God of Sun vs. Son of God.
Under other circumstances, we could have been friends, Rah. I like to think there’s an alternative timeline out there where we were a cool team called the Son Gods or something. I like to think that I’m out there next to Benny on show nights, screaming your name in harmony with the world’s drunkest fuck and cheering you on. I like to think that there’s a chance I didn’t have to seriously injury you on my path to immortality. It’s a nice thought, isn’t it? But fortunately for a man who worships the wrong Son, this is the darkest timeline.
You should have gone to Canada, homie.
Two weeks ago, I loaded a clip into the most dangerous knees in professional wrestling, pressed the barrel to the back of Chris Kostoff’s head, and pulled the trigger. Two shots fired and I slayed HOW’s premiere monster without letting him throw so much as a punch. Five years ago, I broke his body, and last week I broke his spirit– I am the single most terrifying force in the history of pro wrestling, and I keep proving it, over and over and over again. Is this thing even on? Is anyone even listening?
Do you understand what kind of danger you’re in, Rah? Like really, truly understand the level of fucked that you’d stumbled your way into?
You are the single most important title defense of my entire career.
215 days. That’s how many days I have been the HOW World Champion. I am eleven days shy of setting the record for longest reign in HOW history, and just one defense short of tying the record for most defenses in one run. Michael Lee Best, the guy who doesn’t have long reigns. Michael Lee Best, the guy who sucks at defending championships. The only thing that stands between me and setting HOW’s two most coveted records is one match. One defense. On knee to the fucking jaw, and that jaw belongs… to you.
You are dogfucked.
The entire legacy of my reign as HOW World Champion rests on one match. Do you know how many times I’ve had to artificially create a “big match” just to get the blood pumping in my cock? This is a literal gift laid at my fucking doorstep– it’s all downhill after this, Rah. Every single successful defense I get after this match is fucking BONUS POINTS. I have you in my sights like QAnon protecting his home from 5G, and you’re doing A Fucking Christmas Story?
Go actually fudge yourself.
Look man, I get your whole vibe. I do. You’re from that squirrely little family of Bergman-ites that are here for a good time, not a long time. Middle of the pack workers with big dreams of someday accidentally winning a World Title from Brian Hollywood. And shit, I appreciate what you do– the lack of ego that it takes to be as underwhelmingly ”meh” as you guys are must be so emotionally freeing. I’m almost a little bit jealous. To not give a shit about winning or losing? To not be burdened by the weight of mediocrity? To really and truly feel like as long as you did your best, it was a hard day’s work well accomplished?
What’s it like to be emotionally healthy, dickhead?
Just kidding, I don’t give a fuck. I’m a winner, Rah. I haven’t been beaten in a whole calendar year, I took two losses for the duration of the entire fucking Trump presidency. Complacency is death, and the day I’m happy to just “go out there, have fun, and do a good job” is the day that they should drag me out behind the HOW woodshed and put me out of my fucking misery. And not fucking Misery Valley, either. Not your regular stomping grounds, a glorified feeder company that had the audacity to make Darin Zion think he has a big deal. My actual misery, Rah– put a shotgun to the back of my head and pull the trigger, because the day I’m okay with being a meaningless fish in a giant pond is the day that I’m not worthy of lacing up my boots anymore.
Two hundred fifteen days.
This is my last run with the championship. Period, end of discussion. No more War Games. No more Solitary Confinement. No more shots, no more opportunities, no tenth run. When my ninth run as the HOW World Champion comes to an end, I will never compete for it again. I am going out in a blaze of fucking glory, and if you think I’m going to let that fire burn out on week one then you’re as stupid as you are fucked. This is happening, Rah. And not just to you– for everyone reading this, because you can’t fucking help yourselves, pay the fuck attention. This is happening, because I deserve it. This is happening, because I EARNED it. This is happening, because nothing fucking good ever happens to me.
No, it really doesn’t.
For fifteen years, the universe has been giving me exactly enough to keep me going, before ripping the carrot away and watching me writhe. That’s why all I fucking do is wrestle and win titles. That’s why all I have is the belt around my waist and the chip on my shoulder. That’s why I am who I am, because the universe takes literally anything else worth a fuck away from me the moment I might turn this fucking franchise around. What, do you think I’m having a pity party right now? Do you think this is Mike Best saying “oh, poor me, boo hoo with all my records”?
Do you think I’m exaggerating?
I have loved exactly three women in my life, and all of them were murdered. What are the fucking odds of that? I was blackmailed by the Russian mob over a video of me being jerked off by a transgender masseuse in Thailand. I have been mauled and beaten by ninjas. I WAS ATTACKED BY A PANDA BEAR IN A WRESTLING RING. I’ve had four homes burn to the ground, I’ve been homeless three times, and at two different points in my career my body was taken over by an alternative personality that thinks it is the reincarnated Jesus Christ. I have been stabbed four times, shot twice, and put into an actual coma. I had amnesia once and was really nice to people for no fucking reason. It’s almost like whoever is in charge of my fate is running out of fucking ideas on how to make my life miserable. No matter how successful I am in the ring, Mike Best always loses. It’s the oldest trope in HOW.
But not this year.
This is the year that Mike Best wins.
This is the year that I get whatever the fuck I want, because I’ve earned it. I will love who I want to love, fuck who I want to fuck, succeed where I want to succeed, and there will be no asterisks. There will be no dark clouds. There will be no fucking ifs, ands, or buts surrounding my 2021, and you can take that promise to the fucking bank. Fate can suck my whole dick and flick a tongue in my asshole, because I am tired of being patient and waiting for my ship to come in. I am tired of hackneyed advice about how “good things are worth waiting for”. I am over the idea that I need to wait for the universe to decide my fate.
I am my own fucking fate.
I am the HOW World Champion. I am about to be the premiere record setter in the game. Mark it down on your fucking calendars, because this is the year that I don’t fall off the wagon. This is the year that literally nothing bad happens to me. No more carrots dangled. No more footballs pulled away. No more laughing at Mike Best’s pain. I am going to buy a really nice car this year. I’m going to buy a house that does not burn down the second I unpack my furniture. I am going to open up a retirement account with sensible investments and reestablish my FUCKING CREDIT RATING. I might get a dog and win the lottery. And you know what?
The next time you see me, I’m going to fall in love.
That’s a promise. I am going to fall in love with a lovely young woman and start a completely normal relationship with her that ends with me being fucking HAPPY, and I am WILLING THAT INTO EXISTENCE. I am fucking MANIFESTING that shit. And she isn’t gonna get murdered, she isn’t gonna fuck one of my friends, and she isn’t going to divorce me in ten years and take all my fucking money away, either. She isn’t going to decide that we should just be friends, or secretly be married, or have fucking genital herpes. She isn’t gonna have a hunchback or whatever was wrong with Kirsta Lewis. She’s going to be a fucking NORMAL WOMAN and it will be a NORMAL RELATIONSHIP and ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TERRIBLE IS GOING TO HAPPEN TO HER.
It’s just going to be good.
It’s just going to be FUCKING GOOD.
I AM GOING TO HAVE A FUCKING GOOD YEAR.
BECAUSE I DESERVE NICE THINGS TOO.
The Next Time We See Mike Best
A Bar In Chicago Where No One Wears Masks
Because He Got In Trouble For That At ICONIC
Tomorrow, Maybe? Who Gives A Fuck
“I think I’m falling in love with you.”
He fucking told you, idiots.
With his chin tucked daintily against his hands, lovestruck elbows glued to the table, the HOW World Champion stares back into the eyes of the single most beautiful woman that he has ever seen in his life. A woman who isn’t going to get murdered. A woman who isn’t going to end up being secretly Canadian. A woman who isn’t eventually going to send him back down a spiral toward known “hell of a drug”, actual cocaine. There is no swerve coming, people.
This is the fucking one.
“Well, you’re an actual insane person.” the beautiful woman laughs, looking awkwardly away.
She glances toward her drink, probably suspecting that he’s put some sort of date rape drug into it. But he hasn’t. Because he’s in love. And he believes that she is going to fall in love with him in return, because he manifested her, and the universe is making it so.
Because he deserves nice things, too.
Bullshit background music pumps over the speakers of the crowded bar, just far away enough to make their voices legible to one another but just close enough to be a little bit annoying. He didn’t miss bars– with the invention of online dating, there was absolutely no reason to chase pussy and buy drinks. But then again, he hadn’t come here to do either of those things, and right now they were the furthest things in the world from his mind.
All he could think about was her.
“Maybe.” Michael shrugs, leaning back in his chair. “But I’m still falling in love with you. Sorry about your luck.”
A tall pint glass of ice cold cola rests next to his stool, which he picks up with a clever smirk on his face. Because he quit drinking in 2020, and he isn’t falling off the wagon this year on drugs or alcohol.
He isn’t even entirely sure how it is that he ended up in this bar tonight– for a man who no longer partakes of the drink, there isn’t a lot of reason for him to enjoy the Chicago nightlife. He isn’t sure what made him pick this bar in particular, or this night of the week. All he knows is that seven minutes after he walked into the door, he met Katy.
And that’s all he needs to know.
He takes a long, cool sip of his drink before setting it back onto the table and leaning forward.
“I’m technically still married.” he smiles, genuinely. “Kind of this whole thing with a wife I abandoned for ten years, and she’s divorcing me now to take everything I own. But literally the second the ink is dry, I’m yours. I have no money, my job is very violent and dangerous, and I am technically homeless right now. Will you marry me, as soon that is legally possible?”
Without a hint of irony, Michael stands from his barstool and gets down on one knee next to the woman sitting across from him. Patrons around the bar, many who are firmly aware of who the HOW Hall of Famer is, turn to immediately nosey neighbor status and begin whispering amongst themselves. A deer in the headlights look comes over the face of the embarrassed young woman, as she realizes what in the world is about to happen to her.
“Cathy.” the Son of God begins, his voice actually trembling.
“My name is Katy.” she rolls her eyes, her cheeks reddening.
“Katy,” he goes on, without missing a beat. “Will you do me the honor of marrying me after a period of no less than 90 business days?”
Maybe it’s the naive earnestness in his voice. Maybe it’s the fact that she cut the cord in 2009 and has literally never seen any of the terrible things that he’s done on live television. Maybe she’s just a little drunk. It’s hard to say, but the smile that curls over her face comes as a quite unexpected surprise. I mean, she is absolutely not going to marry a man that she met less than an hour ago, and he is absolutely a certified insane person.
So why is she smiling?
“You’re ridiculous.” Katy laughs, standing up from the table and grabbing her drink. “You know absolutely nothing about me.”
She turns to walk away, likely to go back to whatever her life was before an actual maniac accosted her with a future marriage proposal pending the results of a devastating divorce.
For the first time in his life, Michael Lee Best isn’t thinking about wrestling. He isn’t thinking about titles, or trash talk, or new and innovative ways to hit someone in the face with a part of his leg. The only thing in the world he cares about in this instant is walking away from him as quickly as she can, and he needs her to turn back around. He needs her not to disappear into the crowd. He needs to keep her as close as he possibly can to her, for the rest of his life, because somehow in the pit of his soul he knows that she is the woman that he’s meant to spend the rest of his life with.
With all the manifestation he can muster, the Son of God begs her to turn around in his mind’s eye. Begs her to look at him one more time, and give him a chance to make her fall in love. Begs her to let him give up everything about his life and hand the rest of it to her.
And then, she turns around.
“Katy.” he stands up, looking her directly in the eyes. “I know everything that I need to know about you.”
Make no mistake. This is an insane person.
Michael Lee Best is a shitbag human being. He killed a guy less than six months ago, over a piece of leather and gold. He once stabbed Jatt Starr’s wife in the eye with a pen and ruined his entire life, just as a goof. He established a legally recognized church and then used it to open an abortion clinic. He is not owed happiness. He is not owed love. He is not owed a single iota of happiness, and he has just fallen into actual love with a woman he has known for less than an hour who he only managed to meet because he was in the right place by seven fucking minutes.
The most important seven minutes of his life.
“I am falling in love with you.” Michael Lee Best proclaims, unabashedly. “I don’t know why. I don’t know how. I don’t know if I even know what that word properly means. But marry me, Katy. Fucking marry me, and we’ll buy a stupid small house and get a dog and just make eachother happy. We’ll figure out the details later. Marry me.”
A long sigh escapes from the depths of a woman who knows that she should hit this man in the face with her purse, run away as fast as possible, and never look back. She should call her therapist and schedule a double session for even considering responding to him. But she doesn’t run. She doesn’t call. Instead, she sets her drink back on the coaster, slings her purse back down onto the table… and sits.
The music stops. The yelling stops. The world stops.
For a moment, all that exists amidst the crowded bar are two human beings who have absolutely no idea how they just fell in love on a Wednesday night in January, after knowing each other for less than an hour.
“I am not going to marry you.” Katy smirks, crossing her arms in front of her chest.
Seven minutes can be really, really important.
“Not yet, anyway.” Michael chuckles, “But you will.”
…and he’s right.