Let’s address the elephant in the room.
That’s not a fat joke, either.
Trust me when I tell you I didn’t get off from doing it. I wasn’t happy about it. The white haired, High Chief Jileswood, former wolf version of me? Sure, that sort of thing was right up his remorseless anus. The golden blond, Maestro, current cockroach version of me? No way. Not in a million nuclear winters. Not my style.
Yeah, I broke from type.
Only because the cockroach was left with no choice but to howl.
Allow me to explain.
You see, I’ve been crawling around in a cute pair of salty color shoes as of late. I don’t like them very much, a tad abrasive if you catch my drift, but people seem to think they fit me just fine so why let them down. Anyway, Bobby Dean, with his ruthless ambition, invigorating pep, and cold clogged heart stepped on them. He looked me in the eyes and confidently said out loud for the world to hear that not only would he take MY T-Shades, but he’d take them from off of my face whenever and however he saw fit.
As if the weight alone wouldn’t crush the bridge of his pig snout.
Problem with that is, because of Bob and his ambitious posturing, from that point forward every second that ticked away was a golden opportunity for someone new to kiss the camera, or question my main event status, or drag my name, or overlook me as a tag team partner, or dare to do the impossible and take my T-Shades from off my face. Needless to say I could already sense the denizens starting to circle. I had been exposed by Bobby so to speak, and in order to protect myself and my nostrils from further singeing an example had to be made. So, not wanting to hinder his championship dreams or mine at a later date by just kicking him right then and there, I wrote him a note, waited a week, and then I kicked him.
Bobby Dean. Bandit cornerstone. Humongous loser. Dear friend. Trusted confidant.
And I TermiBlasted him.
I’m not proud of it.
I wish there would have been another way.
But there wasn’t.
It’d have been one thing if Bob was acting out of duress, like Teddy Blistex was when he kissed the camera after falling under my ire. I’d get that. I’d understand, and Bob’s hubris certainly wouldn’t have been treated as a terminal offense if that were the case.
Sadly, for everyone involved that wasn’t the case.
There was no duress.
Not when I offered my genuine well wishes and Bob claimed I was instead trying to jinx him. Not when I later apologized for those ridiculous claims because being the bigger man and being Cancer Jiles are two in the same, and not when I extended a last resort olive branch in the form of my T-Shades to maybe get him over the hill against Jatt Starr.
The expensive, knock off ones. It’s the thought that counts.
I was on the level, and genuine throughout. Bobby was not, and that was his mistake. In his error he mistook me for someone else. He thought I was the guy who you got over on instead of the guy who got you over. HA! Imagine that? The nerve. Him of all people. As such, in my eyes, Bobby Dean asked for it. And though I didn’t like doing it, he got what he asked for. He got every inch of it.
You don’t have to tell me.
It was still a dick move to kick him like that, but at least now everyone knows why.
Let it be known for as long as these shoes crawl salt white, I will not hesitate to foot check a single Pizmo for crimes committed against the COOL. I will plan accordingly, and will be cute in my approach. You will not expect it, much like I didn’t expect you to be so stupid in the first place.
That means I haven’t forgotten about you, Ted.
That is the mindset. No restrictions. Doesn’t matter if you’re the beautiful bottom of the food chain, or the treacherous top of it.
That means you’re up next, Champ.
Cancer “Salt Shoes” Jiles will not be fucked with.
Long Past Due
Simply The Best
“It smells different in here. Like Laser just walked through after eating a burrito or something.”
It’s been a bit, huh? God, last time I was in here I think it was for Iconic. Jesus, that seems like it happened a year ago. Oh. Wait. It might have been before Iconic come to think of it. Wow. It’s been that long. Scary.
…Uh, I mean my HOW I’ve missed this place!
Come to me my once vibrant, 97red, but now sullied to more of 98, or 99red throne. Fill my nose with the contagious scent of black mold you so pungently disperse.
And yes, there’s Old Greeny! My still somehow amazingly emissions free, luscious fern which thankfully someone remembered to water while I was away scrubbing the decks of the USS Octane for the past few weeks. Uncle Lee said no ferns allowed, which of course tracks. I’m over it now, though it wasn’t a good first couple of nights aboard the ship. I gave a new meaning to the term sea sick, that’s for sure. Kind of a blend between sea sickness and home sickness brought on by fern withdrawal.
Any who, how’s about another fun story about my time aboard the ship? I woke up there after Scottywood put me to sleep in the first round of the Denucci Cup. Then, Laser the bodyguard handed me a toothbrush and said get to work. I never caught his actual name; he didn’t have a tag or badge on him and frankly he just looked like a Laser so I ran with it. He didn’t seem to mind. It was pretty horrible there, as you might expect. I was only permitted to leave the ship to go and pack an overnight bag, and then to go to the shows. Stupid Laser checked my bag and found my fern hiding inside of it the one time. Psycho almost threw it overboard. I would have killed him on the spot.
And then fled the galaxy.
Now though, the decks of High Octane’s formidable battleship are scrubbed clean. I’ve put down the brush, took the empty medicine spoon from out of my mouth, and picked up my wrestling boots upon departing the vessel.
In other words, my job is done.
Sincere, I continue while stepping on a well placed thumbtack inside one of my salt shoes.
“The Champion of the GODS. The Ovarian Assassin. The Mike Effect. The Atlantic City Electrician. The Whatever The Fuck I Want Because I’m Mike Best.”
I chuckle. At my situation. Not at Mike.
“Of course I get you after your worst match in who knows how long? So much for the favor of the GODS. Oh well. Here’s to hoping that concussion clears up so we can have a decent contest at least.”
Forgot brother killer.
“This time around.”
NO DQ. BOBBY DEAN AS REF. I want him to suffer, and to be able to watch him and his face so he doesn’t fuck this up for me.
“Just kidding, killer. Though, some might say you bitched out of our last matchup, I’d say the exact opposite. You’re the Champion. You do whatever it takes to remain Champion. I didn’t have a problem with it, not that you would care.”
A long, belated sigh.
“But enough about that. There are more pressing matters at hand. There’s some things I must say, Mike, and you should know it pains me deeply because all of it is going to be true. I just can’t keep this in anymore. Someone needed to tell you, and if no one else will I guess I’ll once again fall on the short sword.”
I nod acceptingly, but I’m really hoping my head will magically roll off from my shoulders before having to go through with this.
“But… bravo, Champ. I mean it. I offer you my sincerest of kudos. If only one person were to be placed in a wrestling time capsule I know who my vote would be for.”
“You, Mike. That’s who.”
Shocking, I know.
“No tricks. No games. No funny rhymes with Below Me names. Just… well, praise.”
Vomit begins to force its way up my throat, but luckily I’m able to stop it.
“You… you’re the best, Mike. It doesn’t matter if it’s your brother, your idol, some scab off the street, or if it’s everyone else in between. Time, and time again. Over, and over again. Everyone gets T-Rexed. Everyone gets to rage quit the Final Boss. Everyone gets to meet Kneesus without having to leave any money in the collection box. It’s astonishing.”
Suddenly, I regret not putting a thumbtack in my other shoe.
“The consistency in which you operate is dare I say, machine like.”
Though you can’t see it because my shades have a mirror tint to them, a blood vessel pops in my left eye upon the completion of that last statement.
“You really are something special, Mike. For the life of me I don’t know how you do it. The burden. The weight of it all. Forever looking down from the top at the rest of us with a telescope. I can’t wrap my head around it no matter how hard I try to, which is probably why you are you and I am me.”
I guess it helps being all-world, 99 everything.
I spit. I don’t like conceding anything. To anyone. Especially if I’m biting my lip in disgust while doing so.
“Seriously though. It’s boggling how proficient you are. I’ve watched it. We’ve shared the same circle for quite some time now. Friends, squared, eggs, you name it. Across it all, I always find out the hard way that as much I hate you as an overall human being, and as little of you I think a person… you’re the fucking best at we do.”
“Shit, you’ve gotten so good I won’t even lump you in with me and the rest anymore.”
A clear of the throat.
“You’re in a class all by yourself, Mike. No one who came before, no one right now, and no one who will come after you will ever be able to do what it is that YOU do, and have done. You only get better it seems. Your arrow is always pointing up. Fuck, even after getting Molly whopped on the last show and not being able to balance yourself on two feet, and me being at one hundred and ten percent steaming Bobby kicking salt dog, you’re still the favorite. And even I know and accept it. Me. The jerk off. It’s truly impressive. I hate it. I hate every second of it, but fuck man due is due.”
I pause, allowing my teeth to grind for a bit. It’s calming. Kind of.
“Only the grind grinds on Mike Best. That’s it.”
I look up, hoping a meteor comes crashing through the top of the building to instantly kill me.
It doesn’t happen.
Just have to wait till Saturday I suppose.
“It doesn’t stop there though. There’s the relentless effort. The complete dedication to the craft. The amazingly competitive edge you carry around like a Billy club. The ability to boost anyone near you. The fact you mentored Brian Hollywood. Fuck man, you’ve earned the list of bodies that follows you around. The accolades. The awards. The adoration in the community. The victories, and all the spoils. Everything man. You deserve it all.”
I exhale, and finally a smile comes over my face.
“And that’s why me taking it from you is all the more enthralling, Mike. I know how much it means to you. I know how far you’re willing to go to protect it. Most importantly, I remember just how badly it would break you to lose it all to a guy like me.”
Hidden wink. But it was there.
“See ya soon, and again, GOD speed with those concussion protocols. I heard cocaine is a good way to help clear them. And petting lions.”
And good run, Best. Now go dig up your brother. We don’t need you anymore. And here’s some white shoes to wear.
The Latest It Gets
The Hymn Of The Scrub
I can’t confirm or deny this.
You’d think I could, but I can’t.
But, when the moon is full, and the hour is at it’s latest, the following sailor’s hymn can be heard on the decks of the USS Octane.
I’ve been working on the sailboat
All the livelong day
I’ve been working on the sailboat
Just to scrub my time away
Can’t you see his eyes are rolling
I better scrub the decks till morn
Can’t you see his eyes are rolling
Laser, blow the horn and go away.
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