Posted on May 11, 2021 at 6:34 pm by Arthur Pleasant

Here we are AGAIN.
Informing the idiot fucking masses that the following promotional video upload has something in it that might be seen as reality bending without first inviting your eyes into the core brilliance of its multilayered machinations. The TL;DR dumbified version of that is an insurance policy for Arthur in case any crybaby fuckhead wants to bitch and say “omg but how did they film that pRoMo 15 years ago? itz so faKe LOL”.

‘Cause, you see, Arthur Pleasant is a part of this thing of ours we call “The goRe”. The Guardians of REAL Entertainment. It might be a crummy fucking acronym, sure, but it’s financial backing and unmatched production values are a beacon of light in an overall dismal atmosphere here in High Octane Wrestling. And in just a few moments, all of you will be privy to the next chapter of an ongoing saga.

That being said? Unless we’re actually living inside a Christopher Nolan script, or technology has advanced itself so much in 2021 that we can transcend the dreamscape barrier with a tripod, dolly, and camera, just understand that these are fucking actors playing roles on a film set. We here at The goRe deem it necessary to make it abundantly clear that it would be impossible to film, in real-time, what happened some fifteen years ago. We realize the suspension of disbelief is hard enough as it is for wrestling fans, so enjoy at the risk of expanding on your horizons. God forbid.

Actually, as we’ve stated before, Arthur doesn’t really give a High Flyer fuck about what you like or dislike. So if you want to continue to have your intelligence insulted and watch the same monotonous horseshit that most of the elitist locker room regurgitates on a weekly basis? Then you go right ahead and do that. GRRRRRR DAN RYAN GRRRRR is proof that your opinions are nothing more than a piss and shit cocktail.

Eh EHM. His inFamousness is eager to get the show on the road, so without any further ado… let’s continue the next harrowing chapter in Arthur Pleasant’s amazingly disturbed “backstory”!


Utqiaġvik, Alaska
July 3rd, 2006

“Was there any indication that he might express violent behavior before this happened, Mr. Pleasant?” calls out a voice to Roy Pleasant that might as well have been a thousand miles away.

Roy looks down at the ground, seeing the horrifying events transpire over and over in his head again and again. He had just held his wife Loretta in his arms and watched her die. While five of the bullets were sent in every direction from the six-shooter revolver being held by someone who had limited experience shooting a firearm, one struck Loretta directly in the chest. 

She died within a minute and was officially pronounced dead at the scene within ten. The bullet had been lodged somewhere in her failing heart and all Roy could do in those sixty seconds was watch the lights fade from his wife’s glossy eyes. Ugh. Fuck. What a downer in this story. 

He couldn’t be sure if anything registered to her or not in those sixty seconds, since she never even said a word back to him. But for Roy, all he could do was hope. With that hope, he said “I love you” more times in that gut-wrenching, soul-crushing minute than he had throughout their entire marriage.

A regret he would carry with him for the rest of his pathetic ass life.

Continuing to look down at the ground as everything falls into a distorted, twisted haze of mental trauma, he recollects how the blood just poured out of the hole like a geyser. Like a fucking Bud Dwyer suicide video, it just gushed. That and how the bastard who did it just watched on. Not with any sense of awe. Not with any ounce of curiosity. But with an inconvenience about him that made it seem like it was a bother to come down from the mental safety of his room and simply end the life of his adoptive Mother. He did it with such nonchalance that it felt like he was performing an everyday task; like going to the fridge for an ice pop or grabbing his Legos to sprawl out in the vestibule, as he so often does. 

Roy couldn’t forget the look on Arthur’s face. Those… eyes. There was just something behind those eyes that told the story of something pure evil living behind them.

“Sir?” calls out a police officer on the scene, snapping him out of his sudden reverie from the immediate past.

“Sorry. What was the question again?” he responds weakly from the emotional shock he’s seemingly stuck in. Roy looks at the policeman- Officer Caldwell he identified himself as after meeting Roy- with an absence of reality set firmly in his confused visage.

“Were there any signs that your son-”

“He’s no son of mine.” interrupts Roy.

“Sir?” expresses Officer Caldwell with confusion, maintaining a professional disposition despite this shocking statement.

“He’s… he’s the damned Devil.” continues Roy, who looks over at the back of the police cruiser where Arthur sits silently, smiling back at him as if he were about to take a trip to Disneyland. 

“I don’t care what you do with him. Lock him up and throw away the key for all I care. I just…” he pauses as he looks into Arthur’s eyes, “… I never want to see those eyes again.”

Roy feels an icy gaze penetrate him from afar. To say it is an unsettling feeling would be a gross understatement.

“Please.” he continues, “Get him out of here. I have arrangements and calls to make.” he manages to sniffle out, stifling a full-blown meltdown in the process.

Officer Caldwell nods and leaves Roy be for the time being. Arthur simply waves at his adopted dad with a smile strewn about his twelve-year-old face.

A few tears escape from the corners of Roy’s eyes as he looks back at his adopted son.

Realizing this would probably be the last time that he’d get to see this asshole masquerading around as his Father, Arthur slithers back into the shadows of his captivity. Then, as he raises his handcuffed hands, Arthur flips Roy the double bird.

A final “fuck you” from the Devil himself.



Prove it?


Um, okay.

Sure. Because, you know, it’s not like I haven’t proven anything yet. Hahaha. 

That’s what the HOW pundits, pseudo-columnists, smart marks, and the Queen of her own Goddamn Mind are trying to make everyone believe, right? It’s not like coming out of seemingly nowhere and beating two condescending cock docking dickheads in the ring caused some of the jealous, insecure fucks in that locker to secretly text me, DM me on Discord and Twitter, shoot me an ICQ “UH OH”, or invite me to a mIRC chat or anything.

Actually? I got something here I want you to listen to. Plz hold.

Reads text from phone.

“YO. Where you from, dawg?! You got some fucking talent in you, boy. Shewt!”

Thumbs up on his cell. Reads another.

“Uhhhh dayum. LMAO 🤣 u massacred fat bobby and maybe zion unlike any1 has in years. i know they suck like a dyson cyclone V10 (wife has 1) but you certainly gettin noticed. keep doin what u doin. U gonna b champ in no time!!”

Annnd he pulls up another.

“I wanna feel u inside me 💦 🍆 -JS ”

He nearly drops his phone after reading that one.

Whoops. Probably shouldn’t have read that one. But uh, shall I go on?

Yeah? You sure? Alright, then. You asked for it.

He goes to pull up yet another but realizes there are some inappropriate pictures attached to this one that needn’t be seen on camera right now. Or pretty much fucking ever.

Shit. Uhhh… nevermind. I deleted the other texts. Yeah. There… there might’ve been some nudes attached. That fucking Silent Witness, let me tell you. Some secrets going on with that one, lemme tell you.

Anyway. Where was I? OH YEAH. It’s not like I managed to beat the shit out of a former World Champion Brian Hollywood so badly that he’s been radio silent about it for weeks now. Rumor has it he even needed some reconstructive surgery for it, but take that with a grain of salt. HOW’s Breaking News reports are about as reliable and effective as a game of cornhole in zero gravity. 

It’s not like I was booked in a match that was written off as a squash because Yuri and I decided to say fuck the rules and board the U.S.S. Kurt Russell without an invitation. It’s not like we gave the dictator boss of HOW, in all of his Dr. Evil clichés and evil promoter tropes with that giant pussy between his legs on his lap, the double bird and imparted Dan “Fucking” Ryan a serious run for his money that gave the betting lines on HOG absolute fucking fits. 

Pause. Full stop. You know who that overgrown asshole is, right? He’s one of the, without question, and as much as I hate to fucking admit this… respect where respect is due, most legendary names in this business of ours. He’s that undefeated son of a bitch who’s collectively had more World Titles in his career than this entire roster combined. Yeah. It’s not like I gave that guy a SERIOUS fucking challenge when 99% of these other whine ass loser fuckwagons on the HOW roster couldn’t go ten seconds with him.

Here’s my point. I assure you, it’s not aimless or derivative or irrelevant like the majority of shit you watch here. This is called the “OH SHIT” moment. Or the “Full Circle” moment in promo class.

I’m told to “prove it”… like I don’t “have it”… and the one I get to fucking “prove it” against… is fucking HIGH FLYER?!

What kind of duck, duck, goose playing kiddie fucking logic is that?!

The most washed up, has been, phoning it in every promo, showing up at Refueled just to set the ring up and go back to catering motherfucker on the ENTIRE roster?! THIS is who you put me up against as some sort of test to see if I have what it takes to fuck people up in WAR GAMES?!?!

That’s like giving someone a couple of at-bats in T-Ball and saying they’re ready to play for the Yanks. Get the fuck out of here with that shit.

Does a spit take from the imaginary cup of hypocrite juice the FOOOOORMERRRRR HOW Tag Team Champion Lindz gave him at Refueled. 

Prove it, she says.

Prove it, our new fangled editorialist says. 

Prove it… prove it… prove it.

Prove… fucking… what?

What is there to fucking prove when I’m facing a jerk-off placeholder of a wrestler who, when I beat in the middle of that ring in the center of Lee’s one-million ton slice of toxic masculinity, people will just scoff and thumb their nose at me before saying, “Yeah but dot dot dot so and so and so it’s HIGH FLYER. He hasn’t been relevant since the 2000’s.”

I’m not some fraudulent clown of asses who claims to be clairvoyant just so I can charge $2.99 a minute on some 900 number (cough cough 1-900-THE-GORE for any inquiries into this) to blow some minds with subtle context clues that anyone with an amoeba-sized brain could pick up on, but everyone in that fucking locker room knows that I just nailed Jack Harmen to the goddamn wall. Put a pin in it for future studies, friends. Shit, if outcomes were pre-determined in this thing of ours and decided on verbal beatdowns instead of in the ring with ability and grit, then I would’ve probably won this shit show in just three sentences. Sadly though, that’s not how this works. Or at least, I don’t think it does.

You see my predicament here?

High Flyer. Jack Harmen, old buddy. Whatever the fuck kind of name evolution you’ve gone through over the years like some kind of Pokémon… sorry not sorry that you have to go through what you’re about to go through. Sorry not sorry that I’m going to smash and bash you with fists, elbows, knees, shins, the occasional headbutt or three, and effortlessly aimed kicks. I refuse to feel bad for annihilating someone just because they’re a blast from the past and a solid hand with ancillary duties. If you want to blame anyone for setting your win-loss record back even further? If you want to blame anyone for that little voice inside your head telling you to just pull a no-show this week because it’s not just worth it?

Silently mouths Lindsay Troy’s name and points off-camera, presumably in her direction.

It is what it is, I guess. I don’t mind making an example out of legends.

Nor do I mind making an example of their shadows like I will be doing with you, Jack. 


I’m feelng a bit like Phil Connors right now. I mean, I’ve DEFINITELY been in this exact… same… scenario.

Having to fight a bona fide legend to prove something to everyone.

Motherfucker. I HAVE been here before!

In my last match, in fact.

What is it with wanting to put me against living legends and shit? You might as well be two weeks ago, Jack. Because you’ve been around just as long, if not longer. Hell, you might even be so lucky as to have a tenth of the amount of World Titles under your belt that the Sheriff of Ryanham does. But don’t expect the same result with me coming up short. Because where you and my last opponent may share any similarities, it stops at the paper legacy you bring to the table.

Truth is, Jack? Turns out I’m not the only one that’s forgotten about the wonderful, wacky, whirlwind that is the once amazing and mighty High Flyer.

So, too, has High Octane Wrestling.

For good reason, too.

It’s a shame, really. Because let’s face it, Jackie Boy; despite you being a “legend”, you’re just going through the motions right now. It’s painfully obvious. With one foot out the door, a second foot in the maintenance closet, and a third foot that magically sprouted from you just so you could shove it up your own ass, you’re just taking bookings when you can and showing up on camera as needed. You are one lazy week away from pulling a Hughie Freeman.


The great High Flyer, reduced to ash in a ruin of his own doin’.

Let me be more specific, though, in case there was any doubt about it. This is a waste of MY time, Jack. Not yours. Because… well, let’s face it. My time is obviously more precious to High Octane Wrestling given that I’m actually being given the chance, weak though the execution might be, to actually participate in the biggest event on the HOW calendar.   

But this just proves a theory that I’ve been working on. There’s two types of legends, Jack. Some age like a fine wine. Some age like a rotten chunk of meat on the pavement during a hot summer day.

Guess which one you are, Jack? Heh.

Sooner or later, and it probably needs to be sooner or risk long term damage to an already diluted career, you’re going to realize that you should have just put a fucking bullet in it and called it a day years ago. 

But it’s your lucky day, Jack. You have the good fortune to go against Dr. Kevorkian’s protégé and spiritual successor himself, Arthur Pleasant.

Because trust me, High Flyer Jack Harmen… I am more than willing to assist you in career suicide.

After all, it wouldn’t be the first time I put a bullet in someone for not having the spine to do it themselves.


Lakewood, Washington
July 12th, 2009

“Good morning, Arthur. I hope you are well today.” greets a middle-aged woman wearing a white coat, a visitor’s badge that says “Dr. Dolores Zajaczkowski”, and a dress underneath said white coat that reveals at least a modicum of fashion sense.

Arthur sits quietly behind a circular table, restrained with chains around his wrists. Said chains are interconnected to his feet with a rectangular anchor-like apparatus on the floor that feeds up through a perfectly round hole carved out from the table itself. His uniform is an unusual powder blue with no numbers, designations, or pockets of any kind. So it’s not so much a jumpsuit per se, but something that represents the distinction between prisoner and patient- yet somehow meets somewhere in the middle all the same. Arthur’s hair has grown out since we last saw him at the tender, yet clearly homicidal age of twelve as it now flows beneath his shoulder line. Much like it does present day, in fact. 

At fifteen years old, Arthur remains a patient at Western State Hospital for a little over a year. Two years before that, our young point of focus had been remanded to the North Star Behavioral Hospital in Anchorage, Alaska. But because of poor conditions within the facility, due to overcrowding and understaffing, Arthur was transported across state lines to this fine facility we’re at now in Lakewood, Washington. It’s certainly been a journey, that’s for sure.

Though he would prefer the fresh air of freedom, he doesn’t mind this place too much. It feels more at home than the last shit hole, for sure. And by shit hole, that is meant literally as the walls and floors of that place were caked in feces regularly.

“Arthur?” calls out Dolores, as she insists on being called by him. A ploy undoubtedly established to build a rapport with him in order to get inside his disturbed psyche. Though he may be young, Arthur exhibits the intelligence of a man beyond his current years. Thus, he would not bite at this pathetic attempt to dig around inside of his brain.

“No offense, Doc, but I’m not really in the mood to talk today.” he says without even looking in Dolores’ direction. Or blinking.

Sometimes he likes to stare out into the great big nothingness for so long that his eyes sting as badly as opening them underneath the water of a pool with too much chlorine would. HE knows DOLORES knows HE likes to do this, so he makes sure he does this every time she pays him a visit.

It’s a game of chess, Dolores and Arthur. A game he has every intention of winning. Even if it means spending the rest of his life in a psychiatric ward. To know that he has bested a College educated, Graduate School alumni with a Doctorate hanging somewhere on her gaudy ass living room wall is worth all the time in the world to him.

“And why is that, Arthur?” she asks plainly in her holier than thou voice that’s subtly disguised as the voice of someone who gives a rat’s ass.

He chuckles. Looking up, Arthur stares out into the courtyard that lies beyond the large windows of this cafeteria-like hall. They often take patients to this place whenever a Doctor or health official requests some one-on-one time. His mind trails off from having to answer Dolores’ inane questions as he sees the tops of hedges lit up by the sun. It’s so bright outside that if he squints hard enough, they take the shape of large, leafy lamplights. Staring into the shadows cast by the sun and the courtyard’s shrubbery, Dolores clears her throat to wrangle him back into her presence.

“Tell me, Arthur.” she says, seeing if he looks at her. He doesn’t, however, and she continues, “What do you see when you look outside? I’ve been coming here once a week for a year now and you have not broken this pattern once.”

He actually smiles and looks right into her eyes.

“I was wondering how long it would take for you to ask me that, Doc. It only took you a fucking year.”

He sees a flicker of annoyance in her facial features upon refusing to call her by the name she wants to be called by. His eyes dart away from hers for only a moment as he realizes goosebumps had risen to the surface of her forearms.

Rook to bishop four.

“Instead of talking about why you stare outside, why wait so long for me to ask such a question, Arthur?”

“Arthur? Please. We’re practically family, Doc. No need for any formalities. Call me Arthur.” he says in a mockful tone.

Another glimmer of frustration as her eye twitches and she swallows. Hard. For the briefest of moments, her eyes fixate on a glass of ice cold water that the staff provided for her as she set up for the meeting with him.

Her pawn takes his rook as a sacrifice for his next move.

“Answer the question, Arthur. I genuinely would like to know why you stare outside. It’s not like you don’t get to experience it. You’re outside every day for two-hour blocks.”

He shrugs, “Maybe I just like the way those hedges look.”

Dolores turns to see what he sees.

“Oh, yes.” she says, pausing for a moment to look a little longer. “They certainly do some great landscaping work here, don’t they?”

“It’s the shadows.”

Dolores looks at him quizzically. “Pardon?”, she asks rather plainly.

“It’s the shadows, Doc.” he nods toward the hedges. “That’s why I stare outside.”

She goes to say something but stops. Clearly, she’s choosing her words carefully here. Her guard is up, but it’s not enough. Arthur closes his eyes and chuckles at her confusion. Queen to knight six. Check.

“Shadows? What are you talking about, Arthur?”

He sighs. What part of “not being in the mood to talk” did this fucking cunt not understand?

“The hedges suffer under that sun for so long. Every day. But they persevere, Doc. Even with long draughts and harsh winds that could rip apart a tree, those fucking hedges seem to survive. But if you look where they’ve taken root, what do you see?”

She nods, understanding the significance behind his words.

“Shadows. I see, Arthur. It really makes sense now.”

“You see? Hahaha…” he laughs, making her cringe with the disingenuousness of it, “What do you see?”

He’s in control of the narrative now. 

She may have moved her King, but victory is within reach. Bishop to pawn six. Check.

“The way you describe the sun, as if it’s this villainous entity, is a parallel for what haunts you. For the events that happened back at home. The shadows are your escape, Arthur. Therefore, you fixate on them. It’s your sanctuary from the sin you’ve committed. Ultimately, it’s a shield to protect you from regret. Something you believe you are immune to.”

Shit. She… she’s not that far off, actually.

Arthur’s smile fades. There would be no checkmate today. At best, it’s just a stalemate.

He flips the board out of sheer rage by looking away from her and fixating on the hedges once again.

Well, more specifically… the shadows.

Dolores doesn’t even try to hide the smile, shedding all professionalism. She knows full well that she’s inched her way ever-so closer to getting inside the head of Arthur Pleasant more than anyone ever has.

Credit where credit is due. Unlike Loretta? This is a bitch with a fucking backbone.