Regrets, I’ve Had a Few

Regrets, I’ve Had a Few

Posted on July 1, 2020 at 4:10 am by Cecilworth Farthington

The Group of Death locker room has had a weird air of tension during the events of Refueled XXX. The team had mostly been keeping to themselves – Dan Ryan focused on his carefully chosen words for Andy Murray, Mike Best attempting to open up an indoor ski facility with the amount of white powder that he was currently amassing and LT… she was…

Well she was probably somewhere.

Cecilworth assumed it would be fine. It’s not like a monster from her path would horrifically maim her or anything, she was probably doing things that the lady types do, like watching “Murder She Wrote” or randomly leaking.

Farthington for his part was still having trouble processing the events of Normandy. Not the loss of his World Championship, if you thought that was an issue, you haven’t been paying attention and therefore are now eligible to join 24K. No, what he had to do in the match was what bothered him. As much as he could convince himself that Max was not The Minister and The Minister was not Max, as he yanked hard on the armbar, as he booted the face of the red-eyed loon with the murderous glint in his eye, he still saw his friend looking back at him.

He knew that one day his eMpire brother would return… he knew that Max was in there somewhere and yet… he couldn’t help himself. He had to viciously boot the monster in the face, to knock him out, to incapacitate him.

To help Mike.

To save Mike.

That’s what brethren do.

Still his heart was heavy, he knew the monster he was turning into, he knew even though GoD won the match, Lee Best had won another battle against Cecilworth’s soul, the monster fed once more. Cecilworth continued to embrace the path of brutality, the path of High Octane. The wrestler side of Farthington was fading, the light in his eye was on its last ember. If The Minister had got to Mike, if Mike had been taken away from him…

I don’t think there’s a fire in the world that would have been able to re-ignite the soul of the 14 month undefeated former World Heavyweight Champion.

The thoughts and concerns of what he had done and what he would continue to do swirled around back and forth in Cecilworth’s mind, sloshing around like a fat Bobby Dean in a particularly slippery bathtub. The introspection was interrupted as Farthington caught the next segment of Refueled out the corner of his eye. His head snapped towards the small television screen in the corner of the locker room when he heard Brian Bare utter the following:

“Ladies and gentlemen I have an exclusive interview with former LSD Champion, Maximillia-”

The hope was lifted high for a few moments but as the LSD Championship went flying, almost taking Bare’s poor head off, and into the fold stepped the white suited jackal who currently resided in the vessel that was his friend’s body, the gut punch was strong. Farthington winced as the eerily chipper demeanor of The Minister consumed the screen. Farthington was not much paying attention to the words uttered but rather looking for signs, the briefest glimpse of Max. He knew it was hopeless but what other option did he have…

Farthington watched as the Minister tossed around his recently earned LSD Championship. He wondered why he hadn’t bothered to claim his prize and Normandy but the sinking feeling, the regret of what he’d had to do to protect Mike was too much to face up to. He was much happier strolling along the beach, away from the chaos and madness. Maybe if he’d stuck around Mike wouldn’t have had that pen driven deep into his cheek but… it was all too much in the moment.

He wasn’t sure what the Minister was saying, anything to do with the former Max Kael fuzzed up Farthington’s skull pretty fierce. He just kept glaring at the screen, a sign, anything…

“Max feels everything.”

The words hung around in the air, uttered to no one in particular. The misery of the pain inflicted upon his brethren travelled down his spine, his face wincing in a ball of regret. The moment of self introspection found itself to be interrupted by a knocking on the locker door. Farthington had lost track of time, The Minister was long gone from the screen, replaced by a battle between Steve Solex and Doozer.

Farthington wasn’t sure where the time had gone nor when he blacked out but he wandered towards the door regardless. As he swung it open, a backstage production runner stood in front of Farthington.

“Mr. Farthington, The Minister asked for this to be handed to you directly.”

A dead eyed Farthington looked down at the outstretched hands of the eager youngster standing in front of him.

There it was.

The LSD Championship.

His “prize”.

As Cecilworth sat alone in his hotel room, late into the hours of Saturday night… or was it Sunday morning by this point… time didn’t much exist for the LSD Champion at the current moment in time. Every time he looked over to his newly earned title, he could hear the skin crawling chuckle of The Minister.

“He’s Mr. Finish Line”

Farthington’s phone rumbled on the bedside table as Cecilworth sat upright in bed, not breaking eye contact with the LSD Championship for a single second. It seemed to play the role of a haunted artifact rather than a measure of dick swinging success to Farthington.

The LSD Champion looked down at his phone and saw the bald head and eyepatch staring back at him.

He wasn’t in the mood.

The asshole button was pressed.

Farthington had already grown to hate everything his current championship represented long before he found himself as the captain of its division. It’s the very reason he fought so hard to remove Lee’s overall control of the company a year prior at War Games. An end to the shitty deathmatch company, a chance for something new to grow in its place.

Two War Games later though and Cecilworth knew he was a face of the brutality and violence ingrained in HOW as much as any of the company’s top tier. It had just snuck up on him without noticing.

As the sun started to rise in the background, Farthington suddenly realised that he need not be bound by the belt’s past. He need not concern himself even with how he earned it. No, he knew exactly what the LSD Championship now represented and he needed to send out his first proclamation as champion.

“He’s Mister Finish Line.”

The bald head was back on the screen. Cecilworth took a deep breath and answered the call.






Whatever you desire to call a grouping of people, the ultimate goal of that gathering of like minded interest is the aim of success. You may be drawn together due to perceived mutual interests but if you do not find those ties that bind you together, it would be very easy for things to collapse in a moment’s notice.

People stand in front of crowds, get themselves hyped up and refer to their friendship group as family. They call each other brother and sister and try to convince themselves and an eager audience that they aren’t a fairweathered alliance of desperate people hoping to reach victory through sheer numbers alone, no, they have something deeper than that. They want you all to know they have loyalty.

You can’t hear it because I’m typing these thoughts but I’m scoffing right now.

High Octane Wrestling has been back for fifteen months now and we’ve seen an endless rotation of groups letting us know that they’re different. That they have each other’s backs, that they are there for each other’s success and yet… if the proof is in the pudding then all we’ve had to dine on is shit sundaes.

24K’s first big match together, their Pay Per View debut and they had already immediately descended into in-fighting. A tradition Andy Murray continued by stealing the tag titles away from his friends, the Bruvs. Why? Because he’s driven to compete! So fuck friendship, fuck loyalty! I can win a shiny thing and that matters more.

The Order were fighting each other within weeks of forming. Scottywood tried to murder Scott Stevens’ wife or something, it was weird.

The Industry couldn’t wait to batter the absolute shite out of one another if they felt it would give them a victory in the LBI. They let petty insecurities eat them up to the point they felt they had to “prove themselves” each other.

I’m not even going to touch Ground Zero. They imploded quicker than their unfortunate namesake.

It’s hard to be surprised that Ms. Troy and Mr. Ryan looked over at the eMpire. A group who had not thrown even a stray punch at each other since our formation and decided that they wanted to align with those who actually believe in true, utter loyalty.

In my time here, there’s only one group that I’ve been impressed with in terms of living what they espouse. The joyful egg tossing Banditos. Sure, they had tension and strife but they always found a way out of it, they put egos aside for the greater good. They haven’t been trying to establish a pecking order, they haven’t been infighting to prove which member of their group is the best. They want group success. They are what they say they are.


An easy word to toss around, a much harder word to act on. My best friend Mike Best spelled it out pretty clearly on Saturday night but let me just hammer that nail in just a little bit further.

I chose loyalty over my World Championship. I chose Mike’s life over my own glory. I could have finished off Andy Murray and let the sad, decrepit old man hobble off with nothing to show for his magical new metal knee. I could have savoured pinning that wasterel and do not get me wrong, that could have been divine.

In a snap second, I had to make a choice.

I saved Mike Best from The Minister and lost my World Championship.

I put into action what all of these other sad groups would say but never do. I protected my family, even though it cost me personally.

Do I regret it?

Fuck no.

The Group of Death won War Games.

The Group of Death control the World Championship, just as we did before we arrived at that filth ridden beach.

I’ve heard the rumblings, people seem to think I plan to look down upon the LSD Championship. The dense humans likely imagine that I feel above it. It’s quite to the contrary.

The LSD Championship is my trophy in proving I am a man of my word. The LSD Championship is my fucking beacon for announcing to the god damn world that you all talk shit but I actually take action. The LSD Championship shows to the world that I am a better HUMAN than the rest of the roster.

Would Andy Murray rush to save the life of Perfection if it cost him glory?

Would Cancer Jiles really take a bullet for Zeb Martin?

No, I made the hardest choice anyone could make, only I have the fucking courage to do that. Only I believe in group success, in joint victories. That is my blessing, that is my curse.

Rick, my large bulky friend, you may be wondering why I have been harping on about the concept of family and loyalty. I’m sure you think that your LSD “opportunity” on Saturday night is something of a random pairing. Perhaps you think I’m a little bit of a mischievous oik and have amused myself by selecting a low ranked wrestler for my first defense. You couldn’t be more wrong.

I wanted this.

I wanted this match.

Rick, you’re the special one. When Lee Best came calling, I didn’t hesitate for a second in naming you as my first opponent.

You see, The LSD Championship now represents loyalty, it now represents family.

You, Rick, you’re the most disloyal piece of shit in the entire promotion.

I’m not going to let you hurt another group.