What rock have you been under, kid? Have you been living in the dark for too long with some noise-canceling gaming headset on? This entire place, where we work, where we are employed has always been about one family. It’s always been about one thing. The Machine marches on, day in, and day out, Conor. It’s bigger than the both of us, and you still can’t even see it.
That’s why you’re shook isn’t it? I’ve felt that way before, I’ve been shook by the magnitude of the events unfolding time and time again. You’re right, Clay Byrd has been second place, third place, fourth place, whatever place I’ve managed to carve out for myself. Clay Byrd has never been first, but Clay Byrd has also never looked at the entire picture before. I’ve always been so dead set on what was in front of me that I couldn’t pivot. I couldn’t see the twist, I couldn’t feel as the moment slipped away from me.
Is that how you feel?
I didn’t understand the game the first year, but after Mike Best made a mockery of me in front of millions, I finally peeked behind the curtain. I guess it takes three knees to really understand it. It’s not about either of us, Conor; it never has been, it never will be. In your video game addled brain you’re stuck being the hero, and you think you can conquer anything because that’s how it works on the screen.
This is real life, kid.
We’re all just ants under the microscope to the Best Family. They sit in their ivory tower and watch us move against each other. Pawns going to battle for the people’s amusement, they pit us against each other to suit their own end. And if you’re not the one in favor, you find yourself left looking for purpose. I’ve tried to find purpose. I’ve looked high, I’ve looked low, in my pursuit of purpose. I’ve worked for GOD himself, and still, I wasn’t satisfied.
Mike Best took away my world title shot, Conor, and we fought about it. He stripped it away from me with one command. One simple command and our now Commisioner broke my fucking arm. Michael Oliver Best didn’t try to make it right. He had his dream main event and Clay Byrd, even though he had won a shot, wasn’t in it. I had to try to mangle Farthington and Best to get myself back into the main event at ICONIC. I had to force the issue. I had to push that door that was being slammed in my face back open. You didn’t have to do that, did you? You just had to exist, be in the right place at the right time to receive an opportunity you didn’t deserve.
I almost killed a man for that opportunity, Conor. I almost killed someone you call your friend.
I still don’t know if you’re involved or not, Conor, I still don’t know if I can take you at your word. A lot of your friends have taken you at your word before, and last time I checked there’s very few of them still around. The little naive act has been cute, and you might be smarter than you let on. You’ve always been a selfish little shit, haven’t you? I remember last May, you were running around backstage passing out controllers. The 214 morphed overnight to being all about you. Conor Fuse was everywhere, in everyone’s ear. The mask of a good friend hid your true intentions. I know what you are, kid. You’re a selfish little shit stain, and you always have been. It’s always been about Conor Fuse; it’s always been about the video games and the references your teammates couldn’t stand. It’s always been about you.
And you’re upset; you’re upset that I’m being honest with you. But why didn’t you come out after ICONIC and say you didn’t want to win that way? Where was JJR’s rematch for the World Heavyweight championship? You smashed Farthington with brass knuckles because he’d do it to you? What kind of hypocrite are you? Here you are building a Fight Club fuck dungeon and thinking it’s going to give you some type of edge? Are you going to name it the Two-Time Academy? It’d make sense, two-time world champion. Two-timing, double-talking sack of filth. Your own personal little double entendre.
I might be the only person here that understands the real you.
You know what makes you a really self-absorbed pile of fucking trash?
That you think I should just let it all go. I should focus on this opportunity. Listen up shit for brains, if you haven’t picked up what I’ve been trying to tell you yet, I don’t think you ever will. This isn’t an opportunity. This isn’t some big momentum grab for you, this isn’t some enormous chance for me to control my fucking narrative. This isn’t even fucking charity, Conor. I killed a Hall of Famer on pay-per-view. Do you really think they want me to go out there on Refueled, in Chicago, and win the World Heavyweight Championship?
If you’re not in on it, you might as fucking well be.
This is the next phase, the next move for The Machine that is the Best Family. Cecilworth and Mike probably sat around a coffee table wearing shirts with Best Alliance logos crossed out and The Board drawn on in puffy paint. Probably having a good laugh about Mike beating the shit out of me. Yeah, that’s the guy you hit with brass knuckles, and the guy you electrocuted, in case you forgot. You know, because you didn’t really want to do it… or whatever dogshit justification you came up with that let your brain purge it from your memory.
Farthington: YOU KNOW WHAT WOULD BE FUN MIKE?
Mike: WHAT CECILWORTH?
Farthington: WHAT IF WE GOT CONOR FUSE AND CLAY BYRD TO KILL EACH OTHER?
If you’re not in on it, that’s the entire schtick, kid. That’s the story. Hell, we might not even make it to the fucking ring. I’m sure Jace Parker Davidson and Christopher America could find the piece of rebar you stabbed Mike with and beat the living hell out of us with it. Then, Cecilworth could come over and break both of our arms this time. I’m sure they’d have a great time while they’re at it. Because that’s who it’s about, Conor; that’s who came up with this entire scheme.
Michael Lee Best booked this match, not to provide me with some type of magical closure that I’m supposed to accept like some dweeb video gaming moron. That’s why I’m worried about it, Conor, that’s why I’m suspicious. You’re not concerned, huh? You think this is all completely normal behavior? Walking out and giving the guy that burned down your life’s work a platform to be champion?
You can’t even be that fucking dense.
I’m sure you dropped out of high school to play video games or something, but I’m pretty sure as long as you made it through elementary school you could understand what the fuck is going on. Hell, I got into college because I was real good at tackling people and I managed to line it all up. It’s always been about them, it always will be about them. Lee’s gone? Insert the Next Best like a quarter in an arcade machine. There is no Game Over until they’re out of uncles, cousins, brothers, sisters, sons and daughters. Even then, they’ll let a zombie run the place.
The fix is in kid, when I have you down on the canvas with the World Heavyweight Championship within my grasp, when I can taste it. When it’s moments away from finally being mine, they’ll be right there, to rip it all from my grasp. Michael knows, Farthington knows; hell, you know I want nothing more to wear that #97RED strap, to say I’m the best wrestler on the planet.
And that fucking infuriates me, Conor.
Because I’m just some fucking toy, some fucking plaything for Michael Lee Best to use and abuse as he sees fits. And when that spoiled jackass is done making sure my life is ruined, making sure my career is an afterthought, after he’s made sure nobody remembers Clay Byrd, he’ll toss me aside like I’m nothing. There’s no respect here, there’s no mutual admiration. That son of a bitch hates me, and I fucking hate him. So he wants me to get close, Conor, and he wants you on the mat staring up at the rafters.
Because he knows it’ll torture you. He knows it’ll drive you insane if somehow you win because of THEM. Look at what having the help of your merry band of dipshits has done for you? You’ve gone from being a disturbed weirdo living upstairs with the old people, to sitting in a basement getting beaten up by some gigantic guy like you’re running your own personal fetish club.
So how do I fuck this entire thing up for them, Conor? What do I have to do to you to ruin their little scheme. To make killing two birds with one stone backfire and blow up in their face? I have to win, Conor. I have to do the one thing I’ve wanted to do since I walked into Lee Best’s office and put my name on the dotted line. I have to capture the High Octane World Championship. I have to become the representative for this shit hole company, because it’ll drive him insane, and it’ll drive Michael Oliver Best insane. That little two bit corny steampunk asshat wants to shit on me and put me in some bullshit tournament? All while having a bunch of brainless EPU drones hold me down while grabbing my testicles and making sure I didn’t get a damn thing I was owed.
I’m walking into the fucking lion’s den on Sunday. I’m walking into the middle of The Best Arena as the most hated man in existence. They’ll boo me, they’ll throw garbage at me. They’ll treat me like I’m some type of pariah. And I won’t let them win, Conor, I won’t hear that roof explode off of that arena in back to back weeks. I’ll win the world title to spite every fucking person in there. I’ll send every single one of those fucking people who bought tickets to jerk off Mike Best with their adulation home unhappy. I’ll rip your head off and win the world title to shit on every kid that plays that fucking video game with your face on it. I’ll stand in the middle of that ring holding your severed head by your hair if I have to, Conor.
Whatever it fucking takes.
I’ll beat you because you can’t be fucking honest with yourself. You can’t admit your flaws, you think “powering up” in a fuck dungeon makes you some type of hero? You’re just like every other pathetic sack of trash that’s touched that title. You want to hold that belt because this is the business we chose, but you actually want someone like me to come along and take it from you so you can go back to doing goofy shit in the back with barbed wire XBox controllers.
I need Michael Lee Best to have to see my name on every fucking program for War Games. I need him to have to celebrate me, and I need that slimy motherfucker MOB to have a fucking panic attack when I cleave his cash cow in half. I want them to be furious when they have to put a silhouette of my cowboy hat on that W on the War Games poster. I can’t wait as they watch this match unfold before their eyes, Conor. I can’t wait for that feeling of dread to creep over them as I start to toss you around the ring like the fucking child you are. When they begin throwing the panic switches, screaming at Jace or America to get out there and save this. Hell, they might even send the man himself.
And Conor… your only prayer of walking out of that ring and dancing into the Chicago streets with the #97RED lady, is that they are able to actually fucking stop me. That’s your only hope in the ring, because all this fury, all this anger? I have to take it out on something, Conor. I have to fucking break something, and you’re going to be the first thing they put in front of me. It’s going to be explosive, it’s going to be violent, it’s going to be everything you don’t want it to be. You want one of the greatest wrestling matches the world has ever seen? That’s not what’s meant to be.
This is going to be a shit show, an absolute mess of a world title match. I’m going to toss you pillar to fucking post, and everytime you try to mount your little comeback…everytime you try to get the crowd to chant “rank,” I’m going to cut you off before you can finish the four letter word. They can send out the entire Board and the entire EPU if they want, or toss in some of Chicago’s finest, and we’ll have a real party in that ring. But even with all those angels, Conor, they won’t be able to keep me off of you. They won’t be able to stop me, and they won’t be able to save you. I’m going to find a way, Conor. I’m going to get the one thing I want.
I’m going to end your world title run at Refueled. And there’s a chance I just might end your fucking life while I do it.
See you soon.