It is odd.
I thought I killed this guy already? Not that I fancy myself a killer, but of the few people I have had a hand in murdering I could have sworn he was one of them.
Not to sound disrespectful.
I’m just saying.
I know what it was. I assumed he was dead since I heard his wife wasn’t letting him wrestle anymore. It’s not one of those she cares for him and his well being situations, either. No, she needs to be chauffeured around town since it’s illegal for her to drive.
Rumor has it Steve once was lifting weights upside down while cleaning his gun blindfolded and listening to Avengers End Game in Guatemalan. When he was asked why he was doing such a thing, his answer, of course, was, “If I told you I would have to kill you.”
However, fret not, the puzzle does get solved.
Later on in life, fellow deep six covert agent Darin Zion-Matthews would go on to confirm that Steve was training to overthrow the local government. In an excerpt from his hit book, Hitman: Price of the Kill, Zion-Matthews stated, “Steve was there. I saw him. I was hiding in the trees. I hovered down to him, and we talked about the many different strength Reggie Mens that we knew. He spoke of watching movies in the native tongue to better acclimate with the language. That guy was alright. He wasn’t 3000 alright, but he was alright.”
It should be noted that Zion-Matthews denies any involvement, and says the book was published under false pretenses by a beguiled ex-agent, Noah Hollywood.
Another rumor in regard to Steve is the flop movie, Killer Elite, was based off of his early years in the CIA. Why Steve left the CIA for the wrestling ring remains a mystery. One pundit, a reliable source with access to both the Stevenspedia algorithm and the USS Octane’s personnel folders said Steve left the CIA because he wanted to pursue being a Dad. The noble sentiment didn’t last long, for soon Steve realized he would actually have to procreate in order to become such. Sadly, we know this because of Scottywood in his tell all DVD: My Hardcore Life, The Price of Pain. “Steve got blacked out one night and told me his whole life story. I never felt better about myself. I stopped drinking that’s how good I felt, and conversely why I was able to remember it.”
While the scandalous tell all never saw the light of day, Scotty confirmed the story happened in a recent HATE Anonymous meeting.
There’s another rumor about Steve that has been making its rounds on the top deck of the USS Octane. It goes that Steve once walked across a bed of nails to change a diaper. He then slept on them. The nails. He wore the diaper. He was very ritualistic at the time. When Steve woke up he laughed. He realized it wasn’t a bed of nails he was sleeping on, but rather it was some cot in some basement of some crumb who had just attended a backwater MVW show. In a funny twist of fate, the storm shack Steve spent the night in belonged to a circus master, Joe Bergman.
It was his primary residence.
Get well soon, bud.
So there we were.
The three of us.
Me, Bob, and Dooze.
Well, Laser was there, so it would be the four of us. We were decked out, all of us in matching tracksuits. We were standing in line, like plebeians, waiting to order food from some restaurant hiding out as a shit pen. Yes, that is to say we were standing in line to eat shit. No, we weren’t waiting to enter the Best Arena.
I mean the food was literal shit, and we were going to pay for it. And by shit I don’t mean it was a steaming pile, I mean the food was 100% going to give us the shits.
Just for clarity.
All four of us.
It didn’t matter the repercussions. We were hungry. We hadn’t eaten since leaving Vegas. Sure it was a puddle jump in my private jet that I borrow from time to time, but by the time we landed I had hot boxed the fuck out of the thing. When that door opened you would have thought I was coming down to the ring with the amount of smoke that came billowing out. It was quite the scene, and we sat there, for an hour, watching it all unfold. Then, we got off the plane and stood on the runway for an hour, looking back at the plane, wondering where we even came from and where we even were. It wasn’t till airport security helped us along that we realized we were in Chicago….
“You’re sure this is Chicago? I can usually smell the gunsmoke when we land.” Casually, like it wasn’t offensive, I asked the security guard. He did not respond. I then said, “Well don’t expect a tip.” That was my subtle way of telling him that if he wanted to make an extra twenty dollars he could carry my bags. Again, he was unresponsive to the idea.
As we walked, it all started to come back to me.
I got Steve Solex. Again. Chaos 14. Best Arena.
“Where is the car?” I asked the security guard. “There’s usually a car. I’m kind of a big deal. I mean, we’re kind of a big deal.” He shrugged like he couldn’t give a fuck and showed us to the taxi pit. Uber was surging so the good old fashioned way it was. We have a hideout near the Best Arena, it’s an economy rate room at some moderately dive hotel. It’s where we usually stay for shows.
Gets us in the mood.
“I guess we need a van.” The trip was only planned for one night, but I am a heavy packer.
“Yeah, because you have four suitcases.” Dooze is not wrong. I do have four. It’s funny, he was looking at someone else and talking to them like they were me. He’s not usually one for a hot box, but then again he hasn’t been his usual self lately. I guess my point is lucky for him the person he was talking to also had four suitcases. The person was a part of a family.
“None of that changes the fact that we need a van. Bobby has an extra bag.” I scolded back.
“That is his chin.”
“Oh.” It was. “I thought it was the shoulder strap to his duffel bag. No matter, now that Laser is with us there’s no way the four of us are fitting in a normal cab. Suck it up. We need the space.”
The four of us hopped in a cab and headed for the eGG Den.
But first, we had to eat.
God, that single, coffin sized bathroom is going to be put to the test tonight.
Better get in there first.