Would you look at that!
Straight from the abyss of irrelevance, it’s motherfucking Shane Reynolds!
Sorry, we’ve never met, allow me to introduce myself.
I’m Steve Solex.
The Last Man in Wrestling.
The Male Juggernaut.
The Alpha of all Alphas.
The only multi-time HOTv Champion.
The Greatest War Games Caption of All Time.
I’m over six feet tall.
I’m an actual man.
I have muscles.
My muscles have muscles.
I’m pretty much the exact opposite of you.
After all these years you finally decided to crawl your bitch ass out from under that dark rock you call retirement and this is where you’ve found yourself. In a match with the baddest motherfucker on the planet. I’d feel sorry for you, but that’s just not my style.
What happened to your retirement anyway? You had to take time out from Mr. Miyagi kicking your ass?
You blew it man. You had the opportunity of a lifetime when you interrupted the War Games match. But what did you do? Absolutely nothing! Instead of going after someone of significance, you go after … Bobinette Carey? After years of sitting on the sidelines and planning your return, you don’t go after Christopher America, Dan Ryan or Jace Parker Davidson? You don’t go after a champion? Instead, you decide to plunge yourself into the middle of the card and automatically christen yourself a fuckin’ loser? These are rhetorical questions, obviously…we all know you’re a loser.
On a serious note, are you ok, bro? Do you need a hotline number? Cause I gotta tell ya’, going after Carey is basically a self-harm move and the equivalent of cutting yourself. Is that trendy in your circle again? Because the word around the water cooler is that people are concerned about your mental fitness and well-being, and I just want to reassure them that you’re going to be okay.
Don’t get caught up in your feelings, you emotional fucking NERD. I’ll have Lee Best take away your bootlaces if I have to. Look, we all know you’re as SOFT as a marshmallow left in the sun on a hot summer’s day…just don’t be stupid.
Being big mad about the fact that Carey pulled the wool over your makeup coated eyes and took the HOW World Championship right out of your hands in front of the whole world sure does say a lot about the kind of man you are, Shane. What kind of a man gets tricked by a woman and does dick about it? And seriously, dude…stop telling people about it. All you’re doing is making yourself look like a fucking idiot.
You know who’s not an idiot? You know who doesn’t get tricked by women? Me. I don’t get tricked by women, I just hand them big, fat L’s every time I get in the ring with them.
Ask Lindsay Troy’s bitch ass.
Ask Bobinette Carey.
That’s what the fuck I do. I’ll never, EVER lose to a woman. You do know what that means, right? That means I’m not going to lose to you in Rio de Janeiro, you fuckin’ sad bitch.
You’re welcome for the main event paycheck this week, by the way. Without me, you’d be stuck right where you belong…going on second with Brian Hollywood or Scott Stevens or fucking Darin Zion. That’s where you are bro, can’t you see that?
Look, I get it. You think you’re important cause you’re in the middle of this revenge run against Carey and you’ve got a little bit of TV time. But you didn’t expect this match against me and you sure as shit weren’t planning on being made to look like a pathetic waste of space only a few weeks before your payoff at 97Red. That’s gotta fucking suck. It’s gotta feel like a knife in the chest to know that you’re going to lose on Sunday, and as much as I’d love to see you strangle the life out of that purple-haired skinwalker, I’m going to have to put an end to all of this revenge bullshit on Sunday by planting you six feet in the Brazilian dirt.
I’d feel sad for you…if I wasn’t a man and was capable of that emotion. But, unlike you, I am a man and I’m not capable, so I won’t feel sad for you.
And while we’re talking about all of the weird nuances that make you what you are, let’s just get something out of the way real quick.
You’re fucking weird, man.
You’re wrestling in your mom’s basement with a bunch of fucking perv-NERDS dressed in all black and having sparring sessions in masks with some dude named Jigsaw and palling around with some other weirdo named Rorshac – real original, by the way – and claiming that some of your disciples are women…
Are they women? ARE THEY?!
That couldn’t have been more forced if you … tried to make everyone believe that you’re a pro wrestler who trains in all black in your mom’s basement with a bunch of masked weirdos and just to save face you try to convince the world that some of your disciples are women.
Nobody fucking believes you, bro!
While you’re living out whatever weird fuck-fest fantasy you’ve got cooking underneath all taht makeup, you want to know what I’m doing? I’m running head first into the firefights, getting trench-foot and poisoning myself with staph infections as I march through the South American jungles looking for Christopher America … doing GOD’s work. And when I’m not doing that, I’m pushing more weight than you’ve ever seen with STRONK! And when I’m not doing that? I’m scheming with the most important men in professional wrestling, setting up the future of this business
I’m doing all of this.
And you’re playing mental gymnastics as you try to come up with bullshit reasons as to why you are going to beat me on Sunday. You’re sitting there in your feelings like a bitch as you struggle with the fact that you…that you’re a professional wrestler? What the fuck? After 15 years in the wrestling business, this is the bullshit you’re spewing?
You’re doing all of that sad and pathetic bullshit and I’m having the best year of my life.
While you’re carving Bobinette Carey’s name into your mom’s basement walls and listening to My Chemical Romance on loop, I’m carving notches in the win column against legitimate competition.
You’re right though, Shane, this match will send a strong message to Carey and to the rest of the wrestling world, it just won’t be the one that you think it is. The message it’s going to send is a fucking distress signal. A distress signal that says your way out of your league and that your wack ass should have stayed on the couch and let the rest of us do the damn thing. This is a world that you just don’t belong in anymore, Shane. The fact of the matter is that wrestling is a bullet train. It’s passed you by and you’re never going to be able to run fast enough to get back on.
You’re a fucking flip phone in a world of iPhones.
Your text messages are green.
You’re smart though, right? You’ve studied my moves and watched my matches like a good boy…ok? Dude, that’s really not something most people would talk about. You know why? Because it’s not a flex. Everyone in the free world has watched my matches and studied my moves.
You know why?
Cause I’m a fucking draw!
Cause I’m what matters in professional wrestling and you … you’re just a tourist with fucked up face paint.
I’m the motherfucking standard bearer in HOW.
I fly the fucking flag around here.
I’m head and shoulders above everyone else.
I’m the number one wrestler in the fucking world!
You don’t respect me? I don’t even acknowledge your pathetic existence.
You’re ready to bend the rules to win? I’m ready to fucking break them!
July 5, 2023
Rio De Janiero, Brazil
Torrential rains from the dark skies above quickly flood the streets of Rio De Janeiro. The sound of raindrops pelting against the pavement provides an intense soundtrack that drowns out the sound of reckless traffic as Solex strides purposefully down the sidewalk, his eyes fixed on a flickering neon sign that hangs above a stand alone building at the corner of the street.
Sabor da Noite – Flavor of the Night
Solex pushes open the heavy wooden door and steps inside. The warmth of the room gives Solex a bit of comfort, but only for a moment as his eyes immediately begin to scan the room. From left to right, top to bottom he searches for the man they call The Black Falcon. Carmen said he would be in Rio De Janeiro and this restaurant is where he was told the heavy-hitters are known to frequent. Suddenly, Solex stiffens up, his eyes locked on a man who’s seated in the dimly lit corner in the back of the restaurant.
“Vargas,” Solex mutters to himself as he begins to walk toward the man.
Solex rips off his bomber jacket and throws it over a boot as he makes a b-line for the man he thinks is Carlos Vargas, the leader of the gang they call A Legião Morta, The Mortal Legion. Solex is soaked from head to toe, his beard and hair dripping with water but a rage burns in his eyes as he stares intently at the man, his pace quickening.
“Woah, there cowboy,” a burly man says, in an American accent, as he steps in front of Solex stopping The Last Man in Wrestling dead in his tracks.
The man places a firm hand on Solex’s chest, stopping the HOTv Champion’s path with a show of force. A confident smirk grows on Solex’s face as he looks down at the man’s hand, unfazed by the size and aggression of the behemoth in front of him. On the outside, Solex appears calm and collected, but on the inside a storm is brewing. Solex leans to the side and looks past the man, getting a clear look of Carlos.
“You sure this is how you want to get acquainted?” Solex asks, beaming with American arrogance.
Carlos raises his eyebrows at Solex and returns the smirk with one of his own, a silent agreement being made between the two men. Solex laughs and without warning and with a vice-like grip, he clutches the hand on his chest and in one fluid motion he twists the man’s arm until he’s forced to his knees. Solex looks over to Carlos one more time before forcefully driving a knee right into the nose of the apparent bodyguard.
The bodyguard crumbles to the floor, completely unconscious as Solex and Carlos lock eyes once more as the scene fades to black.
To be continued…