(PWA) A Masterpiece of Madness

(PWA) A Masterpiece of Madness

Posted on June 3, 2023 at 9:25 pm by Steve Solex

I’m just going to get right to the fucking point.

I don’t like Lindsay Troy.

I don’t like PRIME.

I don’t like the people in PRIME.

You’re all COMMIE-NERDS who couldn’t hack it in HOW. So, to make things easy on all of you, what did Lindsay Troy do? After getting fired, she, as some kind of revenge tactic against Lee Best, came out of the woodwork with a failed wrestling promotion and recreated it. She put all of you dumbfuck rejects together and every last one of you reinvented yourselves in this bullshit, blue alternative to HOW.

You copied HOW in almost every single way, minus a color.

The only problem is, you all did it without any of the good shit. Like actual competition and burn down the house wrestling matches. That’s not to say you guys haven’t tried though. You’ve definitely earned yourselves a participation trophy for trying, which I’m sure you’d all gladly accept with a giant shit-eating grin and feel like you’ve earned. Look, everything you’ve done has been a whittled down and pathetic version of what Lee Best has already done in HOW, I can’t say that enough.

You guys want to be us so fucking bad, it’s not even funny. Hey, when are you guys doing War Games? Oh, you already did that? My bad. Here’s an idea…you should book Alcatraz for an event, surely that would sell some pay-per-views.

But I’m like Tupac, baby; I ain’t mad at cha. In fact, I actually get it. You have to try and be like HOW. Not because we’re cool and edgy, but because we’re the 97Red wrestling-standard. The treasure map to the pinnacle of wrestling was drawn up 21 years ago and HOW is literally the X at the end of the dashed trail.

So, as you stumble your way along, like a lost little fucking brat at Disneyland, desperately trying to fit your feet into our footprints and find your way to daddy, try and remember that you’re not even carving out your own path, you’re just tinting ours blue. You’re just trying to copy the path we laid out in front of you in the hopes that it’ll be a shortcut to success. When all you’re really doing is living in our shadow, drinking blue kool-aid.

Look, I’m not going to be like everyone else and call you guys HOW Lite. Honestly, calling you guys HOW Lite would be a fucking compliment at this point. PRIME is just not HOW Lite. You want God’s honest truth? The truth is that PRIME is HOW SOFT. As in, SOFT AS FUCK.

Baby nuts.

Bitch made.

Charmin Ultra.

You’re cheap plastic. A Chinese manufactured, dime-store rip off, riddled with poison.

I ordered HOW on Wish.com and FedEx delivered PRIME.

You’re a second-rate, blue-hued, knock off.

You can’t even do words right.

PRIME: Number One by Definition…huh? What the fuck does that even mean? No, seriously…I really want to know. The word prime is not number one by definition. The number one isn’t a prime number.

It makes no fucking sense!

That’s just your genius, woman brain at work, isn’t it Lindsay Troy?

My fault, I’m not saying you’re not smart cause you’re a woman…that’s insensitive.

No, wait…that’s exactly what I’m saying and that’s exactly why I’m going to absolutely fucking destroy and maul you at PWA-02.

Sorry, I just want to reiterate in case I wasn’t being crystal fucking clear: I am going to win because I’m a man.

You just don’t have the chromosome requirement that it’s going to take to be able to compete with me. Just ask every last one of the NCAA female swimmers or any of Fallon Fox’s opponents in MMA.

I’m an elite, male athlete in his fucking prime…pun intended. And you’re an aging woman that can’t bear children anymore. Sucks to suck.

The self proclaimed Queen of the Ring.

The self proclaimed Benchmark.

Nobody – I repeat, nobody – has ever looked at your body of work and come to the conclusion that you are either one of those things. The only thing you ever did well, was ride piggyback on Dan Ryan, while he begrudgingly put up with your bullshit for 20 years with a fake smile on his face trying to be nice.

Nobody wanted you. They wanted Dan Ryan and got you as a consolation … prize? I don’t think that prize is the right word to use here, but I think you get the fucking point. You are only successful in professional wrestling because men have carried you every single step of the way.

From the Group of Death to The Industry, you’ve been carried by top of the card men that propped you up because they felt bad for you and knew you couldn’t do it on your own.

Just ask Lee Best. You were the get of a lifetime for the old man…until you weren’t. He wanted nothing more than the Lindsay Troy he had heard about. The myth of Lindsay Troy blinded Lee Best more than a right hook from Kostoff. But once he saw it for himself, once the realization that you were all hype and nothing more became clear…you were sent packing.

All of these men wanted you to live up to your expectations, but you never could. It was all lies, and that’s why we are where we are today.

Let me guess, “That’s not true! Something, something…mom. Something, something…my kids.  Something, something…let’s make a stable that has some bullshit name with a Latin meaning that nobody fully understands except for me, because I’m SO smart and have read many fine leather bound books and I was educated in the very best brothels, and then I’m going to chastise them for it.”

Look, we get it. You think you’re the best thing to ever happen to professional wrestling and anyone that doesn’t agree with you is a misogynistic prick. All of that may have been great and even been a gold record two decades ago, but now it’s just a broken one. One we’ve heard a million fucking times, but for some reason you keep playing. It’s old news, just like your ovaries.

And now what? You’re The Scarlet Sickle? More second-rate wrestling, commie, horse shit. I’m sure Putin was grinning ear to ear when you proclaimed your allegiance to Stanislav and by proxy, the Russian leader himself. But, in true Lindsay Troy fashion, you couldn’t even last a month pandering to the propaganda of that COMMIE-FUCK, Stanislav, before he got tired of your bullshit and had the Russian Federation fine you for … what … disrespecting him?

You’ve got bad luck with men, LT, I’m just sayin’.

And now your only way to get back on the good side of your COMMIE-NERD friends is by somehow pulling off the impossible and winning your match against me at PWA-02?

Good luck with that shit.

Bring Stanislav. Bring Putin. Bring the entire Russian army. Bring your COMMIE-NERD, PRIME fucks.

You’re going to need all of them.

You know what really bothers me though? Is how much you remind me of Jace Parker Davidson. It’s not in the looks or the personality necessarily, though, now that I think about it…I can kind of see a resemblance of some kind. But, no. It’s more in your matching lack of self confidence.

The lack of confidence that you can beat me one on one in an actual wrestling match. It really isn’t a surprise though. I mean, I’d be worried too. As of last week, I’m without a doubt the greatest War Games Captain in the history of the event, so it’s totally understandable. Plus, you have the power right? You have the power to book whatever you fuckin’ want to, so why not make it easier on yourself?

I’ll be watching for you Stanislav…hell, I’ll be watching for any and all of you other … PRIMEates … that may want to get involved. And I have a message for all of you would-be antagonists, so don’t say I didn’t warn you and don’t forget…

we have a STRONK.


Wednesday, May 31st
Solex Ranch
Franklin, TN

In the dimly lit kitchen, Solex stands hunched over the white marble countertop, propping himself up with a hand. His face is covered in bruises and cuts, still fresh from his battle at War Games. His broad shoulders stretch the back of his Final Alliance letter jacket to its limits and his newly won HOTv Championship is worn snugly around his waist. With a sure hand, he pours himself a glass of whiskey – neat, of course – before shoving the bottle to the side. He raises the glass to his lips and in one gulp he takes down the entire glass. He slams the glass back down onto the counter, nearly shattering it into a million pieces. The sound of the thick glass bottom echoes off the walls of the kitchen.

“Goddamn it,” Solex mutters to himself as he wipes the remnants of whiskey from his lips.

“You okay?” Dick asks in a concerned tone, as he leans against the wall that separates the kitchen from the living room.

The expression on Dick’s face is of genuine concern and worry. He understands the brutal nature of the battle his son just went through and what’s worse, he knows what his son did to Evan Ward. Solex avoids eye contact with his old man as he pours himself another glass of whiskey. Dick cautiously approaches the opposite side of the kitchen island hoping to get a better look at the damage done to his son’s face. But before he can, Solex extends a middle finger right into Dick’s face.

“Fuck off,” Solex grunts, still holding the finger in Dick’s face.

Dick rolls his eyes, but his worried expression remains. Solex downs the second glass of whiskey before he lets his arm fall and with a thud that reverberates throughout the kitchen, he smacks his hand down onto the countertop.

“You need to talk to someone, son,” Dick says, almost in a whisper.

Solex scoffs at the suggestion and asks, “You mean, talk to you?”

“Maybe?” Dick responds, shrugging his shoulders.

Solex mocks him with a fake laugh as he continues to avoid eye contact.

“Yeah fuckin’ right!” Solex blurts out.

“What the fuck would you know about killing someone? What would you know about going into a wrestling match like War Games and putting every ounce of energy you have into it? What would you know about literally losing your mind in the fucking process!?” Solex booms out his interrogation of his dad, startling Dick into a defensive posture.

“You wouldn’t know a fucking thing about it! You encouraged me to bring Kutter out! This is your fucking fault and for what, to win War Games? To win the HOTv Championship?” Solex continues.

Dick stands awkwardly, knowing it’s not his turn to talk.

“It worked! Congratu-fucking-lations! But now, how do you expect me to keep Kutter under control?! You didn’t think that far ahead did you? He has claws dug in deep now and I don’t know if I can keep him down and away,” Solex seethes, his eyes now fixed firmly into his father’s as he presses his fists into the countertop and leans forward.

“And now, I’ve got to go to back to the same fucking Arena in Mexico. The place it all fuckin’ happened, the scene of the goddamned crime if you will. And, to top it all off, I have to fight that insufferable bitch, Lindsay Troy.  Do you honestly think that he’ll stay out of my business long enough for me to take care of her once and for all? Or do you think he’ll pop right back up and maybe this time…he’ll kill Lindsay fuckin’ Troy?” Solex asks, the question completely rhetorical.

Solex reaches over and swiftly pours himself another glass of whiskey.

“That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?” Dick quips, making a feeble attempt at making Solex laugh.

The tension in the room grows to a palpable level as Solex stares blankly at his old man. Dick fidgets nervously, running a finger along a path in the marble before folding his arms across his chest.

“I’m just…sayin’, ya know?” Dick says, attempting to ease the tension.

Solex rolls his eyes and shakes his head in disgust. He raises the glass and takes a hearty sip of his whiskey, accidentally clinking the glass against his teeth. He snarls off whatever reaction he may have had and takes a quick second sip, finishing what’s left in the glass.

“I gotta go,” Solex says as he examines the empty glass of whiskey, his balance a bit wobbled and his speech slightly slurred.

He marches out of the kitchen and brushes past Dick, intentionally nudging his dad with his shoulder as he moves past him. Dick is knocked off balance, his body forcefully rotated around and backed up into the kitchen island.

“You can’t drive!” Dick exclaims as Solex rips open the front door.

“I got an Uber. Mind your fuckin’ business old man,” Solex says as walks through the front door and slams it shut behind him.

Dick’s eyes follow his son walking past the front window, catching the red Lucha mask peeking out of his son’s back pocket. The sight of the mask makes his eyes grow wide as a chill runs down his spine and his blood runs cold. Nervously, he turns back to the countertop and snatches up the bottle of whiskey.  He looks the bottle over, unable to steady his hand. He shakes his head and tries to shake it off before taking a long swig straight from the bottle. He pulls the bottle from his lips, wincing as the fiery booze burns his throat on the way down.

“Way to go, old man. Way to fuckin’ go,” Dick mutters to himself as the scene fades to black.

Saturday, June 3rd
Arena Mexico
Mexico City, Mexico

Solex stands alone, in the vast expanse of the empty Arena Mexico. His feet firmly planted in the exact spot where the War Games cage stood only seven days prior and where the ring for PWA-02 will be erected in one week’s time. The echo of Evan Ward’s head being driven into the steel cage still reverberates within the arena’s walls. Adrenaline begins to course through his veins and his heart thumps through his chest as memories from War Games begin to flash through his mind, not dissimilar from the memories of combat that he relives daily.

His right hand dangles at his side, firmly clutching a bottle of Garrison Brothers Single Barrel whiskey. He snarls as he reaches into his back pocket with his left hand, rips out the infamous, red Lucha mask and tosses it to the concrete floor in front of his feet. He pulls the bottle of whiskey up and takes a swig straight from the bottle, never taking his eyes off the Lucha mask. The mask, eerily, seems to be staring right back at Solex.

You can’t do this without me.

Solex is startled at the sound of Kutter’s voice booming inside his head.

“You’re not real,” Solex says, his voice laced with uncertainty.

You need me, you pathetic fool. You can’t win without me, can’t you see that? I’m the one that lights a fire in your ass when you need it. I am the voice in your head that drives you to excellence. I’m the one that pushes you to your limit. I do everything that you are unwilling to do.

I am the Joker to your Batman. I am the agent of chaos that you need to become the man that you’ve always wanted to be, but have been too scared to become. When will you break free from the chains you’ve shackled yourself with and once and for all embrace me? Embrace us?

Once and for all, embrace us! Together!

Solex has become unnerved, and shakes uncontrollably. He holds his bottle of whiskey with a white knuckled grip. Slowly and erratically, he brings the bottle up to his lips and takes another swig, his eyes wide and still locked intently on the mask.

“You’re not real!” Solex cries out, his voice echoing throughout the empty arena.

I know that deep down inside your heart of hearts, you crave the freedom that I have. You crave the violence that I am willing to inflict to get what we need. It’s time to step off of the path of mediocrity that the rest of the world is on and it’s time to lean into your inner darkness and dive headfirst into the sea of madness with me. It’s your only path to greatness and together, as one, we cannot be defeated. Let go of whatever inhibitions you have that are holding you back and join me in the freedom that is chaos.

It’s time that you accept the duality within. It’s time that you let loose of your inner demons and watch the wrestling world tremble at our feet. Together, we are an unstoppable force that cannot be contained within the confines of this mediocre and complacent world of professional wrestling.

Together, we are a Masterpiece of Madness, ready to be unleashed on the world!

“Señor?” A small Mexican man’s voice cuts through the silence, calling out for Solex’s attention from access the arena floor.

Solex looks up, his eyes transformed from before, as if something has changed inside of him. An evil grin spreads across his face as he stares at the silhouette of a man holding a broom standing at the arena floor entryway.

Solex releases his grip on the whiskey bottle, sending it hurling to the concrete floor and shattering into countless, whiskey soaked shards of glass. He takes a step forward and steps directly on the red Lucha mask and grinds it into the floor, tearing it to shreds.

“We’re coming,” Solex says under his breath just before the scene fades to total darkness.