My Name is Rusty Shackleford

My Name is Rusty Shackleford

Posted on May 30, 2022 at 10:33 pm by Jatt Starr

Sometimes the universe likes to fuck us in the ass.

 

Think about it, my daughter is in a coma, I am paying through the nose for ventilators, IV’s, round the clock care and Lee Best?  That malevolent twatwaffle wakes up from a coma like he was taking a nap on a Sunday afternoon.  

 

The universe is cruel.

 

He hasn’t been back five minutes and already he’s spouting off about Clay and Conor and whomever else he feels like railing at.  Don’t you wish he would just go back into that coma?  We get it, you have been incapacitated and now that you are up about looking like a deranged Santa Claus, you feel the need to swing your dick in everyone’s faces and piss on them.  

 

And why?   Because he’s a sad, petty little man who thinks he is bigger than he actually is.  

 

I have known that man for like nineteen, twenty years and he has not changed one bit.  Zero growth, it’s shocking.  You would think after the many, MANY near death experiences he has had at the hands of Kostoff, you would think that there would be a part of him that says “Hey, Lee, you’re being a numb-nutted fuckstick!  Change your ways!”

 

Alas, there is no Jacob Marley to haunt him on Christmas Eve.   There’s no Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, or Future.   If there were, I’m pretty sure he’d find a way to sexually assualt all of them with a cow.

 

It is not one hundred percent his fault.  He has surrounded himself with brown nosing Yes Men, myself included.  We have enabled him….and, by extension, his family.   Mike Best, the prodigal son, the personification of a human trash bag, has become a fucking legend, a small part is nepotism, sure, but it is our fault that we were not strong enough to stop him.

 

And when Mikey retired, there was that collective sigh of relief.  No more Bests being handed title shots.  No more Lee hyping Mike and Mike representing Lee.   

 

Then this fucking dweeb, Tyler shows up.  

 

It is almost at the point to where Lee is licking Mike Best’s sphincter and Tyler Best is licking his and Mike is licking Tyler’s.   It’s becoming this really disturbing Human Centipede situation.  

 

It all comes back to Lee.

 

He thinks he’s a god.

 

Some would call it blasphemy.

 

I call it hubris.  

 

Growing up, we had this book on Greek mythology and,from the ages ten to fourteen, it fascinated me.   I must have read that book a hundred times and there would be these stories about how mortal hubris would lead to these cocky bastards’ downfall.

 

There was Kid Icarus who flew too close to the sun so his wings melted and landed splat on the ground.

 

Narcissus, this good looking dude who fell in love with his reflection.

 

Arachne, the weaver that was turned into a giant spider.

 

But the story that reminds me of Lee is that of King Sassafras.   He was this dictator type who ruled his kingdom with an iron fist.  This prick was messed up.  He would invite people up to his palace and just murder them for fun, hell he probably even stabbed these people in the eye, which was a clear violation of this hospitality rule they had called “Taxidermy”.   Anyway, Zeus is pissed that King Sassafras is killing all these people because it’s like this king is pissing all over the gods so he puts a hit out on him.  Unfortunately for Zeus, Sassafras, being the wormy prick that he is, manages to escape death twice.   And of course, Sassafras is now thinking to himself that he is smarter and more powerful than the gods and just as complacency set in, BAM!  He was dragged to the underworld where he would be forced to push a giant boulder up a hill for eternity.  See, what the gods did was just as Sassafras was about to push that boulder to the top of the mountain, it roll all the way down and he would need to start and it became this endless loop which inevitably caused the old king to go mad.

 

Hubris. 

 

It is this hubris that leads Lee “Motherfucking” Best to believe that the Board is the clear winner at War Games.   And that hubris seeps into every single member of his team.  

 

Scottywood.  He beat me in a match, sure.   But it wasn’t any sort of qualifying match.  He didn’t earn his spot.  It was given to him.  

 

David Noble, the same thing.   He didn’t earn it!  I can’t believe I hugged that entitled little shit.

 

Jace Parker Davidson?  He earned it.  But he has always been a cocky fop.  It wouldn’t surprise me one bit to learn that he is looking at himself in a mirror right now with a Cheshire Cat smile with a scarf over his shoulder and practicing his inaugural World Championship speech at “Refueled One Hundred’.

 

Tyler Best Streets Whatever His Last Name Is….he thinks it’s his birthright to win.  That somehow Mike Best impregnating his mother means he is destined to win War Games.  

 

Christopher America.  Now there’s some with a serious case of hubrisasitosis!    A xenophobic tool that believes just because he’s an American, he has the right to look down on other people.  It’s people like him that make me cheer against Team USA at the Olympics.  Personally, I think he’s overcompensating and I am pretty sure he falsified his birth certificate.  I bet you anything he was born in Greenland or something.   He thinks that just because he has won two War Games, he will win his third.  That being said, he’s not wrong.  He won back-to-back War Games and is the only person to win it twice.   I can honestly say, he is the one person on Team Best that legitimately scares me.

 

Jeffrey James Roberts, the murderer.   He, much like all other psychopathic killers, probably mocked and ridiculed the police.  Killers always have hubris because they think they can get away with murder.   Fortunately, he didn’t!  They caught him, which means he is not as clever as he thinks he is.  And yet, we have a convicted felon in the HOW.  How is he allowed to compete?  I’m still baffled that he is part of the roster!    

 

And then there’s Stronk…..

 

STRONKULES! 

 

STRONKULES!

 

Much like Hercules, Stronk has his own labors.

 

Instead of slaying the lion, he slayed Steve Harrison.

 

Instead of defeating the nine headed hydra, he defeated Jeffrey James Roberts.

 

Instead of capturing the Sirius Hind, he captured the HOTv Championship.  I know, the same as beating Jeffrey Roberts but the feat is impressive so it counts as two.

 

Instead of cleaning stables filled with shit and piss, he got the equivalent in facing Scott Stevens.

 

Instead of destroying the Stymphibian Birds he managed to further destroy a Sparrow’s sense of manhood and self-esteem by choking him out in a clearly illegal maneuver.

 

Capturing Cerebrus?  Beating Geno Syde.   Obtain Hippolyta’s girdle?  Smell Bobbinette Carey’s noxious flatulence.  Catch a giant bull?   Obliterate Brian Hollywood.  Purloin a trio of cannibalistic horses?  End the short, uneventful career of MDM.

 

Now, you might be thinking “Hey!  Simon!  Hercules had twelve labors!  Where’s the rest of Stronk’s?!”

 

First of all, Stronkules, well, he ain’t too bright when it comes to math.   I heard when he was in school, his teacher asked him how many inches are in a foot, so he measured his shoe.  I heard he thought that binary was a two headed canary.  I heard when they were discussing pi, he asked if it was apple or blueberry.   Now, I can go on all day about Stronkules’s lack of intelligence, but there are more pressing matters to attend to.

 

The fact is, one could make the case that defending his HOTv Championship and winning War Games would count as two more labors.   And a third remaining labor involves him snatching Bobbinette Carey’s underthings, which is too disturbing for me to comprehend.

 

Here’s the big difference between Hercules and Stronk.   Hercules is a mythical figure who was a demigod that needed help from the gods.  Stronk is a human mortal person being helped by a smarmy shitbag who probably made a living selling oceanfront property in Arizona.   And when I say “helped”, I mean “mooched off of”.

 

Stronk has the physique.  He’s beaten two of the best.  And he, like everyone else, believes he will win.   You just need to hear that dunderheaded goon speak to know that he suffers from hubris.   The problem is, no one has humbled him.  No one has put him in his place.  No one has shown him that his hubris will be his undoing.

 

Yet.

 

It comes down to us to lift our team to victory.

 

Xander Azula has a lot of heart but when it comes right down to it, he’s useless.

 

Steve Solex is too busy playing GI Joe to focus on the match.

 

Steve Harrison?  He might not even be on our team when all is said and done.  He has to focus on retaining the LSD Championship against Bobbinette Carey.  First of all, no one wants Bobbinette Carey on their team because she’s untrustworthy, delusional, and full of hubris herself.  Second of all, after that match, whomever is left standing is going to already be in a weakened state to really make a difference.

 

Clay Byrd.  Yes, he is the modern day Odysseus.  His quest to championship has led him to being thrown off a ship, bedding mermaids, taming sharks, ripping off Bigfoot’s arm and beating him to death with it, saving vestal virgins from a cult that worshipped a champagne flute once used by Tila Tequila, fighting off an alien invasion at Area 51, battling an oversized rat in the sewers of New York City while saving a millionaire’s nanny, and redecorating a cabin in the woods with an all velvet interior.  The quest, of course, ended with becoming the HOW Tag Team Champions with Solex.  Does he have it in him to take that next step an win War Games?  

 

No.

 

No, he does not.

 

And then there’s Conor Fuse.   Our fearless leader.  Look, nothing against Conor.  I consider him a friend.  However, no one person can operate at that high of a level without experiencing some manner of burn out.  I see it.  He’s changed.  He’s gotten edgier, more aggressive, possibly being driven mad.  I attribute it to a lack of REM.   Sleep, not the band.   He will either snap or his body will just give out.

 

Either way, it’s up to us. 

 

**************************

 

::::Simon Sparrow stares at his protege, who sits in a lawn chair sporting white shorts, a pastel blue polo shirt, and a sweater around his neck, the sleeves tied across his chest, and brown boat shoes, maybe Sperry, maybe something more high end.  Simon wonders if Darin is missing a very important squash match with that get up.   Darin Zion looks the smuggest that he has ever looked.   The absence of a man bun and hookah shells around his neck is the only thing preventing the Professor of Sparrowdynamics from breaking his nose.

 

As his life coach, Buster, once said, in that grizzled Texas accent of his, “Friend, sometimes you can solace in the clouds in the sky.  What shape is it?  A bunny rabbit?  A puppy?   A long lost memory of a happier day, perhaps?”    Simon looks up in the sky and sees…..

 

….Abraham Lincoln….

 

….or is it the Grinch wearing a top hat?….

 

….maybe it’s just the pile of ground sausage he plans on making Tyler Best’s face at War Games….

 

He turns back to Zion, sitting in front of the extremely long and extremely extravagant “4Z Party Bus” parked in the parking lot of the Best Arena.   The Wabid Wabbit is carefully bringing out water balloons as if they were plutonium and placing them in a wheelbarrow next to a structure that resembles a slingshot.   The balloons of course vary in color from red to white to green to yellow.::::

 

DARIN ZION:  Relax, player!  We got this!

 

::::Simon Sparrow seems to jerk awake as if he were daydreaming and turns towards Zion who is flashing his pearly whites, enjoying the warm rays of the sun, as if he were on a beach in Tijuana.::::

 

SIMON SPARROW:  Did you just call me “player”?

 

DARIN ZION:  Yeah, I’m trying it out, it’s—

 

SIMON SPARROW:  It’s pronounced “Playa’!

 

DARIN ZION:  “Playah”.

 

SIMON SPARROW:  Now you sound like an inebriated Red Sox fan!  Forget it!  Lose it!  It’s shit!  It’s trash!  Take it behind the barn and shoot it!

 

DARIN ZION:  Don’t worry, S-Squared.  Two rings and two cages cannot contain the Four-Z Network!   

 

::::A slight breeze rustles the blonde hair on the HOW Hall of Famer’s head.   He looks at his  elongated shadow on the pavement.  He looks back at Darin who carefully removes a fluff from his shirt and flicks it into the air.   The breeze takes it and it flutters away.::::

 

DARIN ZION:  There’s no way the Zenith of Gen-Z is gonna walk out of the World War Z Games victorious!  I ended Sektor’s, what thirty year career?  He’s like sixty, right? In the matter of seconds.   

 

::::Simon Sparrow, putting on his mentor’s hat, grabs Zion on by the sweater and pulls him to his feet.  Zion, his eyes as wide globes, shocked at this sudden breach of personal shoves the HOW Classic off of him.::::

 

DARIN ZION:  What the hell’s wrong with you, bro?

 

SIMON SPARROW:  Have you not listened to one word I’ve said?!   We can’t go into this thing like we’re the cock of the walk!   That means we’re no better than those Board assholes!  

 

DARIN ZION:  My sweater’s all bunched up.

 

::::Darin Zion looks down and adjusts the sweater around his chest as Simon Sparrow looks on in disgust as if the 4Z Network just vomited up babies.  Sparrow lightly slaps Zion in the face to get his attention and comes within inches of him.::::

 

SIMON SPARROW:  This whole Four-Z Network thing you got going on here?   You haven’t earned it yet!   You think Tyler or Stronk or Scottywood or whoever the fuck else gives a rat’s rectum about your new cryptocurrency or whatever?  I need to win this thing.   WE need to win this thing.   A legend does not make the battle, the battle creates the legend.  Do you have any idea what would happen if you survive War Games?

 

::::Zion just glares at Simon Sparrow, looking as though he wants to punch him.   Simon almost grins at this.  A pissed off Zion, an angry Zion, hell, a fucking lunatic Zion is what he wants.::::

 

DARIN ZION:   What?

 

SIMON SPARROW:  It means that I can make the biggest joke in the HOW a fucking legend and Lee Best can eat my corn filled shit.   

 

DARIN ZION:  But—

 

SIMON SPARROW:  But unlike him, I’m more humble about it.   

 

DARIN ZION:  Uh-huh….

 

SIMON SPARROW:  I won’t call anyone a “fuckstick” or verbally emasculate on national TV.

 

DARIN ZION:  Yeah….

 

SIMON SPARROW:  It’s enough just knowing that they know.

 

DARIN ZION:  Riiiiiiiight….

 

SIMON SPARROW:  But you need to start taking this more seriously!   Now help Wabid Wabbit unload the water balloons.

 

::::Darin Zion proceeds to, under protest, help unloading the full water balloons with much less care than the Wabbit.::::

 

DARIN ZION:  So, what’s in these things?

 

SIMON SPARROW:  The so-called Elder Scrolls agreed to fill these balloons with urine.

 

DARIN ZION:  OLD PERSON PEE????

 

SIMON SPARROW:  Yep!

 

::::Suddenly, Darin Zion begins taking great care not to drop nor pop any of the pee pee filled balloons.  After a few trips, the wheelbarrow is full and Darin pulls out a pocket hand sanitizer, the breeze carries over the pungent alcohol scent Simon Sparrow’s way.   Darin addresses his mentor as he fervently rubs his hands together.::::

 

DARIN ZION:  Let me guess, we are launching these nasty, disgusting balloons at the arena.

 

SIMON SPARROW:  Excellent deduction, Holmes.

 

DARIN ZION:  Why?

 

SIMON SPARROW:  Consider it an act of war.   As I like to say, “An act of war is a necessary means to a smelly and putrid end”.  Consider it giving a big “fuck you” to the Board.   Consider it a test of aim and hand eye coordination, because right over there….

 

::::Simon Sparrow points to one of the windows of the Best Arena.  Darin Zion squints as he looks towards the direction Simon is pointing.::::

 

SIMON SPARROW:   ….is Mike Best’s office.  

 

DARIN ZION:  Are you sure?

 

SIMON SPARROW:  About ninety-seven percent sure.  What I want to do is just barrage that window with piss and who knows what else in hopes that one, it breaks and “B”, if it doesn’t break it at least has an unpleasant, lingering odor.

 

DARIN ZION:  This seems a bit beneath us, doesn’t it?

 

SIMON SPARROW:  Sometimes you need to use dirty tactics against enemies like Board.  We need to remind them that they didn’t build the company, I…er…people like us did!   Are we ready?!

 

WABID WABBIT:  Weady!  

 

SIMON SPARROW (to Darin Zion):  Would you care to do the honors?

 

DARIN ZION:  You go ahead.  I’m not sure how stable these balloons are and I just bought this shirt.

 

SIMON SPARROW:  Your loss.

 

::::As Darin Zion slowly backs away, fearing splash back, Simon Sparrow grabs a balloon and proceeds to place it in the sling shot and starts pulling back on it as far as he can go.   He lets go and the red balloon flies into the air and explodes against the side of the arena.   Way off the mark.  Disappointed he grabs a blue balloon…loads the slingshot….pulls back….and lets it loose.   POP!  SPLASH!  Missed.   Darin Zion has entered the “4Z Party Bus”, from it’s confines he can be heard yelling “You got this, bro!”    

 

Simon Sparrow grabs another balloon and launches it and misses.  There is an anger growing inside of him and this need….this need to hit the mark….this need to nail Mike Best’s window with this balloon…..he grabs another balloon….then another…..and another….he continues to send one balloon after another into the side of the Best Arena….he’s going to hit eventually…..he has to….END SCENE.:::::