- Event: Chaos 001
I am a grown fucking man.
Maybe I just need to mention this, since everyone on the planet puts my age in their mouth like it’s all you can eat. The eighteen year old son of Mike Best. That’s how they define me. Like it’s some Freaky Friday shit, with the Lion of HOW in a young man’s body. I have no identity. Nothing that makes me unique, not worth a second look unless they’re comparing me to my father. Shit, even Michael does it, and he came up in a world that did nothing but compare him to his father. So I don’t know, maybe I just feel the need to correct the record.
My name is Tyler Adrian Best.
I won fucking War Games.
Tired of hearing about that, yet? Cause I assume you haven’t properly absorbed it. I’ve heard a lot of excuses about how I didn’t do it on my own, like War Games ending with two survivors is a bad thing instead of a feat not achieved in my father’s entire career. How many of you have won War Games? Has Clay Byrd won War Games? Steve Solex? Stronk Godson, Chris Kostoff, Scottywood?
No?
What about you, Harrison?
Did you win War Games this year, or did you get all your shit in on the pre-show and then get used like a human toothpick by STRONK DADDY? Just checking, since everyone seems to quick to discount the single greatest achievement ever made by someone my age and at my level of experience. You should all be on your knees, consensually licking my ballsack in hopes that some of the secrets to my success end up all over the bridge of your nose. They should be putting a crown on my head and calling me the third coming of Christ.
But nah.
The eighteen year old son of Mike Best.
Some of you old fucks need to watch your sodium intake, it’s terrible for you. Especially you, Harrison– I heard your doctor doesn’t even want you driving cars, much less wrestling me, so maybe mind your diet before you get punked like a little bitch at the first Chaos of this era. I know I mentioned this last time, but it’s really stuck in my craw, so let’s touch on it again.
So many fucking excuses.
Do you know what a weak bitch move it is to make excuses for a loss you haven’t even taken yet? I’ve been a professional wrestler for three televised matches now, and I already know what kind of weak shit that is. I’m so fucking annoyed, dude, seriously. You’re pissed off that Lee Best “makes money off your broken bodies”? The fuck outta here, you can break that contract any time you want and go wrestle in fucking Fisher PRIME, take your bi-weekly check, and piss off. Your broken ass body is your problem, so rehab it and take some time off if you’re hurting. Ain’t nobody forcing you to compete for the ICON Championship this week.
Nobody but you.
It’s that ego talking.
You want it so fucking badly. To take this title from around my waist and use it to prove that you’re not just some dude in the Highwaymen. Because you’ve been in HOW for years and never got your big break. Now it’s right there on the horizon for you, and you’re making excuses already? I have literally no idea what’s wrong with Rebecca Hines– it sounds like she has amnesia or something, I don’t know and I don’t honestly give a fuck. But it sounds like between your ribs and your girlfriend not remembering whether or not she lets you go in the backdoor, you shouldn’t be here right now. Sounds like you need a break. Sounds like you need a new job, bud, because no one gives a fuck about your split focus and it just made you look like a little bitch.
Quit, Steve.
Go put on some blue trunks and let them suck your dick.
The Bandits will LOVE the milk truck.
“Just like wrestling Tyler Best is a great opportunity but it is given under a false narrative that it will be fair. I am injured and yet I am not allowed to use that as an excuse because the show must go on.” – Steve Harrison, 2022
YOU ARE LITERALLY USING THAT EXCUSE.
What about my career so far leads you to believe it won’t be a fair match, Steven? Is it all that non-existent interference in the tag match on Refueled 99? All that non-existent cheating in the War Games with no rules? Or was it when I beat Zion clean? Oh but I’m injured and I’m not allowed to use that as an excuse because the show must go on.
YEAH DICKHEAD, YOU’RE A WRESTLER.
Wrestlers work hurt all the time. We beat eachother up for a living. Why do I understand this at eighteen years old, and you don’t get it in the slightest? And I don’t really give a fuck if there was a camera in that room, bitch, I inherited Jesus Magic from my father and I see everything.
Excuses for why you lost the LSD Title, you blame Lee.
Excuses for why your head wasn’t in it, you blame Rebecca.
Excuses for why you’re gonna lose to me, you have bad ribs and shitty focus.
Even your fucking trash talk is whiny. “That family just bleeds HOW Gold to the point where it sure seems like we are all fighting an uphill battle”. Aww, poor muffin. Do you need a fucking hug? Is it hard to beat wrestlers who are better than you? You’re fucking right a title is more important when a Best is holding it, because if there is anything your LSD run proved, it’s that a title doesn’t make a man, a man makes a title.
And what a forgettable man you are.
I’m a coward? Prove it.
I’m a scrawny kid? Bitch, check my BMI, you’re overweight.
Oh, but all the wrestling moves I know are Create-A-Wrestler, right? I’m not as cool as Steve Harrison, who watched a couple of Japanese wrestlers fight in the TokyoDome once and said “Yeah, that’s enough research”. My confidence is as unearned as the title shot you’re getting for being a fucking loser at War Games, you gimp ribbed bitch, so stop making excuses for your loss and just start figuring out where your career goes after you lose to the scrawny, cowardly teenager with the CAW moveset.
Diet Mike Best these nuts, Harrison.
I hope your fucking girlfriend dies.
———————————
“Tyler, wake the fuck up.”
A smallish puddle of drool permeates across the wooden bench of a brand new looking locker room, ninety seven red on the walls with an expensive looking tile floor. Etched into the walls on either side of the room are three words: THIS IS TEN-X.
I don’t need to explain where we are.
Tyler Best, on the other hand, could use a reminder.
“Whadafuqwhoare—“ the God of Sons snaps to attention, pulling himself up from the bench. “Shit, my bad. Was just deep in thought.”
Hands on hips, Michael Lee Best stands over his son, wearing a pair of gym shirts and a TEN-X t-shirt, looking less than impressed at the indentations on the side of Tyler’s face from sleeping on the bench. He’s been missing from practice for the last forty minutes, so those thoughts must have been pretty deep.
“Get up.” Michael grunts, looking disappointed. “You owe me drills.”
Slowly, Tyler sits up on the bench, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. It was a long night– he’d been up until four or five in the morning, and barely gotten enough sleep to make it to practice safely this morning, much less participate. He quietly tries to come up with any reason he could possibly spit out as to why he’s so tired, because if his father learns the truth, he might leave TEN-X using the ICON Title as a suppository.
“Yeah, sorry.” TAB yawns, standing up. “Couldn’t sleep last night. Guess I was just nervous about defending the title this week.”
This is a blatant lie, and not a convincing one.
He was on the phone until five in the morning, with a girl he met on Tinder, talking about the new season of Westworld and trying to catch some sideboob pictures.
Fucking Tinder.
It turns out that even if your overbearing father takes away your cell phone, you can literally just go buy a new one. That’s the power of the 97Red Liberty Card, and the one in his pocket doesn’t have a credit limit. Clay Byrd might hold multiple titles in HOW right now, but he doesn’t have two iPhones.
TYLER 2 PHONES, GREATEST CHAMPION ALIVE.
“You’re full of shit.” Michael closes his eyes, rubbing his temples. “The fuck were you doing all night? You literally didn’t leave the house. Do I need to take away your Playstation, too? Don’t make me treat you like a ten year old, Tyler.”
His first instinct is to argue with his father, but in truth? He’s right. It was absolutely fucking irresponsible. Despite the overwhelming power of sideboob, Tyler should have known better, and gone to bed at a reasonable time to be ready for training. Because he’s not just some fucking kid anymore, and he’s not even just some indy wrestler.
He’s Tyler Adrian Best.
And he’s the HOW ICON Champion.
The God of Sons pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it near the locker behind him. The tattoo on his chest is healing well, and just in time for his first title defense– this is going to be his thing. A tattoo for every significant match. He’s already got ink picked out for his victory lap against Steve Harrison, too.
Assuming he can stay awake.
“My bad.” Tyler nods, slapping his father on the shoulder. “You’re right. I’m gonna focus up.”
Well, eventually.
The ICON Champion reaches into his gym bag, quietly checking his phone with his back to his father, keeping him out of the field of vision. A dumb smile comes over his face, as he sees that *she* sent a message. Hastily, Tyler types up a reply and hits send, his mind once again completely out of the game.
“So this distraction.” Michael sighs, not even having to look. “She got a name?”
Of course he knows.
He’s the account holder. Not just on the phone plan, but on the credit card. Not to mention hearing him giggling on the phone until blah o’clock in the morning, fucking up both of their good night’s sleep.
Tyler stuffs the phone hurriedly back into the bag.
“Lauren.” Tyler swallows hard, trying to put on a sheepish grin. “Dude, you’re gonna love this chick. She’s a double major in—“”
“Nope.” Michael interrupts, shaking his head. “Don’t care. Never gonna meet her. Get it out of your system, wear a condom, and do it on a Monday. And if you ever miss training over a piece of pussy again, I will personally break her fucking neck and make you bury the body in the suburbs. We clear?”
Tyler’s eyes narrow, clearly defensive.
“Now hold the fuck–” he begins, feeling the anger starting to build.
“ARE. WE. CLEAR?” Michael interrupts again, clearly not messing around.
With a huff, Tyler slams the locker door, a resounding clang of metal on metal reverberating through the shallow walls of the locker room. There are a thousand thoughts ready to burst from his chest and out into the universe, but he knows better than to just–
“Didn’t you fuck Lindsay Troy?” Tyler asks, condescendingly.
Okay, he’s eighteen.
He doesn’t know better.
“Didn’t you do it while you were the ICON Champion?” Tyler’s question is rhetorical, but filled with venom. “Didn’t you once get married four fucking days before ICONIC and have to fly back from your honeymoon to fight for the World Title? Aren’t you literally the biggest hypocrite in the fucking world, for telling me I’m not allowed to like a girl just because I have a belt that you like a lot?”
“I don’t see how that–” Michael begins, taken aback.
“Nah, of course you don’t.” Tyler shakes his head. “Because this do as I say, not as I do shit doesn’t work. Who have you trained? Name one success story. How’s Gino doing? Pretty sure he works at a carwash right now. Name one graduate of SixTime Academy who has ever amounted to shit and I’ll flush my phone down the toilet and take up vows to become a fucking monk.”
Tyler crosses his arms, staring at his father with unblinking eyes.
He’s right, of course. FiveTime Academy, SixTime Academy, even TEN-X– a whole lot of pomp and circumstance for what is arguably just a glorified midcard maker. Michael scours the annals of his mind for the right answer, knowing full well he isn’t going to find it. He had always been a great wrestler, and a pretty abysmal trainer.
That’s why he’d sent Tyler to LT in the first place.
The TEN-X program was a way to get closer to his son, and he was failing miserably at it. All of this money spent on the “future of HOW developmental”, and for what? Attendance was practically nonexistent, with trainers dropping like flies. Dan was gone. Farthington might be on his way out. Jace was too busy hustling pussy in Fisher Price land to show up to help out. And even then, there was hardly anyone to train in the first place– the HOW roster was the most shallow it had been since 2016, and there weren’t a lot of new recruits hungry to walk in the front doors.
“Beckman?” Michael swallows dry air, not even sounding confident.
“ALEX BECKMAN!” Tyler’s eyes go wide, feigning shock. “Of course! Who could forget her nine matches in fucking UTAH! How about you just teach me how to throw a knee and call it a day, so I can make us both a bunch of fucking money? Since, you know, I just won WAR GAMES IN MY SECOND MATCH.”
There are flames behind Michael’s eyes, as he stares wordlessly at the Son. For all of his talent, Tyler had undoubtedly inherited his father’s dogshit attitude. For a moment, he considers what a nightmare he must have been to Lee Best all those years, when he was young.
“You haven’t earned it.” Michael says, softly. “You learn the knee once you’ve earned it.”
The look on Tyler Adrian Best’s face contorts from confusion, to hurt, to anger, all in the span of seconds.
“Great.” he nods, snort laughing, condescendingly. “Well, that’s all I really wanted out of this overinflated masturbation project, so fuck you and fuck TEN-X. I’ll see you at Chaos.”
Tyler slowly opens his gym locker, grabbing his shirt and bag from within and slinging them both over his shoulder.
“Wait, what?” Michael asks, baffled. “You’re quitting TEN-X?”
“Yeah, that’s literally what I just said.” Tyler sneers. “Lindsay trained me. I’m already trained. I don’t need to learn how to be Michael Lee Best, thanks… I just want to learn how to throw his fucking knee.”
Michael looks equally as embarrassed as he is enraged.
“You can’t quit.” he sneers, losing his temper. “Because you’re fired. Get the fuck out of my gym.”
Tyler shrugs, reaching into his bag and pulling out his cell phone. He opens up his texts, typing away as he heads toward the back door and out into the parking lot. As is becoming customary for fights with his father, Michael Lee Best is left standing alone.
“Fuck.” Michael sighs. “Good luck out there, kid.”