Mrs. Hutchinson Screamed, And Then They Were Upon Her.

Mrs. Hutchinson Screamed, And Then They Were Upon Her.

Posted on December 3, 2021 at 8:59 pm by Mike Best

Who feels lucky this week?

Come on, lemme see some excitement. It’s the Lethal Lottery! The coolest, most unique event in all of professional wrestling— the night where anything can happen, and history can be made. In twelve years, I haven’t missed a single Lethal Lottery, and this week will be no exception. So when I ask who feels lucky, this isn’t a rhetorical question. And when I tell you that I wish you luck, I really and truly mean it. 

Think about the prizes at stake. 

The LSD Championship. The HOTv Championship. A battle royale for a shot at any title in HOW! Big ticket items, for many their first opportunity at a title here in HOW. And all of you have the opportunity to get tremendously lucky this Sunday night, because every single one of you has the opportunity to wind up with a losing ticket. All but one of you. 

See, one of you is going to win. 

One unlucky winner of the Lethal Lottery. 

Do yourself a favor, and dispense with the lie that you’ve entered the Mega Millions this week. There is no Powerball in your future, and no prize to be won. Shirley Jackson would be proud, as all the lemmings line up to draw their straws and see which “lucky winner” is to be stoned to death in the Lethal Lottery main event. Twenty morons vying for the rights to call themselves Mrs. Hutchinson on a Sunday evening, probably too stupid and illiterate to even understand what I’m referencing right now. 

It’s a pretty famous short story, and I’m not explaining it.

Stop being proud of your ignorance. 

So congratulations, unlucky winner— you get your name in lights next to the single GOD TIER World Champion in HOW history. Next to a man who has never lost a Lethal Lottery match in a dozen years, and doesn’t intend to start now. Think about it— does anyone here actually WANT to see their number drawn next to my name? Are any of you looking forward to receiving a shot at the HOW World Championship?

Of course you aren’t. 

I have put out a thousand open challenges this era, for a plethora of belts both unsanctioned and non, and maybe three people have ever stepped up to the challenge. An entire division shut down because Lee Best had to conscript opponents for me to face. My last go round with Big Red, I defended it EVERY SINGLE WEEK against all comers, and no one wanted a shot at the title. I am the interest killer. The division murderer. The heatless champion, by the sheer force of being so unbeatable that you all lose interest in even trying. 

Nah, this isn’t the smoke you want. 

Two weeks ago, you think that I watched my life flash before my eyes when Scott Woodson kicked out of the most dangerous knee in professional wrestling. You think I’m smashing my face against the wall, over and over, trying to figure out what happened. You think it means I’m ripe for the picking this week, and that there’s a chink in my armor now… that my moment of dethroning is at hand. But you know nothing about me. 

Not the first iota of a clue. 

Pray for battle royales. Pray for LSD Title shots. Pray you’re left off the card, because everything that you think you know about me is fiction. Every weakness that you think I have is propaganda. Every insight you’ve ever had into my ego, or my personality, or what makes me tick is a lie whispered in the hallway like so many fairy tales, and I can promise you that this does not have a happy ending for you. Everything I’ve ever told you about me is a lie. Every glimpse into my soul was a fallacy and every second you’ve ever spent trying to understand me was a waste of your time. I’m not one of you. I’m not like you. We have nothing in common and we barely breathe the same fucking air. 

I am a product of GOD. 

A literal fucking immortal, and you can’t comprehend me.

You think I got lucky against Scottywood, that Carey happened to interfere and save my ass. Fuck you, that was divine intervention. That was God himself putting boots on the ground and demonstrating for the world that I will always find a way. If Beautiful Bobbi Queen hadn’t waddled down to that ring and superkicked the jizz out of Scottywood on Refueled, he’d have dropped a piano on his head or burned the fucking arena down to protect my reign. He’d have moved Earth and opened the gates of hell to ensure that I remained the HOW World Champion. You think you understand me, but we don’t even speak the same language. 

I do not have faults. 

I do not have weaknesses. 

I do not conform to the rules of this plane of fucking existence.

My cruise control does laps around everyone else on the track. My biggest flops are your greatest hits. The worst day of my entire career was losing a World Title I won back a week later, which means that the worst thing that ever happened to be involved losing and then winning a title that most of you are desperate to sniff like a pair of your stepsister’s dirty fucking underwear. You can hate it as much as you want, but I have dominated this company at my whim for over a dozen years, and will continue to do so until I’m bored or dead. 

Tell me I’m wrong. 

Tell me it’s all in my head. 

Tell me that a two hundred sixty six day reign of terror that saw men like Dan Ryan and Max Kael fall at my feet was a lucky fucking break. Tell me that I DOUBLED the previous record for reigns and total days as champion out of coincidence. Tell me that I wouldn’t STILL be riding high on my ninth reign as HOW World Champion if I hadn’t gotten so bored after ten defenses that I wanted a little bit of strange in the HOFC Division. I hold every single record for this championship, and continually break them at my own fucking whim, and there isn’t a single person on this roster who would have my number if they looked it up in a fucking phone book. 

So please, get confident on me this week. 

Please come down to the ring, full of piss and vinegar and thinking you’re special. Keep believing in the magic of Christmas miracles, because this isn’t 34th Street and ain’t no mall Santa in the world whose lap is going to get you the keys to my kingdom. Behold Icarus, who at the Lethal Lottery will fly too close to the Son and burn for his fucking efforts, because there is nothing short of the will of God himself that will take this title from around my waist. I’ve watched ten thousand boring, meaningless promos this week talking about how “it doesn’t matter if it’s Mike Best or John Sektor, I’m going to blah blah blah”, like you’re all speaking through a delusional hive mind. 

Are you fucking kidding me? 

You prepare for me, or you die

If you’re walking into the Lethal Lottery dead set on anything but facing the HOW World Champion one on one, I don’t even need to beat you, because you’ve already lost. I have one singular goal this Sunday… one solitary mission, and that is to retain the HOW World Championship by any means necessary. If that means a need a fat black chick to superkick you in the face, I’ll do it. If it means I have to knock out four referees, I’ll do it. If that means I have to bring a loaded fucking weapon to the ring and blow your goddamned brains through the back of your skull, that’s what I’m going to do. And here you all are, casually browsing the card like you’re looking at your fucking Amazon Cart. “Hmmm… maybe it’ll be Sektor! Maybe it’ll be Roberts! Maybe it’ll be a Battle Royale! No matter what, boy golly gee you’re all in trouble!” 

I will literally fucking kill you. 

No, seriously. 

Some of you haven’t been around long enough to remember it, but I fucking killed someone for the HOW World Championship in 2020. Not just someone, in fact– literally my own brother. As a match stipulation. A literal deathmatch. As in, a match where the entire way to win the match was for the other person to die. I crucified a man for this championship. I faced electrocution for this championship. I have maimed, beaten, and KILLED for this championship. Do you think you matter? Do you think you register on my conscience? If you think that I see any value in any of your meaningless existences, you’re delusional. If you think that I believe in the sanctity of human life, you’re out of your fucking mind.

I care about me.

I care about MY money, MY title, MY happiness. I care about holding onto those three things until my dying breath, so if you think you’re walking into that arena on Sunday night with the mentality that “Whether it’s Mike, or Sektor, or Roberts” and walking out with my HOW World Championship, I promise you that I will beat you, I will humiliate you, and I WILL fucking hurt you. 

And I will feel nothing

Like I said, you don’t know me. 

You just think you do. You build a picture in your mind based on the pieces in front of you, but I promise you that you’re mistaken. You have never cared about anything in your entire life as much as I care about the HOW World Championship, and there is nothing that I will not do to retain it. This is my soul. This is my blood. This is every ounce of my being, and your careless fly by night attitudes about challenging me for it at Lethal Lottery do not impress me. God willed me to have this fucking championship and you will be punished for your hubris… not by lightning, not by pestilence, and not my plague. 

By ME. 

By HIS fucking messenger. By the herald of GOD HIMSELF, who made me champion by the grace of his omnipotence and his fucking ballpoint pen, who spoke to me and told me that I am the last and greatest HOW World Champion. That there shall be no other champion but me. That I am not the Son in name only, but the literal child of 97 Red FUCKING JEHOVAH, and that the sheep of this world have been taking my name in FUCKING VANE. 

FUCK YOU, I AM THE SON OF GOD

Scratch your tickets. Bring your weapons. Count your chickens before they’ve hatched, because come Monday morning there will be one more spot open on the HOW roster, and the last thing you’ll see is the divine knee smashing through the center of your forehead in the truest of second comings since Jesus him-fucking-self. There is no salvation except through me, and I can promise you that until you accept me into your heart that there is nothing in your future but fucking suffering. 

I promise you. 

I fucking promise you.

You think you’ve seen the wheels fall off of this before? You think Mike Best face down in a plate of cocaine is as wild as this ride gets? I told you, everything that you think you know about me is fucking fiction. Everything you believe about me is a lie. We have barely touched the tip of the iceberg of what makes me tick, and you have not even begun to experience the fullest extent of the danger that I pose to you, your families, and your well being. There is nothing I will not do, no depth I will not descend to. Evolution is not dead on this earth, and the only sin that I recognize is the sin of failure. Failure to survive. Failure to capitalize. Failure to hold on to what belongs to me. 

There is no room in my heart for sinners. 

And the wage of sin is death. 

I have gotten so bored of this weak and moronic populace, not strong enough to defeat me and not smart enough to realize they can’t. So bored of your failures. So bored of your hubris. So irrevocably bored of your sins.I can feel the exhilaration growing inside of me. The opportunity to tear one of you sinners limb from limb as a reminder that I didn’t become the HOW World Champion playing a bunch of Gentlemen’s Games. That this isn’t a fucking children’s game to me. That there are stakes, and that this week I might just drive one of those stakes through your fucking chest and use it to pin you to the canvas. One unfortunate sinner, one unlucky winner. 

Shirley Jackson would be proud. 

In God’s name we pray.