Clay knows this. 

Sprinkle that shit with a little bit of payback and against Scott Stevens…and I’m all in. All the way in. Scott Stevens and I have had our feuds, we’ve gone back and forth.  But even though I have beaten Scott Stevens EVERY single fuckin’ time we’ve been in the ring together…Scott Stevens ruined my fuckin’ life, man. When he taught my son..my only fucking son! How to ride a bike, the life I knew and loved was immediately in a downward spiral.  And that…well, that’s when Shawn Kutter decided to come back and bring all of his fucked up friends with him. But Clay Byrd saved me from them.

Clay Byrd delivered me back to freedom. Not in your traditional way though.  Clay Byrd delivered me to freedom, by renewing my Dad-ness…my Dad-lee-hood if you will.  By burning down the Six-Time Academy, Clay Byrd gave me purpose once again.  When I have purpose, I don’t need Shawn Kutter.  I don’t need Logan Tyler.  And I damn sure don’t need Dr. Devastation.

Was I pissed when Clay first pitched this idea to me? You’re fuckin’ right I was.  But Clay has proven…twice now…that he’s got some good ideas in that cowboy brain.

What does all of this mean anyway?  It means trouble for John Sektor and Adam Ellis, that’s what it fuckin’ means.  I’m tired of this shit.  Every other week some other member of the Bergman alliance tries to come into HOW and make a name for themselves, and somehow…like fuckin’ magic, I end up in the ring with every last one of these fuckin’ jack wagons. These assholes come crawling out of the woodwork from MVW and somehow, these talentless hacks make it to the top of HOW.  I just don’t get it.  Put the mask back on Bergman, call yourself Halitosis once more, and just do the fuckin’ job yourself.  But please, bring me Dawn Marie.  We’ve got a little bit of unfinished business, and I know she’d love to get it all worked out.

Who the fuck is Adam Ellis anyway? He’s nobody, and soon to be replaced by whoever MVW has pushed to the moon and feels is ready to move on to HOW.  Will it be George Evans, Bruce Michaels or William Campbell? I have no fuckin’ clue.  Truth be told, I made all of those dumb fuckin’ names up, and every one of them is more appealing than Adam Ellis. But that’s the way of Ordinary Joe.  So, Ellis…before you do anymore damage to your reputation, or Bergman’s, just go back to MVW.  Win, lose or draw…you’ll never draw a dime in HOW.  See what I did there?

As for John Sektor, there’s not a whole lot I can say.  He’s a Hall of Famer, a former World Champion, a blah…blah…blah.  All of those accolades mean absolutely dick in 2022, John.  Your best days are behind you pal, and mine are right in front of your Castro-lovin’ face. Just fuckin’ retire John. Join a fuckin’ softball league, get an umbrella drink and be done with it already. Your shtick is old and tired. Lee Best must have been on LSD when he gave you the opportunity to be the LSD Champion, that’s the only thing that makes sense, you fuckin’ has been.

Truth be told, John.  I like you. I like you a hell of a lot more than the rest of the guys in HOW.  You and I were in the Best Alliance together.  We were – by rule – tag team champions together.  So, no…I don’t hate you.  I hate the idea of you, John.  I hate the idea that you’re the gold fuckin’ standard.  Cause you’re not.  You’re the old standard, and the fans are begging for something new.  They’re begging for Steve Solex to be at the top of the bill, not you.

By the way John, your mustache fuckin’ sucks. 

Dickhead.