“Despite everything, I believe people are really good at heart.” – Anne Frank
These words were written by a thirteen year old girl stuck hiding in a broom closet, holding in a fart for two years, praying angry Germans didn’t burst through a bookcase like the Kool-Aid man and drag her off to a literal death camp. She wrote these words in a diary that was eventually exploited and published by her own father for millions upon millions of dollars over seventy years. Unpopular opinion? Anne Frank wasn’t a thirteen year old inspiration– she was a delusional teenager who hadn’t lived long enough to realize that people are absolute dog shit.
People will always fuckin’ let you down, man.
Pretty much constantly, if you let them. Family lets you down. Friends let you down. Fifty percent of marriages end in divorce, and one in five people cheat on their romantic partners. If you die at your desk, the boss will have someone new in your seat before the end of the week and they won’t remember your name by the time the Christmas party rolls around. You are only as useful in this life as what others feel like they can squeeze out of you, and once you’re as used up as an empty tube of toothpaste, you’re discarded and forgotten forever.
People will ALWAYS let you down.
You meet your hero, and it turns out he’s an asshole. You worship your favorite recording artist, and it turns out she lip syncs. Your favorite writer is a plagiarist, your favorite sports team is involved in a doping scandal, and your favorite wrestler shows up in DEFIANCE. From the moment you are born, your parents lie to you, your teachers lie to you, and everyone you meet has an agenda, an angle, or a motivation that will fuck you in the end. Santa Claus is bullshit, the Easter Bunny isn’t real, and sooner or later, people will always let you down.
But championships won’t.
In fourteen years, a championship belt has never fucked my best friend while I was out of town on business. In fourteen years, a championship had never texted its previous holder behind my back, and told me they were just friends. In fourteen fucking years, a championship has never betrayed my trust or broken my heart. So yeah, when it comes to ships, I prefer champions to relations. Always have, always will. And there has never, and will never, be a championship that is nearer and dearer to my heart than the HOW ICON Championship.
Friendships have come and gone. Girlfriends came and went. One day, my Father is patting me on the back, and the next he’s rallying an army against me. But the ICON Championship has always been there, when I needed it. The ICON Championship has always been there, when I deserved it. The ICON Championship has always been there, and while five men have taken it away from me… it has always come home to the waist upon which it belongs. I owe more to this championship than I have ever owed to any bookie, drug dealer, or financial institution combined, and it has continued to give back to me for my entire career.
It made me who I am.
Simply put, without the ICON Title, there is no Mike Best.
Without the ICON Title, I’m wrestling in some dog shit hole in the wall bingo hall right now, with a Polish last name and a chip on my shoulder the size of Darkwing’s forehead. Because I don’t give a fuck what kind of hotshot you think you were in the Totally Awesome Wrestling Federation back in 2004, you ain’t SHIT till you’ve made it here. Without the ICON Title, I never make it in the wrestling business. Period. Plain and simple. So while I’ve held this championships six times, and I have built a brand and an empire on that name… I’ll never, ever forget my first.
April 8th, 2010.
it has now been literally a decade since I stood over my body of the man who would become my brother, Max Kael, and held the championship aloft like a mighty warrior displaying the scalp of his enemy. It was a victory that would change my life forever– it would lead me to a new last name, a new lease on life, and a Hall of Fame career that was rivaled by no one else in the history of High Octane Wrestling. I’ve held it more times than anyone else. I’ve held it more total days than anyone else. I have lived it, and breathed it, and embraced it like no one fucking else. Over twenty singles championships, a Hall of Fame ring, and an entire month named in my honor later, and there is still nothing that has ever made me feel as good– as truly whole— as that white strap around my waist.
Six Time isn’t just a fucking branding gimmick– it’s the essence of who the fuck I am.
There is not a brother I wouldn’t battle, a friend I wouldn’t betray, or a lover I wouldn’t cross to keep this belt around my waist. Most people will just let you down. Me? To keep this title, I’ll drop you on your fucking head. I will cheat. I will decieve. I will literally fucking kill to keep my name in the record books. Ask Bishop Steele. Ask Johnny Riot. Ask Simon fucking Sparrow how the Mistress of Jattlantis is adjusting to zero fucking depth perception.
This belt is my fucking lifeblood.
And I dare you to try and take it from me.
I dare you to step into the Lethal Lottery, an event in which I am undefeated, and try to take my lifeblood away from me. I dare you to cut your shitty little burial promos, and tell me that you’ll “settle’ for my belt because the World Title isn’t on the line. I dare you to keep sleeping on the SON OF GOD, because the ONLY place you’re leaving with this belt is in your fucking dreams. This championship isn’t just some white and gold accessory. It’s not something to be “settled” for. It is the fucking starmaker. It is the gateway to success in High Octane Wrestling. It is the single greatest pure wrestling title in the history of professional fucking wrestling, and I can PROMISE you that holding on to it means more to me than it will ever mean for you to win it.
This. Belt. Is. My. Life.
All the motivation that I need to succeed is already around my waist.
I don’t need a fucking sob story about how my knees are held together by fishing wire and excuses. If you draw me in the Lethal Lottery, your knees won’t be the thing that buckled under the pressure. Your knees won’t be the thing that gave up and gave out. So sorry about your shitty dead knees, Andy Murray, but as the KNEE THROWING DEMIGOD OF HOW, my solid pair is all I need to beat a faded King. Of course, in my experience, any man who has to remind you that he’s the ruler usually isn’t going to measure up.
The King of Wrestling.
I’ll ask one more time– what’s a King to a GOD?
Don’t worry, kids. This isn’t the part where I break down every single member of the roster that I might face, in an episode of CLUSTER MATCH PROMO MADNESS. But yeah, I see you, Andy Murray. I see you calling your shot. I see you putting your dick on the table, and then reminding everyone in HOW that “time might be running out for your dick” and if we don’t all stop and slobber on it real good, you might collapse under the weight of your own pre-emptive excuses. I see you painting a make-believe target on my forehead, because you’re still riding high on a debut-night cheapshot and the knowledge that you’ve got roughly a twelve percent chance to pull me on Lottery Night.
I see you, Andy.
I’ve seen you a million times, with a million different faces.
Andy Murray is a WOLF, guys.
Just like the rest of you. Merciless hunters, ready to kill. Except that you’re fucking not. You’re all a bunch of sheep in wolves clothing. Bleeting and screaming with your legs caught in traps, desperately trying to convince us that you’re the hunters and not the prey. You walk the same. You beat your chests the same. You fucking talk the same.
Promo. Slice of life. Promo. Slice of life. End promo.
THE PEAK OF HUMAN CHARISMA.
A bunch of adorable little non-conformists non-conforming together to see how many people can say the same words before someone notices that we’re living in wrestling fucking Groundhog Day.
“Okay campers, rise and shine! And don’t forget your booties, cause it’s COOOOLD out there!”
It’s cold outside every day, Dave. Colder than the dead hands you’re going to have to pry this belt out of on Saturday night, if you want to walk away champion. Colder than the walk back up the metal ramp, when I’ve beaten you to death with your own shoes to protect what’s mine. Colder than the day in Hell that it’s going to be when I shake in my boots just because you’ve all memorized a bunch of initials for the Hall of Fame rings you’ve collected.
If it doesn’t say HOW, it came out of a fucking gum ball machine.
Prove to me you’re fucking different.
Prove to me that you’re any different than the Best Alliance– they liked to talk, until we put them in the fucking ground at War Games. Prove to me that you’re different from Jack Harmen and MJ Flair, who watched their Industry burn to the ground at my feet as I took what I wanted from the ashes. Prove to me that you’re different from every other fly-by-night, call-themself-a-legend, I-was-big-in-Japan wannabe tough guy who went all-in at my table, busted out, and then disappeared from High Octane Wrestling forever.
A million men have looked into a camera and told me that they were going to put an end to the “little rat fuck” Mike Best, and if you want to see their names, check the Alumni page. Too many to fucking list. But me? The fleck of shit Mike Best?
I’m still here.
Like Teddy Palmer, I’m still standing.
Twiddling my fucking thumbs and waiting for the one guy who knows how to run something other than his fucking mouth. Waiting for a little less talk, and a lot more action– you’re all fun and games when it comes to the foreplay, but not a single one of you dipshits can keep it up for more than two minutes when you step into the ring with me, and two pump chumps don’t beat six time champs.
Think you’re going to be different?
Test me. Come find out.
Come test your mettle against a man who hasn’t been pinned or submitted in HOW since the United States of America had a black president. Come throw hands with a man who has had three hundred ninety six matches in High Octane Wrestling and has over a ninety percent win percentage. Step right up and go bell to bell with Michael Lee motherfucking Best at an event that he has never lost a single match at, hold my championship high over your head, and THEN tell me about how “reel gud u wrassle”.
I’ve already set the record for most total days as the HOW ICON Champion. I’ve already set the record for most title reigns. And right now, I’m calling my shot– I will set the record for most defenses of this championship. I will break eight defenses, and I will keep going until my body physically cannot anymore. I will take this title into Lethal Lottery, I will defend it, and I will win. I will take this title into War Games, and I will defend it, and I will win. I will carry this title until this company burns to the fucking ground, and I will retire with my name on the fucking faceplate. And if you think you’re going to be the one to put an end to this– to my HOW swan song?
Well, people will always let you down.
And I PROMISE that if you think you’ve got my number, I’m going to fucking let you down.
Because I am the alpha and the omega of High Octane Wrestling. I am the Architect of the Group of Death. I am not just *a* Hall of Famer, I am the Hall of Famer. I am the single greatest wrestler in the history of HOW, in any era, by every measurable metric, and I am the ICON. FUCKING. CHAMPION.
Call me ALLAH, because I am your fucking God.
And if you’re dumb enough to draw me? You’re going to die.
As-salamu alaykum, dickheads.