Darin Zion reaches into his pocket to retrieve the new work phone Lee Best gifted him. He scrolls through the contact list of the entire HOW roster that Lee personally gifted him. His eyes fixate on a name for a moment. Zion takes in a deep breath, about to regret dialing this incessant pest’s numbers:
Deep down, Darin wanted nothing more than to save time by not interacting with THAT worthless waste of space. However, he knows his father wouldn’t like it if he didn’t put his best foot forward to conduct Final Alliance business. He presses down on the call button. At first, he gets the automatic asshole button from Stevens. Zion wants nothing more than to snap his fingers and send the EPU to dismantle Stevens piece by piece, bone by bone, atom by atom. Instead, Zion connects with his inner most annoying side and tries again. After three separate attempts, the phone clicks.
“Finally, you pick up! We need to discuss some matters regarding our handicap match.”
Stevens response doesn’t surprise Zion in the least. “Go fuck yourself, Zion. I’m not wasting my time with the Final Alliance. After the blatant disrespect Lee has shown me. Two weeks ago was personal business against Mike Best. I’m not looking to be your friend.”
“But, Scott, this is the opportunity of a life…”
Zion should have known Scott Stevens wouldn’t have his fuckin’ back. After Darin tried patching up this with Stevens at the beginning of the Refueled Era with the Order; Stevens pissed away all his good will with Zion. Scott Stevens was stuck in the past. He always coasted on his loreals on his past accomplishments, refusing to change and evolve with the times. Zion scratches the Five O’ Clock shadow growing around his chin while his personal assistant Bartholomew paces around.
“Weellllllll…” Bartholomew prods Zion for a response. He becomes animated while he speaks. “Did you and Stevens mend bridges?”
Zion responds without a single hesitation. “Stevens gonna Stevens…” Darin cracks his knuckles while his personal minion’s jaw drops. Bart quickly flips his phone texting his benefactor paying his bills while he responds half-heartedly to his client.
“I guess that means you get another chance to be the work horse in the handicap match. You always have a knack for upstaging the worthless riff-raff HOW World Champions in Scottywood, Brian Hollywood, Kostoff, and Stevens especially. You know what these chances mean to Lee…”
“I’m leaving Stevens to his own devices, Bartholomew.” Zion snaps, raising his hand straight into Bartholomew’s face. “I’m not wasting my energy in chasing the imaginary carrot place in front of me. It’s about damn time I put my own family’s interests first. My father doesn’t over-perform putting an ungodly amount of theatrics into worthless pissants failing to do their damn jobs. Card is subject to change my friend…”
Zion folds his hands up methodically smiling, relishing in the thought of watching Scott get his skull crushed in like a fuckin’ ant. He cracks his neck while he continues his thought. “I’ve now gotten the element of surprise on my side…similar to that worthless hack had two weeks ago. But unlike Stevens, I’ll fuckin’ finish the job and cripple Jace Parker Davidson. It’s not about winning the small fuckin’ battles. The Final Alliance must win the damn war against these blasphemous, ungrateful children of Lee’s. We must show them why we accept nothing less than their praise and adoration. They must devote themselves 110% to Lee and no other lowercased gods out there. I think this is a PRIME opportunity to show Scott Stevens he’s soft as fuck like the rest of the ungrateful children.”
“Should I send the EPU to collect Mr. Stevens’ jacket?” Bartholomew asks with blind loyalty to the Prodigal Son.
“I’ll do it myself. Maybe I’ll collect his Hall of Fame ring while I am at it. He’s unworthy of all the gifts our gracious GOD of HOW has given him for his loyalty. But only after I leave Jace Parker Davidson a crippled and broken shell of his former self.”
It’s really cute when the pissants pull off the same fuckin’ move as the Work Horse of HOW has done. You’re not original; I fuckin’ knew you’d CTRL+C, CTRL+V what I did to win. It’s in your nature to be an attention-seeking whore. Look at Jace Parker Davidson, ripping of Darin Zion. He’s so fuckin’ great. Hope that satisfied your little praise kink you’ve got. Because you’re not worthy of getting GOD’s recognition.
You’re so original, straddling that Fourth Wall like the whore she is. Trying to crawl under my skin and make me angry. So cute and unoriginal. It’s about as effective as a Xanga blog in 2023…
You want to know why GOD continues to forsake you, Jace? Do you want the honest truth? It’s because you’re boring as fuck. No one wants to watch a Jace Parker Davidson promo anymore. They can flip to Pornhub, MAX, or Netflix and get the same result without all the unnecessary sob story. Not everyone shares wanting your self-praise kink and want to watch something else.
You’re quick to judge everyone else but you’ve missed the fuckin’ plank in your own damn eye. It’s why you haven’t won a championship in a long fuckin’ time. It’s why Lee Best doesn’t consider you worth his time or investment. It’s why he lumps you in with people like Brian Hollywood and Xander Azula and calls you a fuckin’ nerd. You fail to entertain him or give him anything fuckin’ new, Jace.
All you do is throw a fit about having 3 matches left and being fuckin’ boring. You needing something new to do. But you fail to look in GOD’S mirror and change things up. On top of that, no one buys you as their fuckin’ hero. You’re some sleezy guy who no woman with any amount of intelligence would ever associate you. You’re the fuckin’ jock stock bragging about his fuckin’ high school years.
You think by doing your fuckin’ job, you’re going to draw GOD down from his throne to face you? Bitch, quit trying to be that worthless pepperoni tit hack Reggie Rivid. GOD ain’t gonna give you ANY LOVE or RUB when you’re refusing to fuckin’ play ball.
You’re jealous that I get an audience with GOD every fuckin’ day now and you don’t.
Seriously, it boils down to that, Jace. You’re jealous it’s not you this time being his pawn this time so you can get into any proximity and hurt him. You’re jealous you can’t tell your story without the gracious GOD of HOW coming down to give you that one last belly-rub and fight you.
You’re mad because you’re damn well right, MY FATHER, the GOD of HOW, told me to turn my level up to 9000. I’m doing the exact job I’m paid to do, asshat and doing it well because I get to finish my damn story, possibly punch my ticket to the World Championship and finish the damn story my way.
Yet you don’t get that. You get casted off the island like a misfit toy. You don’t get that happy ending to wrestle GOD. You don’t get to enter GOD’s court with all the merits you’ve gotten. You’re sad you don’t get the jacket to rub in everyone else’s faces. You don’t get to be the center of attention while GOD burns down the world like a just creator.
You get the Hot Dog, Handshake, and sent on packing to those “greener pastures” you and the others beg about in UTAH and other places.
And I get the simple pleasure of watching you burn in this blaze of glory myself.
It’s simple, Jace. I NEED attention from you, Mike, or anyone to do this. I’m doing for the simple satisfaction of watching every one of my haters perish at GOD’S HANDS. That’s good enough for me, Jace.
I’m grateful, content, and pleased with the work GOD himself has given me. I’ll accept nothing less than watching you suffer at my hands and Lee’s hands.
That’s what being grateful is…
After walking out of the room where Bartholomew’s War Room, Zion once again pulls out the phone, dialing his father’s number. Before Lee can greet his son, Zion quickly fires off everything weighing on his mind.
“I apologize for failing Dad, I tried to extend grace to one of my mortal enemies, Stevens. I wanted this to work, to do your will. But…”
For once in Zion’s life, he silences himself, listening to his Father’s will. A sadistic sneer forms on his beady little face. He nods as Lee directs him in the next steps.
“Understood, Dad. I’ll do whatever you will.”
Zion hands up the phone as his manservant walks back to his side. Darin turns his head towards Bartholomew. “It’s been handled. Now we wait.”
Both men walk towards the limousine and enter heading off towards an important steak dinner with investors. As the limo pulls out and gets onto the Phoenix highway, Zion daydreams about all the torture he could dish out to both Stevens and Jace. His eyes dart around the car to find a very old, rusty pen. He motions to Bartholomew to hand it to him. After slipping it into his suit jacket, he smirks, staring at something.
“I’ll take that cigar cutter too. I want blood on my hands this week. Copious amounts of it too. Lee’s investors will appreciate the violence I want to dish out. It’s my chance to make a statement to the rest of the roster.” Zion slips the metal blade in his jacket as well. He reaches for a nice, aged bourbon, pouring some over the rocks. He sips as he closes his eyes.
“Now, all we can do is let Lee’s grand master plan unfold. It will TRULY be some Unscripted Violence.”
Zion cackles as the limo pulls off into the night sky and fades into black.