I love the way that stupid word sounds. It’s lazy, it’s cheap, and it’s not even a real word. Just something I invented that gives an idea. It spells out how I feel about everyone around me when I step foot on that ramp, show my beautiful face outside the suite, or just shower the world with my presence in general. It’s the perfect way to describe the state of the fans- too stupid to know what they are and too indolent to change it.
People may hate that fake ass word but it’s accurate. I could execute the most beautiful arm drag ever done, so great that somebody could win an International Photography Award for it. Transition to a hold that is slowly beginning the process of tearing my opponent’s rotator cuff and all I’ll hear is bitching from the first ten rows.
I could give every single person that sits in the ‘Triple One’ a free t-shirt and they’d still cry about it. They’d call me cheap because I didn’t use premium cotton as though they’re worth the extra expense.
That’s what a lot of life is though.
Dealing with stupid shit and just the idea of things. Take for instance this ICON Championship match. The idea of holding that belt, of pinning, submitting, or simply beating Michael Best is fucking exciting.
But to get there? To win that belt from you, Mike? Not an easy task whatsoever. You’ve stood at the top for God knows how long and I’m fucking hungry. Believe me when I tell you that. Trust my words when I say that I’m hungry if not fucking starving and that, Mike, makes me dangerous. I will do almost anything in that ring to have that strap put around my waist and I mean almost anything.
I don’t care if I need to jam my thumbs so far into your eyes that I can massage your dopey little brain. The ICON Championship is coming home with me on Saturday. Go to Vegas and bet on it. You can thank me later.
When I won half of the tag team titles, that was merely an appetizer for ‘yours truly’. A little taste on what the rest of the menu is going to be like. I thoroughly enjoyed it. In fact, I can’t wait to win another belt here in High Octane on Saturday. Little did I know that opportunity would happen so quickly after the last one. I’ll admit, Mike, ever since that moron Bergman secured half of the belts things haven’t been the same with me. Something has been missing, a void that needs to be filled.
On the ride back to the plane after it all went down at Lethal Lottery, I couldn’t think straight. How could I? There was tension floating among the boys that needed fixing and an animosity inside of me which didn’t help the nagging questions like: “how could I have prevented that from occurring?” and “why couldn’t Murr just have taken out Joe, walked off the apron, ate the count out, and then enjoyed a glass of whiskey with us?” Is that all on Andy or even fair to suggest? No, of course not because the truth is, if the roles were switched I would have done the same damn thing.
Praise God that didn’t happen. Imagine being forced to tag team with Joe Bergman of all people- oft. Poor Murr.
Anyways, I can remember the very moment 24k won those High Octane Tag Team Championships. Having busted our asses in that gauntlet, pushing ourselves past every single opponent thrown at us. We didn’t have the privilege to take a break and come back when we were a bit more fresh. We did it with pure skill and a desire to take those belts. We earned that win. I remember grabbing hold that piece of High Octane gold for the first time and not hearing a single thing around me. An odd silence in the deafening chorus of booing.
There’s something that changes in a man when he takes his first gold in a new company he now calls home. Confidence begins to swell, you’ve started to prove your worth, and you can use that title of “champion”. There’s nothing like it. I have no doubts you know that feeling well too, Mike. Making your mark in a company that’s regarded as the best is indeed a true feat.
Many can’t say they’ve experienced that at this level of competition. The majority will never have the opportunity to feel all those emotions circling through them when they finally get to the back and have a chance to themselves to reflect. There’s no amount of celebrations, champagne, or cigars that can replicate that very moment. Those thoughts about being great enough and running though all the imperfections you made during your bout while you just stare at that belt- at your accomplishment.
Knowing that what you did was just one step and the true challenge is now keeping your prize. I can’t wait to feel that again Saturday night, Mike. I can’t wait to have that cold rush flow over me while I watch them change the nameplate from “Michael Lee Best” to “Perfection”.
Am I popping the champagne early? No. I’m too smart for that, Mike, but you best believe it’s fucking ready. Cases of it too and you’re more than welcome to join us after if you so chose. I even have a bottle with your name on it- literally. A top shelf reserve too, which I’m certain you would enjoy.
Most would think it’s odd I’d invite my competition over. Those dopes think I really have so much hatred for you. Honestly, even most in the back think the same, Mike. They couldn’t fathom that I’d whimsically just shoot you over an invite to celebrate my pending victory. To be fair, I wouldn’t expect you to accept either, champ. Too many bad intentions would be running through your mind after dropping the belt, and I paid too damn much for your personalized bottle to have it broken over this dazzling dome. Maybe I’ll ship it to you Next Day Air and give you some time to cool down.
But the notion of Michael Best hanging out with Perfection? The Ungratefuls couldn’t comprehend that. It would probably ruin their sad little lives that revolve around this shit- it really would. Sometimes I feel like just telling them how it actually is. Something that will shatter their realities and totally bake their bagels. Something like the truth.
And here’s some of that truth for ya, two months ago when I said “I appreciate Mike Best” I meant it. I know in front of the camera I played it sarcastic. Sure, I did the normal Perfection schtick where I spin it into something else but words matter and those words were true.
I do appreciate you, Mike. I appreciate the history you’ve brought to this sport, to this company, and your personal success. It’s hard to make it in this business, to crawl your way up from the pits and into the spotlight. So many burnouts that never make it, not you though. You broke through and did it with conviction.
Who can’t appreciate that? Ungratefuls, probably.
But that’s not the only reason I appreciate you, Mike.
It’s the stuff you don’t tell people, the stuff I haven’t told people about you. We may have never battled in a ring but you and I have had our fair share of path crossing. Enough so that if the media was wise enough and had caught wind they would have written endless stories on how we were cooking something up .
And would they have been wrong?
Maybe, maybe not. Depends on how you look at how close we were. When I was suspended from UTAH, who was the first person outside of Dynasty to call my phone?
It was you.
The most interesting part about that entire incident was that I expected that call from you, Mike. Looking back, even if our mutual interests were fighting, you and I would still find a moment to have a private chat and a drink. Bullshitting at some private lounge until 2 A.M. with none of our crews around and we both know we’re very picky on who we decide to share our precious time with.
Again, I’ve always appreciated that and our back channels. You know, the day that I decided to pick up my ball and go home, quitting UTAH indefinitely, I thought I was done with our sport. I’m sure most thought the same. But not you. You were the first to reach out to me, Mike. The first person to try and offer me a job wasn’t Eric Dane, it was Michael Lee Best. The man who called and said he’d “go to bat for me and make sure Lee would get me the biggest payday possible”.
And I actually thought about it. I pondered and really thought about what the downsides and upsides of coming to High Octane were then. At the end of all that pondering, I knew I didn’t have it in me at the time. I think we both know at that point I was too far gone when it came to giving enough of a fuck to show up at work. That didn’t stop you from attempting to get me back in the business, though.
I even remember when we sat down and were having a semi-serious conversation about tag teaming together midway in your UTAH tenure. The sly, subtle idea to stab Dynasty in the back, join forces, and turn the entire wrestling industry upside down. Imagine if we would have pulled the trigger on that, Mike, or had left and done that right here in High Octane?
It would have been world changing. Just the idea of it makes one wonder, “what if?” What if that did happen and I decided to flip on my family just to dominate wrestling with you? It’s a great question that I surely don’t have an answer for.
But the fact is, it didn’t happen.
Do you know why not, Mike? Because I trade in the only currency that matters in our world- loyalty.
I may be a piece of shit, I may swindle people, cheat, and skirt the rules but I’m goddamn loyal. I’m there when my friends need me and I’m there even when they don’t. That’s what it means to be in business with Perfection. That’s why the men around me can trust me with their lives and the reason I can do the same with them. Plain and simple, I don’t trust backstabbers. Even if I am one at times.
That’s why it never happened.
I couldn’t trust you to watch my back the minute you got dissatisfied or bored with burning the entire professional wrestling industry to the ground with ‘yours truly’. Nor would I expect you to trust me because well, the same damn exact reason. Unfortunately for every paying fan that will never see that happen, it’s simply because we’re two sides of the same coin.
Two men that are always looking for an opportunity to better ourselves, even if it means having to fuck over someone close to achieve that. Honestly, maybe I’m more of a backstabber than you are, Mike. I mean you played nice and friendly with me up until the day I showed my face in your house of High Octane.
In fact, you didn’t even see the writing on the wall.
I literally texted you out of the blue with a “Hey, what’s up?” Months, if not over a year, since we last talked or even went out to shoot the shit. You didn’t even question the motives. Instead you texted me back a few times like I was your buddy from the block you missed dearly.
I knew that in a few short weeks I was going to ride in with 24k to create one of the biggest wrestling moments in professional wrestling, if not in High Octane as a whole, and I looked back on all you did for me. I pondered if making a giant splash at you and your friends’ expense was the right thing to do to someone who has put their neck out for ‘yours truly’. One that at each turn you were there putting out a helping hand and I never once returned the favor in kind. I actually thought twice about it and how it would affect our cordial relationship. It wasn’t an easy thing to do Mike, but it was business. It wasn’t personal.
Maybe if you would have had the wherewithal to call me and ask a few pointed questions I would have given you the heads up. Or maybe I wouldn’t because again- I’m a fucking backstabber and at the end of the day we aren’t friends. We are just merely acquaintances that enjoy each other’s company every so often.
Mikey Unlikely is a true friend, Jesse Kendrix is a terrific friend, Andy Murrary, the man who’s name spews out of the mouths of the High Octane roster ad nauseam, is a great and loyal friend. You, Mike?
Expendable in my books. An enjoyable, great fucking guy, and one I can stand sitting at a dinner table with joined by a select few others but expendable. Speaking of Murr, what’s with all you cats’ and your obsession with my tag team partner? It’s literally like everyone, ESPECIALLY GoD, has an Andy Murray poster glued to their bedroom ceilings. The collective man-crush is pretty gross- ‘Andy Murray, Andy Murray, oh Andy Murray!’
Jesus fucking Christ.
Do you guys want his autograph or something? I can get your whole group some. Seriously, I’ve never seen people in my own industry “mark out” so goddamn hard for one of their own, except for maybe Dan Ryan or Cecil Farthington. It’s actually very unprofessional but more importantly it’s just sad.
You know what, to save us all the trouble I’ll just get you a few signed headshots before our match to give out to the other dorks, Mike. Maybe you can make a side hustle and auction off any extras after the show. Not only will they have Andy’s authentic signature, totally not done by an auto-pen or anything like that, but it was touched by the newly crowned ICON Champion- Perfection.
I bet you my BIGGEST fan Cancer Jiles would even buy one- guaranteed.
Does that make me seem petty? Maybe. Or maybe I want everyone to keep saying his name on command like they have a pull string. The more name I.D., the more money in the coffers and Lord knows I love me some free advertising. You can’t pay for the type of attention that man draws. Either way, it doesn’t change the inevitable of what is going to happen come Saturday. It doesn’t change what happens when you and I collide in that ring.
When I grab you by the fucking hair and drag your face across the top rope corner to corner there’s not going to be anyone around to stop me other than useless Matt Boettcher. Not much of a security blanket if you ask me, champ. Every goddamn tactic will be on display at Refueled because if there’s one thing, I’m planning on walking out of the AllState Arena as the ICON Champion, Michael.
I will punch Boettcher in the fucking face by “accident”, grab an object, and proceed to beat you with it until it either breaks you or I break it. There’s no option in this where it’s a clean fight between two high-class wrestlers.
Am I going to regret trying to break you? Probably. Will it keep me awake at night? Definitely not. I may appreciate you, Mike. Hell, I may even respect you, which is something rarely EVER said by ‘yours truly’ and it might be worth fuck all to one Mike Best. With that said, I’m not going to lay down for you or give some half-assed attempt when the ICON Championship is on the line.
This is going to be a fight, Michael. A goddamn brawl of pure technical greatness. One like I’ve never battled before. One where there will be no holding back from Perfection. Not because I’ve suddenly had a fall out with my once close acquaintance. Not because I have some pent up bad blood with GoD and want to make it clear where they stand with ‘yours truly’.
You have something that I want more than seeing you struggle to not say “yes” when Boettcher starts to ask if you want to “submit”.
The ICON Championship.
And there is no length I won’t go to have it in my hands. I hope you keep that etched in the back of your mind when you make your way down to the ring to me. While I stare at you ready to put you through one of the toughest experiences of your professional wrestling career.
I’ll see you soon, old buddy.