One For My Arch-Nemesis

One For My Arch-Nemesis

Posted on February 21, 2024 at 7:11 am by Evan Ward

Hanson escaped with all his fingers, depriving me of a hearty meal in the process, but he came up short nonetheless. It would be wrong to say I was happy with how the match went because, well… even a blind man could see the travesty which took place that night. The two of us battled fiercely, wrestled a technical match showcasing our heightened abilities and innate skill for inflicting pain on the opponent. The balance of power swayed back and forth, each taking advantage of the other’s mistakes, grappling and slamming and spiking and twisting limbs as we built to a crescendo of our biggest moves which culminated in Noah Hanson taking the best knee on the roster straight to the face for the one, two, three. You see the problem here, right?

Right?

No?

Ugh, am I dealing with uncultured swine here? Ignorant masses being placated by the dumbed down, vanilla bullshit pedalled to them by the dregs of this industry? Watch the match again, start to finish. Go on. I’ll wait.

Finished? See anything unexpected? See anything… missing?

Jesus fucking Christ, it’s the stipulation, you bottom dwelling shit eaters! It was missing a stipulation! There was little blood, barely any real violence, absolutely no brutality! It was just a wrestling match! I firmly remember being told every match in this group would be some ultraviolent stipulation attached to it because that’s what all the scumbags in this group are about! Where were the chairs? The Kentucky Fried Concrete buckets? The barbed wire garrotes? The deep-fat-fryer for cooking dismembered extremities? There was none of that! How could I give Noah Hanson the warm welcome he chuffing well deserved if it’s just a boring old wrestling match?

Honestly, if this match against Scottywood doesn’t have a stip, I’m just going to knock out the bloody ref as soon as the bell goes and have at it. It’s the least I could do to pay my respects to the hardcore legend which is Scottywood. The man who threw his chance to win not one but TWO championship belts at ICONIC just to mutilate Jace Parker Davidson (may he rule with a benevolant grace) with his trademark barbed wire hockeystick. If that doesn’t deserve my respect then what does? Well, I guess doing that and winning at least one of the belts. You can’t blame him for that, though, he was as rusty as that barbed wire and off his game. Just taking on the easy task and ignoring the rest was all he could manage and fair play to him for not pushing his old bones so soon after returning.

Hopefully, after that warm up working on his swing at ICONIC, and the intense crash course Witness gave him a few weeks ago, Scottywood is all pumped up and ready to dive head first into the carnage which all the fans are eagerly anticipating when we clash in this 4th match of the DILLIGAF group.

With a suitable stipulation (or a comatose ref), he’ll have a prime opportunity to strut the sort of stuff which he made his name with back in the day. Scottywood will be able to go to town with all the insanity he needs to make the ludicrous gibs flying around the arena. The front row better bring their splash sheets to catch the arterial spray! At least one would hope Scotty would step up to the plate and aim to bat a touchdown, catching nothing but net from the 5 pointer line, just like in his favourite sport. I don’t want to be disappointed, but I guess even the unopposed slaughter of another of my fellow Hall Of Famers would beef up my resumé a little. Not as much as my upcoming domination of  Silent Witness in a few weeks on the go-home show will, obviously, but a little is better than nothing.

But, truely, I don’t want to be disappointed. I’ve bigged up these matches in my head to be a gruelling climb up the heights of a mountain of brutality, a struggle against the some of the most legendary competitors the LSD division has ever seen. While I am sure there are some sickos in the crowd who just want to see a defenseless man get butchered without restraint, that’s not me. It never has been. I want to butcher a man who’s trying to butcher me first. That clash of wills, the mixing of blood as it spills across the canvas in a delectable cocktail, that addictive high of surviving at the expense of another human being… It’s what I live for. It’s what we all live for as HOW wrestlers.

It’s a mindset which I’m certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, Scottywood never veered from when he was pushing the LSD division beyond its limits so he’s sure to understand where I’m coming from. Sure, letting off some steam treating a pathetic jobber as a less responsive punching bag can be therapeutic, I can’t argue with that, but where’s the risk? Where’s the danger? How can you get your blood boiling with the rage of a volcano if there’s no fight in the victim?

Seeing Silent Witness batter Noah Hanson around the arena and lob him unceremoniously off the stage gave me hope the stipulation wouldn’t be forgotten because I’m chomping at the bit to get my hands dirty. Properly dirty, soaked crimson by our mutually spilled blood. I’m sure, given his pedigree as the second Greatest LSD Champion of all time, our glorious new General Manager will come through where Lee Best probably wouldn’t and give everyone what we want to see: Me and Scottywood mutilating each other until he can’t compete any longer…

 


 

“The fuck is this dude?” Trent asked, smoking a trademark giant joint as he and Ward stood in an empty parking lot, late at night, freezing their tits off. Trent was not amused that Ward had dragged him out there but apparently there was something the one eyed giant had to see. Evan was very excited about it, probably a bit too excited.

“Brilliant, ain’t it?” Ward grinned widely, clearly pleased with himself.

“Honestly?” Trent raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “It’s a fucking pile of junk.”

Ward looked shocked. He couldn’t believe Trent could be so rude about his pride and joy, which he had spent so long over the last couple of days putting together. “How very dare you!? This is a masterpiece of engineering!”

“Dude,” Trent puffed the last few tokes of his split and dropped it on the floor, stamping it out as the wind kicked up a momentary spray of embers. “It fucking looks like the truck out of Jeepers fucking Creepers. You fucking see that bloody thing pull up next to you and you fucking know you’re either gonna get fucking kidnapped and thrown in a damp fucking hole in the ground or get your fucking brains eaten out.”

Ward shrugged. Trent made some good points and Ward made a mental note to find somewhere with a damp hole in the ground.

“Wait, wait, fucking wait.” Trent’s eye widened upon recognising the vehicle for what it was. “Is that Townsend’s fucking Taco Truck?”

“What? Nooooooooo.” Ward protested in the way a kid would refute accusations of painting on the walls as he hid the dripping brush behind his back.

“Yeah it fucking well is, dude!” Trent insisted. He knew that Taco Truck well, it had solved so many cases of the munchies over the years. “Did you fucking nick it from the fucking crash at ICONIC and rebuild the cunting thing?”

“You can’t prove it! I won’t stand for such fragrant slander!” Ward shot back defensively.

“Fragrant?”

“Flagrant. Fuck off.” Ward punched Trent in the arm. “No, dude, this isn’t a Taco Truck, it’s…” Ward skipped excitedly over to the rusty truck, which looked cobbled together from haphazardly welded sheets of junk metal. Hope you had your tetanus shots. climbed in the back and pulled a lever inside. The boards swung open, an awning unfolded and a counter jutted out. “Evan Ward’s Mobile Mystery Meat Curry Cart!”

“Really fuckingrolls off the tongue.” Trent said flatly, lighting another joint. “How the fuck are you gonna run a fucking curry van? You can cook for shit. Why would you even fucking want to? This shit ain’t fucking relevant to wrestling, dude, and it’s been done to fucking death, you’re just fucking copying what Rhys and a ton of other fucking cunts have done before.”

“Fuck you, Trent.” Ward stabbed a carving knife into a chopping board in a clichéd act of dominance. “I’m at the point in my career where I need to branch out and get a side hustle. Everyone does it! It may not be creative but it’s mine. This is my true calling outside of wrestling, and the first step to getting revenge on my arch-nemesis!”

“Who? Mike fucking Best?” Trent said curiously.

“What? No.” Ward said dismissively. “Well, I mean sure, he’s one of my nemesis…es…? But he’s not who I’m talking about.”

“Ooohh, you fucking mean Steve Solex then!” Trent nodded confidently. He knew he had the right answer now.

“No!” Ward said with emphasis.

“Lee Best?” To be honest, Trent was becoming less confident in his answers with each suggestion.

“Wrong!”

“Jace Pisser Cuntingson?”

“Definitely not, I’ve got to get on his good side now he’s GM!”

“Austin Reeves?”

“He doesn’t even wrestle in HOW anymore!”

“Jatt Starr?”

“He’s retired!”

“Silent Witness? John Sektor? Darin Zion? Scott Stevens?” Trent just started firing off names as quickly as he could hoping one would hit the mark. “C-Rod?”

“Who the fuck is C-Rod?” Ward legitimately had no idea.

“Shit, sorry that fucker was one of mine.” Trent apologised.

Ward shook his head in disbelief. “Dude, don’t you keep up with anything? I’m talking about the Chef!”

“There’s a bloody wrestler called the fucking Chef?” Trent’s laugh bellowed around the parking lot. “What’s his fucking finisher? A fucking facebuster called the Spatula?”

“No! Stop being so stupid, Trent!” Ward was near the end of his tether with the stoned idiot. “The Chef is a chef! He runs the HOW backstage canteen! He’s a bigoted, prejudiced, discriminatory little gremlin who needs to be taken down! This, Trent,” Ward swept his arms out wide, grandly gesturing at the deathtrap on wheels. “This is the first step in putting that bastard out of business! Here at Evan Ward’s Mobile Mystery Meat Curry Cart, we cater to all forms of dietary choices, with no judgement! This week, at Chaos, I’ll pull up in this van and everyone in the company will flock to it, they’ll feast on the meats and revel in the culinary liberation I will provide them!”

“Fuck yeah, it’s shit when fuckers like that dictate what you can and can’t fucking eat.” Trent agreed, sounding all on board with the idea. “So you gonna fucking do Vegan options?”

“Fuck that, those pansy arse hipsters need to get the sticks out their arses and stop being snowflakes about eating meat.” Ward scoffed in a bigoted, judgemental sort of way.

Trent frowned. “But you got fucking gluten free shit, right?”

“Not on purpose. I couldn’t give a shit about coeliacs or those wankers with nut allergies.” Ward waved a dismissive hand. “They need to be more tolerant of the food I’m serving!”

“Dude, I don’t fucking thing this shit will go down well.” Trent moved over to inspect the menu boards. There were your typical side dishes like Onion Bhajis, Sag Paneer, Something Samosas, Aloo Chutney Chaat and various naan breads. Then traditional curries like Mysterious Tikka Masala, Anonymous Rogan Josh and Unknown Bhuna. Nothing out of the ordinary. He leaned over the counter and pulled a ladle out of a curry pot to give it a sniff. “What the fuck is even in this shit anyway?”

“It’s a mystery!” Ward exclaimed mysteriously. “It could be chicken, it could be beef, it could be Bob from next doors’ dog, it could be Bob from next door! No one knows!”

Trent spat out the mouthful he had just eaten from the ladle. It might have been because of a concern about who exactly he was eating, but it might have just been because of the curry itself. “Dude, this tastes like fucking dog shit.”

“Yes, that’s also an option.” Ward nodded and then realised Trent wasn’t being literal and shook his head. “Dude, this is exactly what I need you for! You invented the Irrelevant Curry Sandwich Of Doom! You created the curry sauce Townsend used in his Atomic Murder Tacos. I need you to be the head chef of my Curry Cart!”

“Why the fuck would I do that?” Trent dropped the ladle back in the curry pot.

“Uh, because you’re my lackey?” Ward pointed out the obvious.

“You fucking boss me around enough already.” Trent countered. “I can’t fucking cook up my fucking legendary curries with you yammering demands in my fucking ear.”

“Fine, if you do this consider that old contract null and void, you’ll be your own man again.” Ward groaned. He didn’t want to give up having a seven foot tall servent he could order to do anything he wanted, but he felt this was an important enough calling to make it worthwhile. “Happy?” 

“And?” Trent folded his arms.

“Okay, how about giving you 25% of the business?” Ward conceded.

“25%? Fuck that, make it 77% and I’ll fucking take it.” Trent countered.

“What?! That’ll give me less than I just offered you!” Ward was outraged at the proposal.

“The fucking split the difference and meet me half fucking way.” Trent shrugged.

“Urgh, fine. What’s that, 51%?” Ward did some mental maths to figure out half way between 25 and 77.

“Fuck yeah, I’ll take it!” Trent clapped his hands together, spat on one and then shook Ward’s hand which we all know was the universal, legally binding way of sealing a business deal. “Great doing fucking business with you. Art of the fucking deal!”

Ward felt anxious about giving away such a large chunk of his fledgling business, but having an expert curry connoisseur like Trent in the kitchen was going to pay off dividends and he was certain it wouldn’t come back to bite him in the ass in exactly three and a half weeks time. It’s not like 51% was a controlling stake in the company, was it?

“Anyway, dude, you’ve got to start preparing for our grand opening at Chaos.” Ward explained. “We’ve got a very special set-meal to prepare for the post-show rush: Scooter Samosas with Scottywood Tikka Passanda on a bed of Pilau Rice and a Woodson Keema Naan.”

“A fucking Passanda?” Trent groaned. “That’s a bit fucking weak, ain’t it?”

Ward shrugged. “Dude, I set the dish to the meat which goes in it.”

“Fair fucking point.” Trent nodded and walked around to set in the van. It dropped a couple of inches as the suspension bottomed out under Trent’s additional weight. “You think Scotty’s gonna be pissed at you for fucking naming these dishes after him?”

“…Yes… naming…” Ward looked shifty. “Look, I’m sure Scottywould protest and try to stop me if Scottycould, but let’s face it, after I’m through with that fucker, we all know Scottycan’t. By the end of the match he’ll be all tenderised, already filleted and ready to drop in this pot.” Ward took the ladle out of the curry pot again. Its end seemed to have melted away, which was strange for a metal implement, especially as the heat was off. He threw the ladle away and pulled another one off a hook. This happened far too often.

“What?” Trent didn’t quite catch what Ward was saying.

“Ready to stop by for a spot of curry!” Ward diverted his non-cannibalistic colleague’s attention. “Anyway, dude, let’s get started!”

And so the two set to work, toiling late into the night and even later into the morning, honing the culinary science of crafting the sort of curry delicacies which Ward would literally kill for. The Chef was going to be sick with envy when he tasted it. Or, you know, just sick with a severe case of food poisoning. Either was fine with Ward. Ward just needed to make sure, after taking another 3 points off his opponent this week, he brought Scotty over to cook with him.