The crashing waves of the English Channel soothed Cecilworth Farthington as he sat upon some rocks around half a kilometre away from the scenes of madness that were War Games. The mechanical whirr of the boats and booming of the helicopter were doing their best to drown out the tranquility of the ocean but Farthington was able to tune in to that which he wanted to focus on.
The former World Champion rubbed his jaw, still aching from Andy Murray’s knee smashing directly into his face. He already sensed the swelling that was about to come as he stared aimlessly out at the ocean. He wasn’t even sure if the match was over yet, he just knew he had to get away, get out of the situation.
He’d taken care of The Minister, he’d made the ultimate judgement call, he knew Mike was good enough to complete the rest of the task.
Farthington was filled with a mixture of relief and doubt. He’d been World Champion for longer than anyone in the history of the company, the pressure, the weight of that responsibility had started to become a burden rather than a marker of success and domination. He knew he would never give up, he would never “take it easy”, he was always going to fight to win. That was ingrained in him. That funny human condition known as pride kept eating him up, breaking him down. It had since ICONIC.
You never come out a ninety seven minute long match as the same man you entered. You’ve shortened your career by years just so you can claim you were the better man for a single day, a single match.
The streak ends up consuming you, the reputation ends up creating a culture of fear. No one wants to fight you. They feel it’s a lost cause, a wasted effort. Success becomes a curse and you break your body down more. You break it down at March to Glory, you break it down against Kostoff, you break it down before you even enter the War Games match. A man hits you with a fucking stun gun and you still pick yourself up and get into the ring. You have no other interests but maintaining the streak, the pride is all consuming and you won’t allow yourself to find a way out.
Cecilworth Farthington had waited his entire career to reach the glory of his first World Championship at Rumble at the Rock 2019.
9 months later he was broken, burnt out and adrift.
Perhaps Andy Murray’s sucker knee had done him a favour, he’d finally been free from his World Championship curse.
As Cecilworth watched wave crash into wave, he allowed himself his first smile in a long time. His face may have been fucked but he hadn’t felt so free in a long time.
The scene of almost tranquility was not one to last for very long, a scream of anguish reverberated down the beach at an ear piercing volume. Farthington’s heart sank, that was definitely Mike but he was way too far away.
He knew in an instant what had happened.
The Minister had risen.
“Mike’s back on the coke.”
Cecilworth Farthington has found himself holded up living in a hotel room as of late. The sudden closure of Six Time Academy during the events that led to War Games had left the current LSD to skeedaddle out of his makeshift office bedroom at the training facility and out into the streets. He’d had to quickly make his way over to the beaches of Normandy so didn’t have a chance to go house hunting. Also he wasn’t entirely sure how one went house hunting or indeed acquired one. He assumed you traded a horse for some land but how was he going to find a horse in the middle of Chicago at this time of the year. So hotel life it had to be.
He missed Six Time quite a bit, so many young and eager talents that you could severely injure on a whim. It was great for working your way through misplaced anger, particularly considering they were the ones to pay YOU for the privilege of the mauling.
Sadly that was no longer the life of Farthington and as he stood next to a window overlooking a particularly murky Chicago back alley with a phone cradled between his shoulder and neck. The couch next to the LSD Champion was piled sky high with an assortment of dirty laundry – a mixture of ring gear and human clothes.
Farthington admired the size that the pile had reached, mentally reassuring himself that someone would be there soon enough to take care of the issue. Perhaps some form of laundry wench?
“I know, he’s having a great old time to himself!” Farthington chuckled in clear indifference to the concerned tone on the other side of the call. An annoyed sputter spews forth from the other end of the call, as if there was a dawning realisation of who the person had elected to discuss this series matter with.
“I’m not talking about a little livener, I’m talking about snow angel levels of coke.”
The voice on the other end had a clear tone of frustration and concern that didn’t seem to track in Farthington’s head.
“Look, I can’t blame the man for needing a little something to take the edge of. I was at the top of that mountain for a long, long time and I can assure you, it’s fucking miserable. If he needs a little snowjob to relax and unwind after a hard day of hearing half the roster deliver brain dribbling interviews aimed in his direction, who am I to blame the man?”
The sputter of anger on the other end of the line turns into one of confusion.
“I don’t think that’s what a snowjob is…”
The caller stops in his tracks, clearly realising that he’s allowed Farthington to derail his train of thought.
“Look, all I’m saying is we have to be careful. This isn’t your best friend Mike you’re standing side by side with. This is successful Mike, this is top of the mountain Mike. The man you stood with the ring with on Saturday night is a different beast entirely.”
A rather irritable Farthington clearly has no further intention of continuing the conversation, slamming the receiver down. He starts chewing his bottom lip clearly in a state of pissed-off-ed-ness.
“Disloyal little shit.”
I’ve had about enough of the false prophets of High Octane…
You’d probably think I was talking about The Minister but I’ll be honest, that man is infused with some kind of terrifying spirit, I’d be hard pressed to describe anything about him as “false”. I saw what he almost did to my best friend, pure Satan runs through that man.
No, I mean the ones that stand shoulder to shoulder and insist that they are so strongly aligned that nothing and no one will ever stand in their way.
Liars. Time and time again. Liars.
Loyalty means absolutely nothing to them. Sacrifice itself gets thrown out of the window in the name of self-interest and the pattern repeats itself. Over and over again.
“The eMpire never fights” wasn’t a snazzy catchphrase, something to slap on a t-shirt, pat ourselves on the back, cash a few sweet merch cheques and then go back to infighting because one of us has a championship that the others quite fancy. No, not fighting has a very simple meaning, it means…
You may have to sacrifice yourself, you may have to take risks that others would not but that’s what friends do. That’s what family does.
For too long High Octane Wrestling has lived in a world where this concept is meaningless, for too long High Octane Wrestling has accepted that in the end, everyone will fight, that the ugly green monster that is jealousy will rear its ugly head, that we are no better than the fucking necrophiliac ducks of the world.
It says a lot about society these days that people aren’t all that interested in the fact and myself and HOW World Champion Michael Lee Best are best friends. No, they instead agitate and get excited over the thought of trying to get us to fight. To drive a wedge between the two of us so they can get their jimmies rustled over two former friends going to war. So many people in this world are happy to stick the dagger in the back of their supposed family and friends for a fucking pitance.
That’s what the world has come to.
Me and Mike, we’re something very uncomfortable to them. They’ve assured themselves that everyone would choose opportunity over loyalty. Finance over friendship. They all like to quickly assume that everyone is just as much of a heinous monster as they are. They want everyone to have a cold, dead heart. So, the fact that there exists something in the world that rocks that argument is a source of great discomfort to the pathetic pieces of disloyal scum that make up the vast majority of our wretched planet.
The other day I said that the LSD Championship was going to take on a new form, it would have a new purpose. Gone are the days of Max Kael running a train through the entire roster by inflicting untold amounts of damage and anguish. I mean, even when he’s in the form of my friend, that man still wants to murder and maim most of you.
Welcome to the new era of the LSD Championship.
Welcome to the Loyalty & Sacrifice Division.
See, I told you Rick, I told you that you were the chosen one. I told you that you were the PERFECT opponent to usher in the new era of the division.
Let’s look at our pal Rick, shall we. Ole Rick, former of the Dickulous line… his time in High Octane Wrestling has been STRIFE with disloyalty. He is the prototypical example of the pathetic scum who would walk over a former allies corpse if they felt that it would get them ahead for even a single solitary second.
The man vacillated wildly from the Never Turned Up Express to Scottywood’s ALE group and now… now he’s trying to engrain himself into the Bandits.
No, not the Bandits, not our precious pure Bandits. They are the only shining example of genuine care and compassion for one another. They are currently the best exception to prove the rule. I will not stand for it.
Rick has done everything and anything in his six months in the High Octane Domain if he thought it would get him ahead. He’s tried to be the fun loving giant lumberjack Canadian with an intense desire to have sex with your mother… mine is dead but I suppose that loops us back into the duck conversation from earlier.
He abandoned his lumber brethren because he thought being part of an 80s nostalgia tag team would be his ticket to success.
He brought in his good pal, Matthew Classic with seven zs and I’m sure made a lot of big promises about his future in the team. I’m sure dear Matthew was ever so excited to be back with his friend Rick once more, they might even make a name for themselves in the big bad world of High Octane Wrestling.
That didn’t work so thank you, fuck you Matthew. Doesn’t matter the promises made, the alliance formed, it wasn’t helping dear Rick get into the winner’s circle so you can go fuck yourself, and your mother.
So what next? Ah yes, HATE. The hulking, jizzing lumberjack was no more, replaced with the all powerful RICK. RIIIIIICK. RIIIIIIIIIICK. No longer fun loving, now instead Mr. Woodson’s pulverizer. How long did that last Rick, how long until you started getting that itch to jump? How long until that nagging feeling in your brain that you must abandon ANOTHER group of friends in the name of self interest? Days? Months? Fuck, was it seconds?
So out storms Rick, beating up his former leaderfriend Scottywood in an attempt to impress the pure as snow Bandits.
Never one to make sacrifices, never one to stand by his friends, never one to actually have the convictions of his beliefs, dear Rick stabbed backs, hopped over bodies and slapped faces if he thought it would give him a moment more of success.
Rick is nothing but a glory whore desperately seeking his next fix at the expense of anyone who dares to align with him.
Rick, you’re not a low hanging, stand alone, fruit. You are an example. You are a message. You are my message.
You are much larger than me. You are certainly bulkier than me and yet I am the one that sits here in absolute confidence that I am going to hurt you on Saturday Night. I’m going to hurt you really quite badly. Will you be able to wrestle the next week after our match? Well, that’s difficult to say and really isn’t my place to decide.
You see, in this brave new era of the LSD Championship, the matches are more of a test than a competitive sporting bout.
It’s quite simple Rick, should the Bandits actually care about you, should those strong bonds that a true alliance of equals forms be present, then I am absolutely certain that when I aim to cave in your dense fucking skull with a diamond tipped drill that you’re new friends with be willing to sacrifice your chance to championship glory, get you disqualified and allow you to fight another day.
On the other hand, if those bonds turn out to be as weak as Andy Murray’s penile power, if your soon to be new found friends prioritise their own safety over yours… well maybe you should have tried to make that Matt Klazzic thing work, eh?
The Loyalty and Sacrifice Division, gentlemen.
All will be tested.