Victim Of Circumstances

Victim Of Circumstances

Posted on February 25, 2021 at 10:03 pm by Teddy Palmer

February 20th, 2021

Chicago, Illinois 

Best Arena – Post Match

Welp. Tonight fuckin’ sucked. 

No two ways about it. Zeb and I lost to the man of a thousand and four nicknames and the Drag Queen who had a mental breakdown. Or was it the mental breakdown that led to being a Drag Queen? And did they fuck? I can’t be the only one confused. But I’m getting off track. The point I’m tiptoeing around is our Championship opportunity was all for naught. Gone! Poof! Just like that. A thing of the past. Like moisture drying up in an elderly vagi…er, the Sahara desert.

Hey? Where’d my shoe go? Aha. Aha. Good shit right there.

And how can I not help but laugh at the irony of it all. Really, it’s a fuckin’ hoot when you think about it. I too had a mental breakdown, this same time last year. And it too preceded a Tag Team Title match. It left my partner scrambling to formulate a game plan, he was at a complete loss as to what direction we’d take. The big difference is I didn’t surprise him with some Buffalo Bill schtick.

Would you fuck me? I’d fuck me.

So weird.

My surprise was MUCH worse. I mistook myself for The Dark Knight: Batman. And let me tell you, it was not well received within the locker room. It actually became quite the running joke. If I had only known that all I needed to do was ask people to keep an open mind…

Fuck me. Live and learn, amirite?

I guess it’s time for Zeb and I to step aside and let those Hollywood Bruvs take their rightful spot at March To Glory. A fuckin’ beauty of a spot too. And they fuckin’ earned it the hard way. And you’ve earned my respect Boyz…er Bruvs. It doesn’t get much more difficult than…returning? It was December, right? But hey, they joined the rest of the roster in stepping out of their comfort zone and throwing fists in the DeNucci Cup. What’s that? Oh, they didn’t participate? Huh. Yeah, well at least they were a fixture week in and week out, doing everything possible to increase the value of their stock. Pardon me? Oh, they weren’t? Well ain’t that a bitch? So…they were just promised a Tag Title Match…three months ago…and have done fuck all to show they deserve it? Right on. That seems logical for this ultra competitive environment. 

Am I surprised?

Fuck no! The same shit happened last March To Glory. They skipped out on the LBI because Andy Murray couldn’t win singles matches for them. They debuted in a slot they never earned but figured they deserved because, we’ll they had Andy Murray. They were handed a Title opportunity and fuckin’ lost. Can you guess who to? BUUUUT those fuckers were still able to call themselves Champions in defeat. Then they went on to lose those titles they never won, in their very first defense. AND THEY’VE BEEN HANDED THE EXACT SAME OPPORTUNITY AGAIN. This Déjà Vu garbage is a real kick in the nuts. I’m Bill Murray in ‘Groundhog Day’, except this version ain’t no fuckin’ comedy. 


We’re gonna watch that Tag Title match with a vested interest. We’re gonna be there to support Lindsay. We’re gonna continue to show up every fuckin’ week, and show out. We earn our opportunities, fight to keep our spot, and under no circumstances expect any sort of fuckin’ handout. Noses back to the grindstone, knuckles down, and attacking those waves of bullshit that keep on crashing in because there’s no lull in sight.


If only I had a surfboard at my disposal. It’d be much easier to navigate these gnarly conditions. Wait a minute…

I wonder if Jiles would be COOL with me borrowing his Speed Egg?

Naaaaaah. Fuck that T-Shade D-Bag.

I’d certainly welcome the chance to discuss a few things, however. For starters, the motivation behind trying to kick my teeth down my throat. That would be an interesting topic. Was it ‘divine intervention’? Wink, Wink. Was it because I kissed a camera and spoke the Cancerous tongue? That catchphrase is shit bro, go ahead and keep it. If I were a betting man, I’d have to go out on a limb and say he was just trying to be cute. In an ironic, go fuck yourself kind of way, that is.

I suppose I should keep an open mind to all possibilities…

What I do know for certain is there’s a shit tonne I need to digest right now. Who knows, maybe I need to take a hard look in the mirror and do a little bit of self reflecting. This whole conundrum is gonna take some serious time and effort on my part to unravel. Enemies, enemies and more enemies.

This is just one big Ol’ Clusterfuck.

So much for ‘Lovable Rapscallion’, Teddy.

Fuck Me…

Hows about we just sum tonight up in three words and move on already…

Pucker. Kiss. Goodnight.

“Teddy.” A voice breaks me from my trance.

Seated, I’ve been staring at my boots for who knows how long. Looking up, Blaire Moise stands in front of me. In my peripheral, I notice a camera man with his tool of the trade pointed at us.

“What was that?” I respond.

“Are you…okay?” Blaire asks, her tone indicating this wasn’t her original question.

No. I’m fuckin’ pissed. Jiles. Sektor. Starr. Unlikely. Kendrix. I’m sure there’s more. But fuck em. All of em.

“Never better,” I reply, feigning a smirk.

“After…” she pauses, taken aback by my response. “…everything that happened tonight? Never better?”

“Mmhmm.” I nod. “Did we deserve a better fate? Fuck yeah. Is this the end of the line? Fuck no. We’re just getting started. Back to the drawing board, Blaire Bear.”

What’s the sense in bitching? It won’t change anything. Why give any of those culprits the satisfaction? Why give Lee Best that satisfaction?

“You won’t get to spend much time at that drawing board, because it was just announced that at Refueled LV you’ll be going one on one with Darin…”

“I look forward to the opportunity.” I cut Blaire off, trying my damndest to hide my disdain. Not for Darin but everything about this situation.

“And Zeb will be squaring off against the Hollywood half of the Boyz.”

Fuckin’ great. This is the exact news I was hoping for…


Does this mean if Zeb and I win, we’ll get added to the Tag Title Match at March To Glory? I mean, that’s all the Bruvs had to do since returning.

Seems like a rational thought. So obviously the answer is no…

“I don’t speak on behalf of my boy Zeb, but I’m fairly certain he’ll be itching to get back in that ring as soon as possible.” I offer up before staring back down at the floor, indicating I’m done talking for the night.

February 21st, 2021

Chicago, Illinois 

White Palace Grill

“Ted. Hey.” The voice is muffled, heard but not comprehended. “Ted. Wake up.” A bit of volume is added to the request.

I can feel gentle, slender fingers run through my hair, but only for a brief second until the palm cradles the side of my head. That’s when a forceful shove slides my forehead across the booth’s laminate tabletop.

“Ughhhh…” I moan, slowly rising from my slumber. My sky blue eyes are initially hazy, but after some squinting and blinking, the silhouette sitting across the table from me slowly becomes more clear. Her soft facial features, curly red-tipped hair, and piercing hazel eyes regard me with concern. 

Lindsay Troy.

“I’m up…I’m up…” I try to convince myself just as much as I do her.

“Have you been here all night?” she asks, reaching across the table and removing the napkin stuck to the side of my face.

“Yes.” I answer, my eyes burning.

“So…you slept here,” is the follow-up.

“Yes.” I confirm, trying to rub some life to my face.


I wasn’t expecting to play 21 Questions this early in the morning, but here we are. “Because…”

“Knock it off.” Lindsay’s patience has worn thin. “Enough of the ‘Woe Is Me’. Last night sucked; I get it. There’s no changing that. Time to move on.”

“‘Woe Is Me?’” I reply with unusual sass, no doubt inspired by my exhaustion. “I’ll have you know I have moved on. Look at that napkin in your hand.”

Lindsay purses her lips, and keeps her eyes locked on mine for a brief moment. Turning the napkin over, she glances down and a puzzled look spreads across her face.

“Matthews or Zion?” she reads aloud.

“That’s right!” I exclaim in a ‘don’t you look silly’ kind of way. “I came here to grab a bite to eat and begin prepping for next week. I ain’t dwelling on that loss one bit. Motivated by it? Sure. Zeb and I need to rebound big time next week.”

“Okay…” she begins, her tone indicating she may have jumped to conclusions.

“So ha!” I declare, cutting her off.

Unimpressed, the stare is back. I retract my arm and the ‘in your face’ index finger that is inches away from her face, because I’m afraid she might reach out and snap it off my hand. After a moment, Lindsay finishes her thought. “…but it literally just says ‘Matthews or Zion?’”


“Ted, I’m gonna be honest with you. I don’t get it, and this ‘scouting report’ might indicate you’ve lost it.”

“Pfft.” I scoff at her claim. “How is wanting to know who I’m facing off against an indication of ‘losing it’?”

“Jesus….” She rolls her eyes and looks down at the black and white formica flecked booth top, shaking her head as she does. After a brief delay, she glances my way and slowly leans in over the table. Getting a little excited, I slowly lean in too. Before I embarrass myself by puckering, she drops the bomb. “Matthews and Zion are the same person!” 

She then leans back deep into the booth, crosses her arms, and sports a look of triumph.

“Physically…yes.” I reach for the napkin, unfolding it to reveal more scribbles. All it says inside is Darin’s height and weight, but I tap on it like it’s top secret information. “But mentally?”

“YES!” Lindsay yells this time, then covers her mouth. There’s a quick cringing reflex on her part as she realizes that she was way louder than she intended to be. She fidgets on the red leather cushion she’s seated on as patrons look her way.

“I was going to say that…” I shrug my shoulders, as a waitress places two coffee mugs on our table, presumably ordered ahead of time by Lindsay. The two women exchange looks before the waitress glances back at me, widening her eyes as if to say ‘wow’.

I know, right?

“I’m glad you’ve moved on.” Lindsay unrolls her silverware from its napkin sheath, then reaches for the bowl of creamer and sugar container. “But maybe jumping right into ‘prepping’ immediately after suffering a concussion isn’t the best approach. Neither is calling a restaurant booth home.”

My head is still pounding. Last I saw of my reflection, my right eye was turning a nice shade of purple. I bet I’d be able to accurately draw the outline of Jiles foot on the side of my face. 

“Maybe you’re right.”

“You have all week to prepare for Zion…”

“Matthews?” I cut off-slash-ask.

“Whatever,” she concedes, taking a swig of coffee, fed up with this nonsense. “How about we focus on the homelessness, huh?” Lindsay retrieves her phone, fingers tapping away at its screen, scrolling through apartment listings I presume. “Seriously Ted, who moves to another city without anywhere to live?”

“I was going to figure it out…” I slouch down, grabbing the mug closest to me and sipping on the diner quality brew. “…eventually….”

“Why aren’t you staying in a hotel, anyway?”

“Sleep in a stranger’s bed? No thank you.” I reply half-joking, ignoring the irony, because I have no legitimate answer to her question. “You know…”

“You’re not staying at my house, Ted.”

Clever Girl.

“Not even the couch?”

She glances up from her phone and smirks. “Not even the couch.”


Darin Matthews Zion.

DMZ for short.

Let’s rip this bandaid off.

I’m gonna kick the shit out of you. I’m not stepping through those ropes aiming to have a competitive contest with you. I’m gonna punch you in the fuckin’ mouth and dominate from bell to bell. It’s my goal that you shed more drops of blood than I do beads of sweat. And believe me or not when I say I don’t necessarily look forward to it. You’re just a victim of circumstances. 

You see, our pairings both shit the bed last week. You and Hollywood lost to the number one contenders, Zeb and I lost to the Champs. Now, the ways in which each team went about it are vastly different, but that’s beside the point. A tally in the L column doesn’t come with an explanation, it just exists. Lucky for us, we’ve been afforded the opportunity to take some of the sting out of those defeats. All we have to do is prove a point at one another’s expense.

With that being said, I need to make an example out of you.

For StarrSek. For The Bruvs. For Jiles.

And most importantly, for Lee Best.

I told Sektor and Starr they started a war they couldn’t win. This still holds true. Sure, they won the first battle. Congratufuckinlations. Toss LT and Solex into the mix and we’ve got the ingredients for many more engagements. Our war has only just begun, and it ain’t ending anytime soon.

You will, unfortunately, be a casualty.

The Bruvs have rubbed me the wrong way since day fuckin’ one. I don’t see the appeal. I don’t see the talent. I just don’t see them. And more often than not, neither does the High Octane audience. Yet they get to showcase themselves at Madison Square Garden. 

I know they’ll see me after what I do to you.

Jiles and I were having a real cute back and forth. Then he cost me my chance at gold. Logic dictates I should react similarly, but no. I won’t do that. In fact, I’m gonna leave Jiles be until after March To Glory. I’m going to be his biggest cheerleader and hope to GOD he wins the World Championship. That’d be unfuckinreal. And the best part would be when I take it from him.

Go Jiles Go!

You will be the cautionary tale of what awaits him down the road.

And of course, Lee. 

Lee needs to be shown that his Best Alliance isn’t the powerhouse he thinks it is. He needs to be shown that bringing The Bruvs back after firing their asses live on Pay Per View was an awful business decision. He needs to be shown that there are repercussions for not maintaining law and order over his roster. 

I refuse to be held responsible for Lee’s decisions. And the absolute skullfucking I’m going to give you on Saturday night will be all the proof this so-called GOD needs to realize his biggest mistake of all is leaving me off the March To Glory card.