“Hey buddy, ready to come back yet?”
A telephone call can be of benefit if you’re looking to hide certain emotions. You may be frustrated, you may be enraged, the vein in your temple may be pulsating so hard that someone would swear there was a worm crawling around in your skull but if you can master tone, if you can SOUND fine, a telephone call can be the most perfect shield in anyone’s toolkit.
Face to face meetings are a lot tougher, you can start to read people, little gestures, crossed arms, furrowed brows, the tapping of a single foot. It’s why Online Poker and Casino Poker are two entirely different games. A person with a smidge of empathy within their soul can start to read physical expression, cutting through tone though, that takes a deeper level of understanding. You really need to have such a firm grasp of the person you’re speaking to on a call to have insight into their little idiosyncrasies.
“Hey bud, yeah, so…”
We were eavesdropping on a call between two friends, that much was clear. These weren’t any two random humans that we were perving in on like Jace Parker Davidson with unlimited credit card and an open window in his schedule. We were perving on two SPECIFIC people.
In this case, Mike Best and Cecilworth Farthington.
Mike Best listened and when he heard the tense “so…” of Farthington, his question was already asked and answered. He didn’t need any further information. It was the night after No Remorse 2020, Mike Best had managed to find a way past The Minister, the Group of Death was crumbling apart and the return of Cecilworth Farthington was likely the last opportunity for things to stabilise. Mike did his best to use his silver tongue, he’d been here before, not just with Cecilworth, basically 90% of the roster had found themselves in this kind of call with Mike Best in the past. Best decided his best plan of action was to cut Farthington off at the path.
“Before you say anything, hear me out, I have this amazing idea…”
If you could measure awkward gulps, the one taken by Farthington could potentially break the scale. He knew he was about to hear a wonderful scheme, one in which he and Mike could sit atop High Octane Wrestling once more, perhaps even forever. He wanted to listen to the pitch, he wanted to support his friend but none of that really mattered…
Cecilworth Farthington was hurting, and he was hurting badly, both mentally and physically. The toll of his 2019-2020 reign had finally caught up with him and he couldn’t even begin to visualise a way back in, no matter what hilarious hijinks his friend had planned.
Mike began to rattle off his pitch but Farthington was barely there. Farthington reached for his morning coffee and winced in pain as he gingerly moved his hand towards the kitchen counter of his small apartment in Chicago (a modest 10 bedroom affair). Mike was enthused, he was energetic, he was engaging but very little of it entered the skull of the former World Champion. Every so often as he struggled to sip on his coffee, he would make vague mouth noises to appear he was still part of the conversation.
“Literal Murder? That’s a hilarious name!”
Another pained sip of coffee followed, Farthington pretty self assured that he had bought himself a few more moments before he had to drop the disappointment bomb. He was happy for this to be drawn out as long as possible, certain he would find the secret to sharing the bad news if he paid enough attention.
I’m honestly surprised I agreed to this match. Not because of a lack of want, more just… in my heart of hearts, I thought my wrestling days were over. Yet, here we are. A one off affair, it’s been stated. A single night contract. My best friend needs a solid tag partner and I’m happy to be in his corner.
A one night contract.
Fuck, they really did see me coming, didn’t they.
Give ole Cecilworth a taste, get him caught up in the drama, get him caught up in the intrigue. He loves the spicy, messy drama of High Octane Wrestling and what’s more, he loves to sit atop the mountain and pour scorn from below.
Add Mike Best to the mix? Oh boy, that’ll do it.
Even right now I’m looking at the paperwork, signed and notarised and laughing. I’m laughing because I know what’s about to happen.
One night contract?
I’m a fucking mark.
“Pick up the phone!”
Cecilworth had just finished another physical therapy appointment. His shoulder was, to use a scientific term, fucked. The force and ferocity in which he had locked in the Article 50 over and over again had started to break down the muscle tissue near his shoulder blade. Every match, every victory, bringing him all that closer to permanent injury. He was about to head to his next appointment but switched on his phone for the briefest of moments. He was bombarded with countless dings and bings as alert systems and messengers he wasn’t aware he had blew up his notification screen.
Cecilworth tried his best to make sense of what this flood of messages was about. He had a five minute window. He rolled back his shoulders and began to scroll, but every message was the same, they wanted him to answer his phone.
He looked further.
20 missed calls from Lee.
Cecilworth was irritable and irritated by this, he was off the active roster, he was tending to his wounds, he didn’t need this shit. Whatever bullshit that had been concocted by a bunch of drunks giggling on a radio show was not really part of his schedule for the day. He was about to shut off his phone again when he saw the 97Red jacket of Lee best light up his phone screen. He stared as the call rang, he could already hear the “pick up the phone, dickhead” in his head.
Exasperated and hoping it would be quick, Cecilworth decided to answer the call, before he could even speak, High Octane’s mostly blind boss had already jumped in.
“Are you near a computer? I have a video I want you to watch.”
Cecilworth was enraged by this point. All these notifications, all these calls, for a fucking video? Does no one care about his recovery? Does no one want to give him space? Through gritted teeth and a cheery voice, Cecilworth gave his very considered response.
“Sure, I have a couple of minutes”
Cecilworth looked at his watch, he was already running late for his counselling appointment. If this was another dumb prank, he was going to return to the company, but only to shank everyone involved and call it a day.
Being able to call yourself a High Octane Hall of Famer should be the happiest day in any member of the roster’s career. The recognition that your contributions have been so enduring and so vast that you will forever be part of the company’s fabric, that’s a big fucking deal.
I couldn’t even enjoy it.
I couldn’t even enjoy the moment.
I was broken, I was exhausted and I saw Lee’s amazing Kostoff tribute and secret reveal as a waste of my time. Not because it wasn’t the most meaningful thing to ever happen to me, that’s as true today as it was the day that I watched the sneaky video.
It’s just… I didn’t have the capacity to enjoy it.
That sounds INSANE, doesn’t it? Not having the mental space to enjoy your career’s greatest moment. To be in such deep pain, that the agony coursing through your body takes higher priority in your life than High Octane Wrestling’s greatest honour.
That you can’t allow yourself to feel joy.
That night, that video, that should have been the moment I felt on top of the world. I had went from a Twitter punchline and laughing stock to the likes of Christopher America and Scottywood after Refueled 1 to having such an undisputable unquestionable run from the ICON Title Battle Royal to my five second loss to Cancer Jiles that I earned a spot in a Hall that some legendary figures still lust for.
I wasn’t even a ballot contender the last time the Hall of Fame existed in High Octane Wrestling.
Yet in 2020, I had a ring on my finger.
That should be a source of celebration.
Hell, it would be enough to pull most back into the company fold.
Not me though.
“Mike doesn’t deserve his spot”
“I should be in the title match”
“I’m the number one ranked wrestler”
The High Octane Fighting Championship had come to a surprising but inevitable close. Cecilworth Farthington had earned his shot at the belt by defeating Cancer Jiles and avenging the loss that took him out of the company for over a year but the lack of a talented pool meant that the hard decisions were made and the closure was confirmed after Bottomline.
I do mean lack of a talented pool. A wrestling rabbit speaking in a Bugs Bunny voice does not make a strong division. It creates a base of fucking plasterwall.
Cecilworth had seen this day coming, he was one of the few roster members of note that was not splitting his focus between wrestling and fighting. He had made countless open challenges, all of which were unanswered. He knew in his gut that the HOFC Division was not long for this world, so the closure didn’t come as much of a surprise.
The HOFC schedule suited him, he still didn’t feel like he was fully healed. The scars and pressure of his record setting run had yet to fade but he knew that the dunderheads who tried to split themselves between the main roster and HOFC would make easy victims in the cage. Half of his matches in the HOFC cage went under ten seconds and he had a month each time to train and recover. It was a compromise but one that Cecilworth was happy with.
A sassy news post wrapped up his return and made for a funny goodbye note, he thought.
There was one small problem though.
Cecilworth was fully engaged with the product again.
And he was fucking pissed.
Every promo from Jace and Sutler cut through him like a hot knife.
Every self indulgent, self centred demand at the World Title brought forward heavy, laboured breathing. It brought muscle tension, it brought pain. Every night Cecilworth ended up so wound up that his shoulder injury flared up again and again, bringing with it sleepless nights.
Cecilworth would watch the Refueled shows each week, getting more and more irate. He had to scratch and claw his way to get his Hall of Fame spot, to prove himself, he had to train harder than he ever had to even get a whiff of the World Title. He had to do the impossible and survive War Games with the same title he entered with to even be considered as a worthy competitor.
And now people just want to be given things?
Or award themselves things?
How very privileged.
It was time to take action.
I shouldn’t be here.
I should be enjoying a fucking cocktail with the view of a beautiful sunset on some remote island.
That’s that life I have craved and for a few months, I even got to live it, even if it was for a fleeting moment. Having distance from this toxic cesspit of a company can really help build new insight, new understandings. It took me some time to realise and accept one absolute truth.
That every record I broke, that every title I earned, that ever War Games I outperformed in over the last two years… I did it without any advantage, certainly not one handed to me from ON HIGH.
Hell, Lee Best hated my fucking guts before my good pal Mike kneed his skull of like it was a Mortal Kombat fatality. Was there a begrudging respect between us? Eventually, certainly. Did he want every title I earned off of my fucking waist? You bet’cha.
That’s how I lost the ICON title in a rushed stipulation announcement halfway through a 97 Minute Iron Man match.
That’s how I lost the Tag Titles without even being involved in the match.
Little by little, my accomplishment dwindled down by factors beyond my control.
Yet I kept fighting, I kept holding myself to the highest standard of any athlete in this company. There were no off nights for me when I was booked on the card… Chris Kostoff, The Bruvs, Teddy Palmer, it didn’t matter who was standing across from me… all that mattered was clinging on. I had one goal, to prove day in and day out that I MATTERED. That I was making an impact.
So, with that in mind, I would like to issue the following message to Bobinette Carey and Scott Woodson.
Literally, please fuck off.
I mean literally, that you two do the funky funky as your spherical mass gets wheeled out of town down a cliff and we hope that your spectacular mass doesn’t create enough momentum that you spin up the other side safely like Sonic the fucking Hedgehog.
Look, I get it, I know rude teens on the internet. It’s fun to get caught up in the cause of the moment. Perhaps even internalise it, perhaps internalising it enough that you start to believe the sweet little lies you tell yourself. Sadly, the reality is they remain nothing but lies. There is no seedy underbelly to expose here, certainly not for the two of you. Scotty, Bobby, you ARE HOW’s privilege. One of you literally holds a MINORITY STAKE in the company. There is no grand conspiracy, there is no one holding you back. The fact that legal haven’t grabbed the Tag Titles away from you after your pathetic stunt is proof of that alone.
So, what other lies do we have going down?
Bobinette Carey doesn’t know me. That’s cool. Well it’s an easy out. A lil lie that helps someone sleep at night. I know her though. Most have forgotten and who could blame them, this isn’t the first time we’ve seen our precious BobCare in HOW this era.
Actually, she has stood in a ring with me already. We’ve actually been in the same match together. It is tragic when you see dementia in action, maybe that can be her next cause when this one goes out of fashion.
Or puppy shelters. People love puppy shelters
Sure, her clothing was less inflated and the big cause at the time was ladies walking around wearing pussy hats rather than… I dunno… trying to make racial struggles into a villainous act but it was still Bobby Carey who fought for the ICON Championship at Refueled EYE EYE.
I suppose she would rather forget the turgid dogshit she shat out trying to convince us she was in a relationship with Alyssa Milano but I didn’t
How much of the special effects budget did we spend on that fucking trash? That must’ve slashed the quality of Kostoff murder scenes by at least half.
The truth is, me and Bobinette returned like many others this era, seeking one last shot at glory. The Refueled era was ignited and the playing ground was the most even it has ever been. Everyone started 0 and 0, everyone could carve out a new legacy.
The end result?
One of us earned a Hall of Fame spot, the other fell out of the ring due to imbalanced body proportions and then tried to convince everyone she was never there in the first place. The ICON Battle Royal was the last chance saloon for many. I succeeded. She failed.
No racial motivation.
No gender motivation.
Just wonderful and forgetful failure.
“OH CECILWORTH YOU SNUCK OUT THE RING AND WAITED UNTIL THE LAST MOMENT TO SNEAK A VICTORY”.
Sorry, I apologise for not being a fucking baby or moron and using tactics to my advantage.
So please forgive me if I do not value the tepid take of Bobinette “Captain’s Pick” Carey when it comes to entitlement. I have never really quite understood those who seek to return to High Octane Wrestling and begin to be walking contradictions. She was given an even playing field, she was given a fair opportunity and she failed like most.
The difference is, many of those who failed stuck it out, kept working, fighting and found their fleeting moments of success. Cancer Jiles was in that match and since then, he’s became a World Champion.
Cancer Jiles became a World Champion this era.
That dude was just found guilty of being a lazy human and even he could take advantage of this era.
BUT OH NO THE SYSTEM IS HOLDING OLE BOBBY DOWN.
Or she just failed, skulked away and like any embittered loser, didn’t have an ounce of self introspection and yelled to the heavens that actually it was the children that were wrong.
I referenced a meme Bobby, I hope you liked it! It’s like you find in the TikToks or Twitters that you scroll to find your next pet faux indignation issue.
Despite Carey’s failure and Scotty’s continual disappointment to his own legacy, we get to be lectured by “The Take Machine” of Scooter and the Lady. Did you guys know Christopher Colombus was a rapistmurderer who couldn’t read a fucking map? Oh, you did? Of course you did! Scotty and Carey wish they were hot take machines but instead keep producing gas station hot dogs.
Can’t wait for next month’s promos on the seedy underbelly of Thanksgiving. I’m sure a twelve year old arriving from 1998 will be riveted.
I could go on all day, because it’s really amusing to me but that’s not the point of all this.
I came back to High Octane Wrestling last week to send a message to Sutler Reynolds-Kael and Jace Parker Davidson. You fucking earn what you seek. I had to. I had to break my body down and shorten my entire career span to get my Hall of Fame ring. I had to survive TWO War Games, a 97 Minute Iron Match, a Roman Colosseum plague mob and an Alcatraz Infirmary to sit quite comfortably in the HOW history books.
So people having a hearty little chuckle and awarding themselves the Tag Team Championship, a belt that I earned after defending the World AND ICON Championships successfully back to back, the belt I RETAINED in a brutal ladder match only to have them Freebirded away from me have become a little in joke. A little tee hee giggle fest for the HOW legends who just don’t seem to have it in them any more.
Of course I signed up to be Mike’s partner. Of course I want to stop Scotty and Bobby from embarrassing themselves. I care even when other supposed Hall of Famers do not.
People who would rather be a sad, underwhelming parody of a left wing twitter feed subscription than actually turn a new chapter in their careers. People who keep trying to ring out that last tasty drop of relevance despite the well being dry for the last ten years.
People who would rather take than earn.
“Take, not earn? THAT’S JUST LIKE THE TOP ONE PERCENT!” – Bobinette Carey, 2021, probably.
I thought my work was done when I deprived Jace and Sutler from taking a spot in the Rumble at the Rock main event. I thought I had returned and issued the course correction that was needed.
But Scotty and Bobinette just had to exist.
Scotty and Bobinette just had to make a joke out of the Tag Titles.
So now I’m here, for one night, I’m here. I’m going to make it count. I’m going to make it memorable. This could be the last time me and Mike ever get this opportunity and I’m not going to let it go to waste. This is my showcase, this is my PPV, this is my ICONIC. One last show before I hit the road and get that cocktail that awaits.
Let me close with this thought…
Mr. Woodson, you’ve spent a lot of television time wanking off about how you wish to hurt, maim, perhaps even murder my good friend Mike Best to severely impact his chance of winning the World Championship at Rumble at the Rock. When you’ve finished wanking yourself red raw at such an impractical thought, did the thought ever rattle around in your skull that YOU have a match at Rumble at the Rock. One that you very much would not like to enter lame like a horse that’s about to make a great arts and crafts project. Or have you just accepted that aren’t winning that one?
If it’s the latter, hand in your fucking resignation note because why are you even here?
The way I see it, 3 people in this match NEED to leave healthy.
You have a Seven Deadly Sins match, featuring a LITERAL MURDERER WHO EATS FACES.
Mike has his World Title match with Conor Fuse.
Bobinette has her severely delayed vengeance against Mario at ICONIC. Nothing says reclaiming your power than stall and delay tactics that make you look cowardly, eh?
Me? My card is open. No future bookings, no appearances, a completely open calendar.
So ask yourself Scotty, who in this match is truly willing to say hell to the consequences and put their body on the line. Ask yourself who ACTUALLY doesn’t give a single care about who he hurts and how he hurts them.
It’s the guy with the one night contract.
My legacy has been assured, my name is in the record books, my finger is ringed. I have no more wants, no more needs. Only the desire to teach the undeserving a lesson.
Think on that Scotty.
Think on that before you open your mouth.
Males can be sexually assaulted too so miss me with your big ball of bullshit.
Hugs and kisses,