- Event: Refueled XLIX
Once upon a time…
…every single Scottywood glory story didn’t begin like that.
Ha.
HA.
I know this might come as a shock to some of you, but Scottywood was once the Mark Messier of the High Octane roster.
True story.
Well, sans the baldness and the galvanizing of course.
But still.
My pal. The Artisan. Respected. Competitive. Coherent? Dangerous. A force to be reckoned with– so much so you’d maybe even look past the belly button tattoo and wonder what you yourself would look like with one of your own.
Okay.
Maybe not that far, but Scoots Magoot was a nail eating, glass snorting, pale horsing riding, Rastafarian beast. He even brushed his teeth with ring rust. Hand of God.
Hmm.
Makes me wonder.
What the fuck happened? Like, I used to ride his coattails. Allegedly. And also unbelievably. And now… his coattails are tucked so far between his legs I’d have to stand on his stomach in order to supposedly do so again.
I don’t get it.
I just don’t.
The losing is one thing. I live there, so believe me I know. But, for him to blow the cartridge at the biggest show of the year? Not to mention being left in a fucking shit heap? And a bloody one at that? Against a fuse box? THE FUCKING HARDCORE ARSTISAN OF HARDCORE?
No disrespect to Conner Hughes. Kid has got a bright future in Ryan FaZe Clan.
I’d never thought I’d see the day. Truly, and utterly baffling. Never in my life has a six foot five, two hundred and sixty five pound man looked so small and meaningless.
“I remember when I went to war with Scott “The Scorpion” Stevens over the World Title.” — Probably Scottywood on numerous occasions during any episode of the LOR.
—
Or so I thought, Scott.
Then, on the very first show of the new year…
You, seemingly unbothered by the lingering stench of your own embarrassment, threaten to “quiche” me alive as if you own a hockey stick wrapped in barb wire that could even touch this hair.
Clown.
Never in your life.
Never.
So save it.
Save all of it.
After all, Mike awaits…
THIS IS ME FACE PALMING.
Was it an easy decision to jump the shark, Scotty? Better yet, was it an easy decision to take a misconstrued leap of faith and clamor for the brass ring? Like, the balls on you; acting as if the entirety of the High Octane Wrestling world didn’t just see you bleeding out from your anus, and you didn’t lose to a fucking uninitiated in a match catering to your own delights.
You go to jail for shit like that, Scotty.
You don’t get to pass go.
Fucking Mike.
Are you not aware this is Earth? If you are, please, do us all a favor and come back down to it. The first round just started, so you still have time to learn to walk before you run.
This is me shaking my head disappointingly.
You are in the Hall of Fame.
You are not some rookie who’s just walked through the doors for the first time and wants to make a name for himself.
You should know better.
Honestly, I thought you were going to reintroduce yourself next.
Oh wait.
“Nah I’m fine. Hi. I’m Scottywood. I’m going to rule HOW with a hockey stick in one hand and an artisanal IPA in the other. I couldn’t sell pepperoni to a topless pizza. Mike Best is going to get his!” — Probably Scottywood if his New Year’s Resolution segment ran any further
—
I’m not a cage fighter.
I’m not a former HOFC Champion.
I’m not known for breaking bones and making groans.
I don’t own a percentage in the company.
My personality doesn’t depend on the roll of the dice on a Monday afternoon.
My survivability goes down when I enter things like cages.
Yet, my jumpsuit is 97red and the shades always come with that T.
Oh, and I care about the last two years.
So yes, I like my chances.
Pucker.
Kiss.
Goodbye.
“We are old acquaintances, but fear? Him? Good one. Someone get that guy another IPA. I know this man. I’ve seen this man. I don’t care how hard his nipples are or aren’t for me– I’m going to bury him so deep inside that cage on Saturday night I might strike oil.” — Cancer “Future Big Oil Tycoon” Jiles when asked about his chances in the first round.