I hope this letter finds you exceedingly unwell, preferably suffering from something incredibly uncomfortable like boils or leprosy or maybe gonorrhoea from one of the many slags you claim to be fawning all over you. Honestly, John, out of all the Alliance members you’re the one I care for the least. Steve Solex is a driven man, a soldier who goes to war whenever he steps into the ring. Dan Ryan is a monster, single minded in his determination to smash skulls together. Jatt Starr… Well, I’m sure everyone will be sick of hearing my many thoughts on that crazy dude over the next few weeks so I’ll just say he’s a legend even if he is an utter cockwomble. But you, John, you’re just… eh… I mean, you’re just a bit… look, it’s difficult to find the words to accurately describe just exactly the depths of how utterly irrelevant you are to the majority of the fans, the roster and the world as a whole.
Don’t get me wrong, you’re a skilled wrestler and your achievements go without saying. You’ve done a lot, John, and I’m sure you deserve respect for most of it. But you, as a person? I guess you’re a bit of a paradox, really. For a man who goes out of his way to make sure everyone knows you don’t try hard at all, you really do try far too hard. Your whole essence of an effortless easy life simply exudes hard work to put it all together and stage it in a way which you feel will impress the masses who… just don’t care.
You’re like that twat who turns up at parties half an hour late after spending hours sculpting his bed head and picking out just the right combination of shaggy clothes to make everyone think he’s so cool he just rocked up straight outta bed and no one even gives him the a second glance so he just buggers off before 11.
Look, even in the Alliance you’re just filler. A placeholder until Lee finds someone better. After I got kicked out for offending their delicate sensibilities he scrambled to fill the gaping left in my wake. Let’s be honest, that gap is getting larger and larger every week, isn’t it?
My best buddy, America, has gone to the great big land of red, white and blue in the sky… probably, possibly, who knows? No one saw the body, coulda been anyone. But either way, he’s gone and doesn’t look like he’s coming back. Then STRONK copped it, after he lost to Fuse it was just game over, no new game plus, no respawns, no continues, just a blue screen of death. (Yes, Fuse, you’re are forever the videogame guy regardless of what you say.)
Mike has admitted to disowning the Alliance and all it represents, he doesn’t give a shit about it because he’s far too busy collecting belts for himself. So what does that leave in the ultimate dominant force which is the Final Alliance? Well, just a bunch of losers, really. You can’t exactly argue against it. Solex? Loser since 97Red. Jatt? Keeps losing and will carry on losing in God’s House. Dan? His undefeatable mystique is well and truly shattered because now he’s a goddamn loser.
Congratulations, John, you’ll be joining them. My campaign of revenge against the Alliance is coming to a climax far sooner than I ever imagined. I always thought you guys would make it more difficult, but I can’t really blame you for that, given you’re barely a groupie. Just a hanger-on like you’ve always been whatever colours you’ve been wearing.
But my campaign against the Alliance is on a break this week. Thanks to Mike’s gentle encouragement the other week, my priorities are realigned and right now, at this moment, all I want is that HOTV Championship back around my waist. I let it slip through my grasp before I beat the snot out of Solex. The fact I was catatonic and stuck in a wheelchair was no excuse. Now I get to rectify that matter and take it from you. That belt is nostalgic to me, it reminds me of my youth, of a time when I held the previous iteration of the title and defended it like the sort of dedicated professional you wish you could be but could never, ever be bothered to put in the effort and stick around long enough to ever come close to that sort of reign.
But wait, John, while the title is my primary goal, the one thing I will leave with no matter the cost to either of us, I do have two more, shall we say, secondary objectives which will be more than spectacular bonuses when I beat you.
First up, John, I want my damn jacket back, you thieving motherfucker. That letter jacket was by far the best jacket I have ever worn and I’ll be damned if I let a jerk-off like you wear it for one single day longer. It’s mine, not yours, fuck off and buy your own!
Then I’m going to… Well, you try so hard to make yourself unlikeable, to offend anyone and everyone you can possibly upset, desperately trying to do something Mike Best does so naturally, but I’m going to make sure the one, single genuinely offensive you have ever done can never harm another living thing again. Want to know what it is? I can describe it in one word:
It’s sickening, John. How can you walk around with that thing flapping around for the world to see? Do you have no shame? Hang on… why am I asking that? Of course you don’t. You’re as shameless as a streaker running on at Anfield with an Everton badge tattooed on their arse while trying to put his balls in a net.
But that paedostache, man. What the fuck were you thinking? It’s physically revolting to look at. Have you ever watched the syndicated repeats of Chaos? That ‘stache is so explicitly repugnant they have to show seizure warnings when you’re on screen despite it needing to be pixelated to get it past the censorship board.
So I’ll do everyone a favour, including you, and rip that caterpillar right off your face. I’m sure it will hurt and I probably will take part of your lip off with it but that’s a sacrifice I’m sure you’re willing to make. You’ll be so much more attractive to the ladies having a mouth like Sloth from the Goonies, they’ll no longer be fleeing at the sight of the sort of facial hair they expect to see on a molester.
Soon to be HOTV Champion
North Charleston was a place alright. So dingy and depraved that Charleston Prime had cut them off and weren’t giving them any more allowance until they cleaned up their act and tidied their room. Everywhere you looked there were down-on-their luck hobos with nowhere to go and nothing to their name, except the Tesla’s they drove and mansions they owned. On second thought they were probably businessmen and not hobos at all. Easy mistake to make in North Charleston.
There was this night spot called Caliente which was the sort of reputable establishment where people soon to be on a watch list or register of some sort might gather. One look at the place and you could tell the hygiene rating had only ever hit the high point of “Optional – Discouraged” once in its life. A thick layer of dust lined most surfaces. If you were a normal person with an uncontrollable urge to run a finger through the dust to check how thick it was or to draw a comedic penis, you would quickly discover the layer of sticky scum atop it which had solidified, entombing the dust until someone brought out the industrial angle grinder.
There’s nothing like dust varnished with unidentified grime to give a place a tactile ambiance to match the pea-soup style smoky atmosphere hanging over the dance floor where a single solitary drunk boogied the night away while the rest of the chainsmokers wallowed in their perpetual depression.
In through the club’s doors burst a man. A man in a garish, sleeveless Hawaiian shirt with its top three buttons undone and a thick, curly black merkin poking out the top of it and a fake tattoo sleeve visible in his right arm. His hair was slicked back, a pair of mirror-lensed aviators adorned his eyes and a Cuban cigar was clutched between his grinning teeth, where an amorphous hairy blob rubbed against from the man’s top lip.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it was the one, the only, the Miami Molester himself, John Sektor*!
( * This presentation is a work of fiction. Names, characters and events are the product of a douchebag’s mind. Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead or coiffurely handicapped, are purely coincidental and unintended. )
“Eeyyyy!” John said in his best Fonzy impression. “I’m walkin’ ‘ere.” And suddenly he was from New Jersey. He strode into the joint as if he owned the place which somehow caused a conflicting response from the locals where everyone both glared at him with disdain and avoided eye contact as much as they could.
“Look at me, I’m the Old Standard. I got it all goin’ on.” The person who certainly was John Sektor and definitely not Evan Ward said to no one and everyone as he strode up to the bar, smoothly plonking himself down on a barstool. He leant back against the bar and spread himself wide, tapping cigar ash onto the bar right next to an ashtray. He looked over at a lady of the night (could have been a hooker, could have been a vampire, it was hard to tell) and grinned, casually picking a broccoli out of his teeth with a cocktail stick. Yes, a whole one. “Before you ask, toots, yes, I’m ‘stached and dangerous and will bang you all night long. Woof!”
The lady rolled her eyes and headed to the bathroom, she grabbed a skeezy-looking meth head on her way who seemed to think he had won the lottery despite the copious missing teeth and looking 50 years older than he was. Evan Sektor spun around on the stool and waved the barkeep over. “A bottle of your cheapest whiskey, por favor, and keep a little something for yourself.” He pulled a note out of his wallet and tucked it into the barkeep’s shirt pocket then tapped him on the cheek.
The barkeep looked slightly miffed at the hands-on experience and examined the $10 note. “Whatcha playin’ at? This won’t even cover half the bottle!”
“Eeeyyy, mi case, su casa.” John Ward said as if it was an explanation. “How about we keep this to ourselves, capiche?” He said in a mafia accent, casually slipping another $10 across the bar. The barman refused to argue and grabbed a bottle of whiskey, poured a very large shot out, which he downed before passing the bottle over to the douchebag. “¡Es bueno dias, mon ami!” He exclaimed in a bad German accent.
“Whatever, fuckwad.” The grumpy man behind the bar grouched. The magnitude of his encounter with greatness was clearly lost on this peasant.
“Hey, don’t you know who I am, like?” Bohn Jektor exclaimed, demanding the attention he deserved for simply existing. He was also now Scouse. Evan was great at accents, but incredibly bad at maintaining them for any length of time. “I’m John fookhing Sektor.”
“Who the fuck is John Sektor?” Exclaimed the whole bar in unison.
“I’ll fucking tell you who John fookhing Sektor is, mate.” He replied, jabbing a finger at the surprisingly greasy bar top. “Only the greatest wrestler to ever live, right? All the top reigns of all the titles, that’s me. You know Mike Best’s record setting 10 World Championship reigns? I fookhing did that, why aye.” He boasted, moving up to Newcastle.
“Ooooo!” Gasped the bar as a whole.
“The Final Alliance? More like that Sektor Alliance, it was my idea. I made it.” He claimed humbly. He pointed across the bar. “That guy, over there, potting 5 balls in one shot at the pool table? That was me, I made it happen. This cocaine?” He reached into the depths of his chest merkin and produced a massive bag of white powder and tipped it into a pipe on the counter. “All me. I grew it, refined it, single handedly fought off all the cartels and smuggled it over in my gaping anus all by myself!”
“Wooooaaahhhhh!” The crowd were as aghast as the anal cavity they imagined had been stuffed with blow, gathering ever closer.
“Your mum and your wife?” He pointed at a massive, tattooed biker who was, judging by the artwork adorning his body, possibly also a literal nazi and ex-con who had served time for multiple gang killings. “I did them both last night too.”
“My mum’s dead, you bad, bad man!” The leather clad fascist exclaimed. He did use much more flavoursome language but even by HOW standards it was so obscene and offensive it couldn’t possibly be aired, so his lines were dubbed over by a 3 year old.
“And yet so much more fuckable than your wife.” He winked at the horrified extremist. “That stiff gave me a stiffy. Hey, baby,” he turned his attention to a lady who had squeezed her way up to the bar to get a large cocktail. “Are you the walking dead because I’m getting a hard on.” He said as his moustache fell off his face and landed in her drink. He reached in with powered hands and pulled it out by it’s tail to stick back on his face, not quite managing to hide its paws. She gagged and ran off to spew over the hooker and crackhead shagging in the toilet.
Long John Silvtor shrugged. He couldn’t help being so utterly irresistible that ladies got sick to the stomach at the idea of spending one single moment more without his dick in them. He turned back to the bar, picked up a beer mat and started cutting and shaping the mountain of supposed-cocaine with it.
“So I’m John Sektor and just like I’ve done all of that, just like I undeniably won the entire of wrestling, I will once again perform a feat of pure greatness this Sunday, when I become the longest reigning, most defending HOTV Champion of all time when I totally beat that awesome, amazing Evan Ward in a really close and closely congested match. With over 200 days and a dozen successful defences, no one has gotten close when I add Dan Ryan’s, Steve Solex’s and STRONK’s title reigns to mine, because we all know those are all really my reigns!”
He finished cutting the powder into the shape of a pair of perky tits with a set of pointy nipples. He took a moment to admire it before burying his face in the cleavage and motorboating the sherbet breasts, sending it spraying everywhere over everyone around him.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go to STRONK’s grave and pay my respects.” He said, rubbing his crotch as he stood up, face covered in the sugary white powder, moustache clinging on for dear life, which was impressive for a dead mouse. “Just remember, I’m John Sektor and tonight’s bar tab is on me, just send the bill to this address!”
He dropped a HOW business card on the bar and made his way through the crowd towards the exit, the throng of degenerates parted before him as they all rushed to the bar and tried to avoid the stench of the decaying rodent on his face.
As he left the bar he felt like the world now knew who John Sektor was. Or at least that dive did. There was this Cuban place up the road called the Habana Club. He was sure they would love to hear the word of the Fools Gold Standard…