Dear little Stoovins.
Do you want this match? I sincerely hope you do. I pray that the first words I hear coming out of your dribble hole this week form a story about you puffing out your chest, marching up to Lee Best, and demanding a piece of Andy Murray and the ICON Championship for your big return because my GOD, wouldn’t that be quaint?
A cute little puppy picking a fight with a bear, hoping he can yap-yap-yap his way to victory with an intimate knowledge of said bear’s Wikipedia page and a bootleg Michael Jordan comeback statement his “lawyers” wrote for him in crayon.
When did you meet Buffy the Vampire Slayer’s boyfriend anyway? Do tell.
Tell me your secret, Stevens. Here’s one of mine: this isn’t going to end well for you.
This isn’t even a heroic death. You aren’t Boromir in the Fellowship of the Ring.
It’s just a bad fucking idea.
You will come at The King and you will miss. There’s no shame in that, but there’s nothing noble about it either. You are incapable of looking anything close to noble, plucky, or even sympathetic because you are incomprehensibly moronic. If that wasn’t the case, you’d have done a better job of keeping my name out of your mouth since I rolled into town.
Because now I have to break you, cunto.
Whether it is delivered in the form of a fist, a head-drop, or a simple verbal barb, you deserve every slither of abuse that comes your way. You are practically begging for it and it’s sad, because you don’t know any better.
Do you know what you’d find if you looked up the word “idiot” in the dictionary?
Not a picture of you, though that’d probably be considerably easier for you given that squelching sound your Play-Doh brain makes whenever somebody throws a three-syllable word your way.
No, you’d find a definition of the word “idiot”: which is what you are, idiot.
Every time you open your mouth it’s a self-burial. Your innate ability to pour ice water on your own fire while trying to big yourself up is remarkable, really, and almost negates the need for me to say anything at all. I have never seen a skill like it. In one breath you talk of scrapping and clawing your way up from the bottom; in the next, you’re throwing shade at the names Best, Murray, and Farthington.
That’s the top three champions in High Octane Wrestling, dickhead.
“Starting from the bottom.”
You actually said that. Those are words that came out of your mouth.
The Black Mambas and RICKs of the world are your peers now. We could probably fish Max Stryker out of whatever toilet scene he’s turding around in if you want to make a division of it. Maybe you’ll be slippery enough to string a few wins together and graduate to a Zeb Martin or Steve Solex, who knows! Shoot for the moon, Scott: just don’t let the glass ceiling crack your skull your way up, you soft Texan twat.
A good night for you would consist of leaving Refueled XXXIII of your own volition, not on a gurney, perhaps to a pity pop from anyone who remembers who you were before descending into parody.
Speaking of which.
I can’t bloody believe that this big, clunky blowhard – who tried to be 24K’s welcoming party then literally ran away from the match when The King and Perfection started dominating him and Mamba – still thinks he has a shot, Murray says.
Steve Harrison is now redundant because a guy who hasn’t been able to knock down a whore in a brothel for over a year has failed upwards into an ICON Title shot and that’s a miracle, man, Murray says.
Scott Stevens would be the luckiest man in HOW to leave Refueled with the gold, Murray says.
Actually, hold that thought for a second. “The luckiest man in HOW, Andy Murray.” That’s what you said the other week, brother. I’m not going to lie: that shit made me spit single malt all over the glass coffee table and 24K Towers when I watched it back. Seriously.
I invite you to unpack that one for me, Scooty, because even a tongue as sharp as Dan Ryan or Mike Best’s would struggle to do so without looking like they’re reducing their verbal rapier to a blunt butterknife. Your attempt should be hilarious so go on pal, give it a bash. I believe in you! Do a good enough job of it and I might even let you hold the ICON Title before I kick the huhyuck out of you. How does that sound?
Let’s look back on the events of the past five months before we talk about “luck,” though.
On night goddamn one we kicked in the door and put the hurt on every name wrestler that lurks within these walls, be they Industry or eMpire. I spiked the Son of GOD on his head so fuckin’ hard that he ran his receipt through a shredder the moment we got backstage. 24K was immediately the most talked-about thing in professional wrestling and we’d barely been on High Octane Television for a New York Minute.
Your belly turned yellow and you fled the scene once you got a taste of what Jimmy and I bring to the table a few weeks later. The brown streak on your underwear was a product of luck, was it? Your bowels emptying themselves as soon as you stepped into the ring with The King of Wrestling was a fluke? Got it.
March to Glory: four of the best tag teams on the planet, including the best – The Hollywood Bruvs – and who goes bell-to-bell, outlasting everyone, pinning Lindsay Troy to win gold in match number two? Lady luck sure was shining on the most fortunate wrestler walking GOD’s 97Red earth that night!
Beating the Bruvs again at the Lethal Lottery and inexplicably holding an untenable team with HOW’s biggest panderer together for months and months.
Instilling such fear into big, bad Dan Ryan that he shortcutted his way out of a huge, money-spinning main event the moment he realised he was no longer the biggest, baddest guy in the locker-room.
Wrestling in two War Games matches in one evening, a feat that has never been done before, working longer, harder, and tougher than anyone else, smashing Dan Ryan – again – then pinning the unpinnable Cecilworth Farthington, leaving Normandy with one of the most prestigious and decorated titles the sport has ever seen.
And I’m not even going to get into the two-year war I fought to get here in the first place. That story makes the above look like a Disney movie.
“The luckiest man in HOW, Andy Murray.”
Here’s what I think.
Luck is like your credibility: it doesn’t fucking exist.
This is a game of causality. You get out what you put in. There isn’t some magic spiritual being sitting somewhere in the sky arbitrarily pulling our strings, leading us towards outcomes we have no control over. Puzzle pieces don’t just magically fall into place. Fairytales aren’t real, brother, and every outcome is a product of its journey.
“Luck” is a subjective interpretation of past events used by the weak and worthless to absolve themselves of blame when they fail. It always seems to be against those who depend upon it and working in favour of their opposition, because it’s a convenience. It’s a crutch. An excuse.
Fate doesn’t conspire for or against you. You build your own fate in this business and, indeed, life, and that’s why I battled back.
That’s why I’m the ICON Champion.
And why you’re a dipshit loser with one win in 2020, whose pre-24K performances were so incurably rotten that he was literally ordered to stop wrestling and shunted into a pencil-pushing office job because your mere presence was tanking the goddamn business. You came back and got slapped up by us two weeks in a row, had the piss knocked out of you in an inexplicable LSD Title match, then lost another Race to the Bottom against Brian Hollywood – and let’s face it, that guy’s hardly Usain Bolt.
None of this happened because you have bad luck, Stevens.
It happened because you fucking suck.
Mike Best pinned me at War Games. This is a fact. It didn’t happen because fate was against me, or because he was “lucky: to get me at the tail-end of the most exhausting night of my career.
It happened because in that moment, at that precise point in time, with the World Championship on the line, Mike Best was better than me.
He won, I lost.
I didn’t mope about it. I wasn’t exactly full of the joys of spring afterwards, but I didn’t put my head in my hands, curse the heavens for dealing me a bad hand, and write the whole thing off as an unfortunate fluke. I didn’t fill Twitter with dopy excuses, undermine the Son’s achievements, or handwave the whole thing. I didn’t piss and moan.
I took it. I bathed in what happened. I let it wash over me, knowing that night was a product of all the mistakes and triumphs myself, Mike, and everyone else in War Games had experienced in preparation, and look what happened.
Cause and fucking effect.
I swam down Shit’s Creek and came up clean.
The Scottish lion walked into Normandy and entered a roaring performance, but lost. He left that beach twice the man he was before.
And that’s what separates me and you. That’s why I’m taking you out back and giving you the Old Yeller treatment, Stevens. You subconsciously accept your position, lot in life, bullshit desk job, and inability to beat anybody whose win column isn’t as empty as yours because you don’t understand causality, you don’t learn, and when somebody laps you, you wheel out bullshit terms like “luck,” “bring the fight,” and “former World Champion.”
I know this because we’ve been here before.
I know this because I used to be you, mate.
And I know you remember too, because it’s all you bloody talked about the last time we stood across the ring from each other.
December 19th, 2017. The other mainstream American wrestling promotion – you know the one. You kicked my arse, mate. Gave me one of the worst defeats of my career. I don’t remember what happened because I was so goddamn out of it by the end, but the tape tells me that not only did you put my lights out with the Toxic Sting, you pulled away from the inevitable three-count, piledrove me, and left with my dignity, my scalp, and what little prestige I had left.
And it gnaws at me. Thinking about that night eats me alive because never before had the name “Andy Murray” meant so little in a game I had ruled for two decades plus. I was irrelevant, no longer a factor, and the office gave me two more matches before placing a hand on my shoulder, putting on their best Condescending Parent face, and saying “hey, Andy, maybe it’s time you started thinking about doing something else.”
A fortnight later I was relegated to a life of clicking through emails, sending faxes, and sitting in two-hour meetings that could have been resolved in a five-minute Slack thread.
Just like you.
Wrestling had passed me by. 2017 rolled into 2018 and I was no longer a first-class pugilist and professional combatant, but a tired old dog who couldn’t last the pace anymore, so I sunk into a grey existence. Ask Eric Dane about it if you want: he’s the one that made the call.
I was done. Finished. Cooked. All I could do was cling to the memories of the career I’d lost, hoping they’d give me comfort while other men – most of whom would never be as good as I was in what I thought was my prime – left it all on the mat.
I was a husk of the beast I used to be.
I was Scott Stevens.
Because of Scott Stevens.
And that’s why I can’t wait to fuck you up.
This match means a lot of things but only one of them matters: the shot I have at shaking this dumb Texan monkey off my back for good.
Understand that I have been looking forward to planting my fist between your eyes for the best part of three years now. I’ll mock you, insult you, and call you names because you are the Lonesome Loser, and you make it so damn easy for guys like me to attack, but you need to know, Stevens, that this contest is so much more than a resurgent Andy Murray mopping the floor with an overmatched dipshit.
It’s more than just taking payment for you denying my right to atonement when you bailed on that tag match.
This is a symbol of my transformation and of your abyssal plunge.
Hold up a mirror to December 19th, 2017, and you’ll see where we are today. The roles are reversed. You are that broken, defeated, un-Kingly bruiser, clinging to false concepts like “luck” because no matter how you verbalise it, you are incapable of taking ownership of the fact that you – and only you – are responsible for your fall.
And you won’t take ownership. Ever. You are incapable of doing so. You’re a fucking loser, Stevens. No matter how many lines you spit about proving your worth, you will never be able to do what I did because behind the tattoos, bluster, and muscle, you are a tiny, fragile worm who can’t let go of the man he used to be long enough to realise the one he must become to escape this mess.
You need answers to your problems. Solutions. A way out.
Look at my story. That’s the blueprint you should be trying to follow, motherfucker. If you had two brain cells to rub together, you’d have spent your time away from the ring analysing how Andy Murray rose from pauper to King after what everyone thought was the twilight of his career, analysing every small, minute detail in hope of doing the same things yourself. But you don’t.
And you won’t.
I implore you to prove me wrong. Put down the Stevenspedia, leave the excuses on the cutting room floor, ditch the trite “you were a big deal elsewhere but this is HOW!” narrative all you cunts keep saying to me. Give me something different. Show me that you’re treating this match as seriously as I am.
Because I can assure you, nothing means more to me than skinning you alive right now.
I want to batter Dan Ryan at No Remorse, go down amongst the greatest to ever hold the great ICON Championship, and earn another shot at Mike Best. I want a long World Title run and a spot alongside the Son in the HOW Hall of Fame. All of this is true, but right now, six days before Refueled, none of it matters more than Andy Murray pinning Scott Stevens.
One step at time, never looking too far ahead.
I will not overlook this match and what it means.
I have been working towards it from the moment I told Eric Dane to fuck his desk job and fuck himself two months after I was nudged away from the ring. I’m going to incinerate you, understand? And it’s not because you’re being pedestaled or even because I see yours as a scalp worth having – because I don’t.
It’s because you fucking depress me.
You’re a sad, sorry sack of shit whose glory days took place in an era of lesser competition long before the business shrunk and the real titans of industry converged on HOW. You are the most pathetic thing in this industry – a burnout who clings to past successes like they still mean a goddamn thing in this era of hyper-competition – and a dopy cunt who doesn’t have what it takes to pull his career from the tar pit.
You, Stevens, are the worst-case scenario for what I could have become in December 2017, and in wrapping my hands round your neck and squeezing out what little life remains, I will expel you from my story once and for all.
A lot of people will look at this match and see it as a nice little No Remorse warm-up, with you playing fluffer as I get ready for The Ego Buster.
Lee might see it as an opportunity to make you look like shit and me look good. Punishment booking.
You might think it a game-changing opportunity.
Others look glance at the card, see the 29th-ranked wrestler fighting the ICON Champion and point out, correctly, that the challenger hasn’t earned this spot. At all.
I see an exorcism waiting to happen.
This isn’t the blue pill that cures your career impotency. You don’t have the stomach, the balls, to get out of this hole. We both have gory stories, mate, but yours isn’t that of a glorious comeback, a resurgence: it’s the tragic tale of a hopeless hack cunt whose “home” promotion has tried to evict him twice in six months, and he still won’t get the message.
You’re a tough guy with proven survivability and staying power, just like a cockroach.
A cockroach can survive an atomic blast – and I have no doubt that you’ve weathered a few of those throughout your HOW career – but will be crushed under my boot nonetheless.
Scott Stevens, you are absolutely fucked.
You need a prayer.