Thank you Scott Stevens… I know, that is a phrase that few in HOW have ever said. He has been vilified here for years and never given the fair shake that he has deserved no matter what he does. Granted, he has shot himself in the foot more times than all drunken Texans combined, but he also deserves so much more respect than what he is given by HOW. He became a punching bag for those too lazy to come up with something fresh.
I’ve seen it happen over and over again here in HOW. With Scott Stevens, with Darin Zion, with Bobbinette Carey… with myself. It fuckin’ sickens me. It fuckin’ tires me. Lazy motherfuckers spitting out the same out shit, over and over again to bury those who refuse to be anything other than… themselves.
I know it’s so cool to jump on the train of insults. To tag along and seem cool when that FUCKING ban meme is CTRL-V’d (cause let’s be honest, I sure you just fucking used it) and get everyone all riled up and make nothing into something. I’m getting a little side tracked, focusing on all the discord that lives in the HOW locker room. Which to be honest, what should anyone expect? HOW is a competitive sport. It’s all about being the… BEST.
Scott Stevens is confused though now. He thinks to be the BEST… he must be a Best. That only works if you are Mike or Tyler… easy there, I’m not beating that dead calf anymore. Though I could go for a veal burger right now. Plus that isn’t gonna score me any points with Lee Best… as if that ever stopped me from saying shit. Because I am who I am… not Eminem… but The Hardcore Artist. I’ve never changed myself to fit someone elses mold… minus that one time I tried to slick my dreads back… boy was that a fucking mistake. But if teaming with Lee Best worked for me… I did it. If kicking him in his bald ass head worked better… I did that.
What you’re doing now Stevens… fucking eh man. I didn’t think it could get any worse for you… and then you literally threw away your last shred of dignity… for what? A spot in War Games? A place back on the HOW roster? Congrats, you helped Christopher America win the HOW World Title… and now you’re facing me once again at a PPV. How many years ago did you reset us to? When we last wrestle in my so-called retirement match. The one where you won and I stayed retired for all of what, five seconds? Solid fucking job there. I know you think this may be your only road Stevens… it’s surely the easy one. But fuck, I’m not sure I even wanna wrestle his version of Scott Stevens that gives Lee Best a colonoscopy every morning with his fucking tongue.
Nah, I’m just fucking with Stevens, I’m gonna still enjoy the fuck outta beating the ever living shit out of you at Dead or Alive. Tearing the fucking flresh from your body, taking your own hand, which your cover in glass cause your a bitch and hit yourself in the face with it. Why you hitting yourself Stevens? Maybe, just maybe I can beat some fucking sense into that thick Texan skull of yours… I’m not holding my breath, nor is that my goal in this match. I wanna just hurt you Stevens. Win or lose, neither of us are going to come out of this match looking good. But if I can stop you from going on and on about this Lee Best 97Red religious bullshit… I’ll be hair happier in my life.
Bullshit is a good word for it all too Stevens. Cause I honestly don’t fully believe you really mean a single fucking thing you are saying. That this is all just some giant fucking facade you have built up to fool Lee Best and everyone in HOW. A giant revenge plot against all the assholes who have talked shit over the years and have dragged your name through the dirt after all you have done for this company. Oh, now that would be fucking brilliant… that I could actually respect Stevens. But it sounds pretty fun to try and see if I can expose that all at Dead or Alive. If I can put you through so much pain that you will crack. Admit to me that it is all one big lie, just to see how far you can get by kissing Lee ass instead of trying to kick it.
No… you’re not smart enough to do that Stevens. You are an amazing historian… but you have a shit fucking wrestling mind. To come up with a whole ruse like that just to get Lee and Mike back for all the shit. So it just leaves us with you have become a sniveling fucking shell of yourself, a fake ass projection of what you think the people that you think matter want you to be… instead of being… you.
I’ve never apologized for being Scottywood. I’m a shit fucking person. A shit fucking friend. Something Bobbinette Carey is still learning all these years later. I don’t hate her, I actually think Carey is cool, for the reason she is unapologetically herself always. Not bowing down to pressure to be something everyone else wants her to fucking be.
I get it though Stevens, you gotta try it for yourself. You gotta see if it will make you happy. But trust me man… it won’t. Once you accept that you are… you… and you’re not gonna change for anyone… then you’ll be happy.
But until you can see that for yourself Stevens, I am going to turn your body into a fucking masterpiece of destruction. The barbed wire, the blood, the pain… it is going to be beautiful Stevens… and like most art it will not be appreciated immediately. But someday you will look back and see what you were missing. You will see what this illusion of 97Red has blinded you to.
This is probably it for us Stevens… and it’s probably near the end for me period. You have not been completely wrong with your assessments of me. I have been different lately. But it’s not because Bobbinette Carey had my balls in some sick and twisted testicale purse. I mean how does that even work in practice Stevens? Come on! Like I went through a whole surgery to have them removed, the area then stitched up and then the removed items sewn up and kept, now detached from my body and rotting in a fabric bag? Just imagine the smell of rotting testicles… IMAGINE IT! I hope someone is now dry heaving.
The point is… I’ve been checked the fuck out of HOW recently. That is what you have noticed. You sparked a bit of The Hardcore Artist… but is it going to be enough to beat you at Dead of Alive? I know I will show up. I know it will be the craziest match of the show… to the point I really don’t care what anyone thinks. If they enjoy it or not, they can fuck off. This match will be for me and me only. We’ll see just what I got left, what kind of spark for The Hardcore Artist has left. I can see the horizon Stevens. I know it’s all coming to an end soon… but not in this match. Dead or Alive is not gonna be a question here Stevens… not just yet. But I honestly just don’t know… I’m certainly not The Hardcore Artist of old… but the question is Stevens, even if I’m not at my best… can the Best wannabe beat me?
At The Bar
Cue a beer in the hand of The Hardcore Artist, who is sitting alone at… a bar or a brewery… or just anywhere that will serve him. That is all he has told Frankie and Ben over the past two weeks. No name. No city. No country. He doesn’t want to be around anyone from HOW right now. He just wants to sit and drink his beer. Just checking them into his Untappd, with his account even set to private… cause let’s be honest, that’s the first place anyone knowing Scotty will look to see where he is.
BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ
Scotty takes a long drink from his beer before placing it down and taking a look at his phone.
He rolls his eyes and takes a deep breath before he taps on the screen to open the text message.
Scotty, I know you’re trying to drink away a lot of stuff… or somehow preparing for Stevens as I’m sure you’re calling it, but I thought you should know that someone tried to kill Carey the other day. Give me a call!
He raises his eyebrow… what the fuck does that mean? What kind of text is that? Annoyed, he starts tapping back on the screen.
Did they succeed? Hopefully not. Don’t have time for a funeral.
Sending the text message back he tosses the phone back on the bartop.
“I seriously don’t even wanna know… she stumble into a Murder She Wrote episode or something? Plus where do you even start trying to gather suspects? I’ll take another beer.” Scotty comments aloud before signaling the bartender for a refill.
BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ
“Fucking eh, why did I even respond?” He rhetorically asks himself knowing damn well that it is Frankie texting him back.
What? Of course they didn’t. Why would you even think… geez Scotty. She is your best friend here in HOW.
Scotty rolls his eyes as he starts tapping back to Frankie.
Best friend in HOW? That’s a low fucking bar. We are all assholes. I really am glad she isn’t dead, but don’t text me something like that and expect a serious response.
He again hits send and tosses the phone down as he pounds the rest of his beer just as the bartender is bringing him his refill. Now that’s a fucking superhero power if I have ever heard of one. Always finishing your beer right as the next one arrives.
Cause there is gonna be no big revelation here for The Hardcore Artist. He isn’t going to find sobriety to try and find the strength he once had to try and defeat Scott Stevens. Revitalizing his career. This isn’t some fucking Disney or Pixar movie where everything works out at the fucking end.
It’s been a twenty plus year career of destroying his body every week for the entertainment of people who could really care fucking less about him. No one cares about the laundry list of injuries that will never heal, where the pain will never go away without the help of pill or alcohol. The memories of what he has done, to other wrestlers, to other people… to himself. Drink after drink, hoping this is the one to kill the brain cells that hold some of those memories. Oh am I starting to depress you? Do you think there is a happy ending for The Hardcore Artist? One where he goes out with some big celebration of his career and he rides off into the sunset?
Sometimes I hope that one of his opponents will actually succeed and finally put Scotty out of his fucking misery. Because he does know the meaning of the word stop. No alcoholic does. They just know the word next. The next drink, the next beer… the next match. Yeah, alcohol is not Scotty’s only addiction. I’ve said it, he’s said it… he will die in that ring. That is the only way he is stopping this. He loves it that fucking much. Despite if giving him nothing back but pain. Shit, if that doesn’t hit the nail on the head describing love though, idn’t know what ever will.
So Dead or Alive, a fitting name mayb for the pay per view… but if there is a god… however you wanna fucking stylizie the letter in the word, then Scotty will survive. Win or lose, it doesn’t matter, but he will survive, just to make Scotty suffer more. For The Anti-Christ might be a fun gimmick to piss off the bible-belt, if there is a god, then he surely won’t find it funny. No, cause he’s got one sick sense of fucking humor, one I’m sure Scotty is fucking jealous of.
BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ
His phone lights up again… but he’s wrong in his assumption that it’s Frankie. I guess his son has gotten the message that Scotty doesn’t wanna talk right now. Instead the name just says “Unknown”. THe lack of number intrigues Scotty as he picks the phone up and swipes it open.
Head to the hardware store in town. There you will fins a tool greater than Scott Stevens. Use it help slay the false prophet of GOD.
Scotty chuckles a bit as he nods his head and just replies back with a dual beer mug toasting emoji. I’m sure this makeshift western town is gonna be full of surprises. Lee wouldn’t go to all this trouble and not have a twist and turn around every corner. But who is looking out for Scotty? What friends does he even have left in HOW? Or maybe it’s someone from… what the fuck is the name of the 79th attempt Lee is making at creating his own interfed? I honestly half don’t even have the energy to remember what this one is, cause none of the others have lasted more than a month… and half I’m as checked out as Scotty is.
It’s been a long road… and while I think the end is near, Stevens doesn’t have the capacity to be the one. The one to actually put Scotty down for good. Maybe he can win, whatever that will mean after all the bloodshed that will be had in this match. Whoever get’s their hand raised by the referee, may just be lucky to actually have both… or even just one of them left by the end of this.
You wanted The Hardcore Artist… this is all on you now Stevens. Now, back to your regularly scheduled Scottywood rant.
It’s 11:59 Stevens, do you know where your children are at? Yeah, you didn’t think I was gonna end this without taking a few more swipes at the fact you gambled a fucking child away! Pretty sure you could top any story ever heard at gamblers anonymous with that fucking beauty. I lost my thousands, millions, my car, my families house… YOU LOST A FUCKING SON! I mean we hear about people saying they would give up their first born for X, Y and Z… but it’s all bullshit. For one, they never actually would… and second, that scenario would never actually exist. But leave it to you Stevens to manage to find someone willing to actually accept that offer and then you managing to fuck it all up and lose.
I’d offer my fucking life to get another shot at Mike Best… but that ain’t worth shit compared to the life of my fucking son. Did you even think about that offer before you just tossed your son into the pot like a fucking poker chip? No… thinking has never been your strong suit, but you are from Texas, so what could we ever have really expected from you? Everything is bigger in Texas, even the fucking idiots.
Have you ever seen your new idol Lee bet the life of Mike in a match? I mean he has put Mike through some rough shit over the years, but he has never allowed someone the chance to take ownership of his son. Now maybe MIke Best would do that with Tyler, cause he’s a pretty twisted fuck… but the difference is Mike rarely loses and the odds are in his favor. But you Stevens? The odds were WAY stacked against you. It’s like a man throwing his last remaining dollars on the longshot horse in some fucking miralce attempt to recoup all he has lost over the years and make everything better again.
But let’s look at the bright side here… there is always a bright side. Here it is that your don doesn’t have to be raised by Scott Stevens anymore. He’s free to have a life that isn’t fucking doomed. He won’t be forced to suck the shit straight out of Mike Best’s ass just to hold onto some form of relevancy. He can actually do something you’ve so rarely done… and that is win.
No, I won’t take the easy road, like you so often have Stevens. I have more respect for you than that. Not much, but it’s certainly a boatload more than anyone else in HOW does. Again, low fucking bars here for shit like that in HOW. But like I am Carey’s best friend here, I am also your biggest supporter. Eve with you acting like the fucking fool trying to pull off a shitty version of my Anti-Christ shit.
Don’t worry, I’m not gonna accuse you of stealing it… or even copying it. It’s not like you are actually even doing it anywhere nearly as good. It’s like accusing a first grader of counterfeiting money after they drew a hundred dollar bill on a piece of construction paper with crayons and had Baby Shark on it.
Stevens sucks… doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo.
That shit will give children nightmares… not Stevens’ son though, cause whoever has him now would take better care of him and not let them watch such atrocities. Like think of this Stevens… just by the fact I never bet Frankie in a wrestling match, makes me a better father than you. I left my son behind to let Lee Best stab him in the eye after I won an LSD Title… and I am STILL a better father than you. I hid the fact… for eighteen years that my son had fathered a child… and I am STILL a better father than you. I got my son inducted in the HOW Hall of Fame… you handed your son over to Mike Best.
Fucking eh I could go on and on about this Stevens, cause it is fucking hilarious. But none of that will matter once that bell rings at Dead or Alive and the barbed wire starts swinging… and the blood starts to flow. Cause….
No Remorse for the Lee Best and his eye ain’t right
I’ma paint his town red then paint your wife white, uh!
‘Cause anarchy, rock like a party
Got west-coast IPAs for my New York playas
Mack like mayors, puck like Rangers
They told me to retire, but bet they can’t make me!
Cause I’m not a cowboy Stevens… not some redneck hillbilly who can barely speak English. Building some wall just to keep out those… what would you call them? Whatever. Just know when Hortega counts to Diez… it means the match is over.
Then you will actually have proof that your idol you have been praying to this whole time has been false. That it has been nothing but a big lie to reign in the real Scott Stevens and keep him from being what you are really meant to be.
It could be that or maybe not even with the support of GOD himself, can he turn Scott Stevens into a winner. Everyone has their limits… and maybe we have finally found Lee Best’s. Atleast you’ll know the truth before Chris Kostoff murders him once and for all. Spoilers!
So get down on your knees Stevens. Close your eyes. Place your hands together. Open those lips wide. And get ready for a mouthful.
Because I want you to say it with me now… I have no one to blame but myself, for what The Hardcore Artist is going to do to me at Dead or Alive… and let’s go Rangers!
Oh this is gonna be so much fucking fun Stevens, again, thank you. Thank you for finding something in HOW to spark that old flame and remind me of the days before HOW turned into something I could barely recognize. Yeah… that shit is a story for a different day. Hopefully you’ll be around to hear it Stevens… or atleast have eardrums left after I ring the fuck out of that hollow fucking head of yours.
Cause I’m an anarchist baby!
See ya at the sacrifice… I mean show. Yes, see you at the show Sheepens… I mean Stevens.
–(A)– 666 –(A)–