My head is not in the game these days.
I’m completely checked out, for whatever reason. I can’t pinpoint it.
I started the year with a bang and I sat at the top of the rankings as the number one wrestler in the whole fucking world for months. But lately, I’ve lost that edge. I’ve lost the desire that made those first few months great.
Maybe it was the camaraderie that The Final Alliance had in the beginning. Getting the letter jackets, giving swirlies and training the late, great STRONK. All of that shit motivated me; it made me better. It kept my fucking head in the game, but lately…I’m just the shell of what I once was: A great competitor and the best Sergeant at Arms there ever was.
For years I’ve been at the right hand of Lee Best and for years I’ve done what he’s asked. Even when I had my bullshit stint with those fuckin’ NERD, sad cowboy, fucks…I always knew where I belonged. But now? I just don’t know where the fuck I belong.
The only thing I know for sure is that all good things must come to and end.
Tapping out last week…to a fucking woman…might be the hardest pill I’ve ever had to swallow in my whole fucking career. How the fuck could I lose to a woman? How the fuck could I lose to a woman I absolutely destroyed less than six months ago? How the fuck could I lose to a dime store, diabetic version of Lindsay Troy?
I need to reevaluate this whole fucking situation.
But I don’t have that kind of time on my hands. Instead of getting a bye week to think about shit and marinate on the loss; I’m thrust right back into the ring.
I get it.
I see what the man is trying to do and I get the idea of getting right back on the horse instead of wallowing in self-pity. And is there a better way to get right back in the mix than by pairing me with a couple of my buddies, Jatt Starr and Dan Ryan? There really isn’t. The only thing that would come remotely close to this would be to pair me with…well, shit…I’m not gonna head down that rabbit hole right now, I don’t really have the time or the stomach for it.
Dan and Jatt are exactly what a tag team should be. They compliment each other so well; they are the metaphorical Yin and Yang. Here’s hoping I don’t fuck it up for everyone and end up on my back in the middle of the ring staring at the lights.
Pair me with the boys, that’ll motivate me. Right?
And what better way to send me off into the sunset than by putting me in the ring with the World Champion and a couple of slack-jawed, shitbags who aren’t even worthy enough to lace my mother fucking boots.
I’ve talked enough shit about Conor Fuse over the years…and honestly, he’s kicked my sorry ass every time I’ve done it. So, here’s something you may not have expected from me: Conor Fuse has every bit of my respect; he’s fucking earned it. In the amount of time that he’s been in HOW, the guy has accomplished more than anyone I’ve ever seen. The guys is Hall of Fame bound, no doubt about it.
But Xander Azula and Zach Kostoff? In the words of our Alzheimer’s ridden Commander in Chief: C’mon man!
Zach Kostoff, you will never find your stride in HOW. Your dad may be some kind of folklore around here, but that was WELL before my time…so miss me with all of that bloodline bullshit. You are, undeniably, the single biggest mistake of a signing that Lee Best has made this decade. You are the most underwhelming performer in – quite possibly – the history of High Octane Wrestling…yet, for some reason: I respect you too.
You show up week in and week out and do your best to compete with the best wrestlers in the whole fucking world…and even when you don’stand no chance in hell at winning, you show the fuck up…I have to respect that. So, my hats off to you, sir. But respect or not, you will lose this weekend and when the Locker Room Leader eats his first loss as the World Champion, you can rest assured that he will blame you. He won’t shoulder the responsibility as the leader, cause…quite frankly, he doesn’t have to. He’s the man…you’re just some scrub that he got paired with; surely against his will.
Xander Azula, you fucking suck, dude. You California dirtbag. You are the embodiment of every Californian stereotype that I resent and you are a reminder of why I fled California and never even looked in the fucking rearview mirror. Treat this match for what it’s worth, you fake fighter fuck – a warm up to the future ass whooping you are going to receive when the two of us are standing across the ring from one another, one on one.