Rejected

Everyone thinks that men are immune to the pain of rejection.

We’ve all seen that “bro” at the bar, hitting on anything with breasts… but getting shot down over and over because… well he’s a douchebag bro.  He doesn’t seem to care.  A cold shoulder.  A quick slap across the face.  Maybe even a drink tossed in his face… though with drink prices these days, it must be something serious to commit that kind of alcohol abuse in response.  But the point is that he moves on quickly, without care for the rejection he just sustained.

But despite the stuck in the nineties look, the bevy of questionable tattoos and hair that McDonalds sends me constant cease and desist letters over… I’m far from some kind of douchebag bro.  Rejection hurts.  It stings.  It eats away at my sole worse than the beer does to my liver.

I was rejected again by her at Rumble at the Rock.  She picked another man over me.  She thought she would be better off with… with him…

Maybe it was the drinking.  I mean I know I was two weeks sober heading into my fight for her… but maybe it still affected me.  Maybe there was withdrawal.  Maybe I fight better after a few drinks.  Solitary was a curveball that I did not plan for in my grand plan for winning her back…

Excuses.  Assholes.  I know the saying. 

The fact… the truth.. The reality is that she is not with me and I have to accept that.  I have to move on.

For now.

The road to ICONIC has started and she will be fought over by her current man… and Steve Harrison.  Twenty-twenty will end with her not in my arms… but it’s been a shitshow of a fucking year… so why should I have expected anything else.

So instead I sit in my office at The Best Arena.  Alone.  Or depending on how you look at it, with twelve of my best friends.  It’s quite a party in my mind.

CRACK!

Sadly that isn’t the sound of a hockey stick wrapping around the skull of a newly freed man.  Instead it is the sound of a Revolution Brewing Anti-Hero IPA can being opened up before being poured into Scotty’s official HOW tulip beer glass. 

We need some new merch apparently after Mike got shit canned as leader of the HOAX and pulled all his shit.  With only one show a week, HOW desperately needs those merch revenues to keep things in the green.

As the carbonation pulses through the only slightly hazy IPA, I ponder what my next move is.  I had planned so much leading up to Rumble at the Rock… I hadn’t given a single thought to what I would do after.  Win or lose.  With or without her.

So for now, all there is the next fight.  The next name on my plate, served to me by that fuckstain Lee Best who ruined every… excuses… assholes… stop it.

The next name.

“Kevin… Capone?”

The inflection in my voice gives away the fact that I barely even recognize the name.  Some kind of COO I am… huh?  The laughter breaks the failures of my staffing in HOW as I take another drink of my beer as something else clicks in my head.

“Capone.  Is that some kind of shitty fucking joke by Lee?  Capone, the last name of one of Alcatraz’s most famous inmates… Al Capone.  Is he rubbing in the fuckign fact I failed to recapture the LSD Title at Alcatraz?!?”

But the question falls on deaf ears as no one else is in the room with me.  Shaking my head I calm myself down.  I’m giving Lee too much credit to think all of that through.  This man was on the HOW roster before Rumble at the Rock.  He’s had matches here apparently.  Yeah, yeah, I know, shitty staffer, fuck off.  So it must just be one of those shitty coincidences only you notice because she is the only thing on my mind.  You’re gonna find a way to connect everything to her.

Though I will not discredit the fact that Lee would totally do something like that if it crossed his sick fucking mind.  Not a single fucker with the last name Best has an ounce of kindness in their black and rotted hearts.  Max, Mike and especially Lee.

Oh, R.I.P. Max… Rot In Purgatory?  Just in case I didn’t make my feelings clear on your shame memorial show.  What a waste of time and money that fucker was.  We could have just dumped the body off Alcatraz and everyone would have been content.  But I unfortunately don’t get to fight the corpse of Max Kael this week.  People get all up and arms when I orchestrate dead bodies being dragged down to the ring. 

Taking out my iPhone 12 Pro Max I pull the kickstand out from the use it prop it up in front of me.  Loading Instagram I hit the live button and instantly fill that empty void in the office with any number of followers who wish to join in.

“I know I’ve been silent since Rumble at the Rock… other than a quick appearance to shit on the dead.  So everyone has been wondering what is next for The Hardcore Artist… for the man that still holds thirty-nine percent ownership of HOW.  We’ll you all know about as much as I do.  I’m sure you’ve all seen the latest card for Refueled… whatever fucking number were on.  You’ve seen the name of that Al Capone wannabe… who makes pimping looks easy?”

I question as I quickly scramble for the paper that has the name of whatever escort company he owns… runs… manages…

“Whatever he does, seems like a shitty Brian Hollywood rip off.  Honestly nobody cares about your side hustles in the wrestling business.  All your shitty office shows is how much you are unfocused on wrestling… on HOW.”

I smile as I look around my own office and understand how one could find some hypocrisy in that statement.

“Now this is a true fucking office that matters Kevin ole boy.  This office lives and breaths wrestling and HOW.  I’m focused on HOW in that cliche twenty-seven way and I am focused on real women… like the LSD Title.  Not some fake fucking hoes.  The point is no one gives a fuck about your Hollywood Industries 2.0 or any of the fucking posters that hang on your walls about wrestling shows of days past.  Shit I could bore you with stories about every scar on my body… but I don’t wanna fucking bore you or anyone else listening.”

Taking a pause I take another drink of my beer… making sure to clearly market it in the video.  Only 14.99 on the HOAX website, get yours today!

“Do you wanna know exactly what I wanna do though Kevin?  I wanna find an outlet for all this anger that has been building up from the moment I woke up after Freeboy nearly caved in my fucking head at Alcatraz.  A release if that makes it more relatable to you and the so-called business you’re apparently pimping out to all of my employees.  HOW is very much an eye for an eye company.  I am going bash someone’s fucking brains in for what happened to me at Alcatraz.  That fucking bag of dicks with my lady… or yours… I could really care less.  You have tangled with two HOW Hall of Famers and somehow survived in those losses.  Refueled is the Hat Trick… and you my noob employee will be praying not for your first win… but to not breathe your last breath.”

I kill the Instagram live video as a plunge back into the silent emptiness of the office, alone again with my own thoughts as I down at the papers strewn across my desk.

It felt good to rant.  It felt good to threaten.  It will feel even better when I get my hands on this dime store pimp and slap the life out of his worthless body.  It’s the only way to get over rejection… to move on to the next.  Maybe those douchebag bros are onto something.  Keep moving on to the next before the pain has time to set in.  To dig in so deep that it will never go away.

But to go down that path you best not slip up.  You best keep ahead of that pain… because if it catches up.  Well just imagine an avalanche catching up to a skier.  How does that usually end up?

So sorry Kev… wrong place, wrong time for you as you will be in a sense my rebound.  You’re going to help me forget about her and move on to wherever the road to ICONIC takes me.  Your blood on my hands will wash away the thoughts of failure and rejection that I have been drowning in since Alcatraz.  This might not be the kind of glory you were looking for when you signed that HOW contract… but trust me Kevin… it is an important role to play.

No on may ever have you be the answer to some fan chat meme game… but you will serve as an outlet to help set The Hardcore Artist back on a path that will lead me to great things again.  I might not be with her now… and I may never be with her again.  But that doesn’t mean that my life is over.  As they say in the jam that is space… time keeps on slipping… into the future, and you can not stop that.  You must continue to move forward so that the avalanche doesn’t swallow you.  So that pain doesn’t drown you.

Thank you Kevin for your sacrifice.  You will be forgotten… never remembered.  Not the kind of glory you were looking for when you signed your HOW contract.  But this is a purpose that someone had to serve… and you Kevin are that unfortunate soul. 

If all goes to plan… maybe you can even say fuck off to Max Kael for me.

So hit your little office gym Kevin, be a dick to your secretary, look at all those nostalgic posters hanging so fancy on your wall.  Cause it might be the last time you ever do.

Cheers Kevin.