Have you ever seen Ace Ventura, Doc?
Well this dream… or nightmare, I guess… It was a lot like that scene where Ace visits the house of Ray Finkle. Only there was no demented, old lady. There was no old man with a shotgun. There were no football shaped cookies, either.
So what was there, you ask? Just that creepy room up the stairs. Only instead of anti-Dolphins, anti-Finkle decor, it was all him…
The perfectly lined, golden hair.
The shades over a pair of bloodshot eyes.
That fuckin’ pucker.
Everything was all Cancer Jiles and 97RED marker art, cursing him to the deepest Pit of Hell.
And that video reel, as clunky as it was in the movie, playing the moment Darin Zion pinned him and, with the help of Brain Hollywood, took our High Octane Tag Titles from us. The second time. Even though it might not’ve happened until quite a while after that match, that’s when it all began. That was when our shells cracked beyond repair. When the eGG Bandits were past the point of no return.
Now I know what you’re gonna tell me, Doc.
That film reel is my subconscious or some shit like that. How I can’t let go of that moment. I still haven’t moved on. That’s when our paths finally split, after over a decade of success together. And that’s when Jiles went on to better things, and I faded into the shadows. My grief turned into anger, ultimately manifesting itself as pure jealousy.
Envy, if you will.
So please, if that’s all you got. Don’t bother. I don’t know why I’m still even coming here. Kostoff’s back, after all, and somehow he was way better at this shit than you. Actually, fuck this. I’ve got better ways to spend my time right now. I’ve got another big, bad boi to beat up this Saturday. The likes of which High Octane hasn’t seen a million times over.
That was sarcasm, Doc. Don’t get excited. I sure as fuck know that I’m not.
Have a good day, I guess.
I’ll see you next Tuesday.
Oh, and say “Hi” to Bobbinette for me.
The Room that COOL Built
Still Paying the Lease
Jeffrey James Jingleheimer Roberts.
And I’ve been told my name’s dumb as fuck. At least I don’t sign legal documents with it. I guess, to your credit, you didn’t pick your dumb ass name. Just like The 4th Generation Superstar, Wahl.
Petty shit aside, one thing’s clear about your crazy ass. You know your way around a ring. You’ve come into the land that Lee built with a bang. You took care of an arch enemy of mine in your debut, notching a W over Darin Zion. The same man who just defeated a certain former World Chump. It’s not the biggest win in the world, but it’s not nothing either. Then you made quick work of Eli Dresden. Another gimme for most folks around here, but probably not for yours truly. So I gotta give credit where it’s due.
Don’t think, just because I’ve got my own demons I’m dealing with, that I haven’t noticed you. Sure, there’s not much tape to study so far, but I’ve seen enough to understand your type. It’s no wonder why you’ve seen early success at High Octane, given that. You fit the mold at HOW so well, if it wasn’t for Mike Best’s performance at Bottomline, I would’ve sworn Lee had you constructed like some kind of High Octane Frankenstein.
You’re technically sound between the ropes, and that’s great, but the more important part is your zero fucks given attitude. It’s easy to see, for anyone who’s lucky enough to still have functioning eyes around here, that you don’t give a shit what you put your body through. Just as long as you’re putting your opponent’s body through worse, right?
But what happens when things don’t go your way? Or, at least, how your fucked up head thinks they’ll go?
What happens when you hit me with everything you’ve got, and I keep getting back up?
What happens when your counters get countered?
What happens when you lose your temper? When the inner demons take over? And I just stand there smiling as you lose control?
You see, I’m a veteran, Jeff. Shit, I’m almost old enough to be your dad. Given how mentally disturbed you are, it might be safe to say you didn’t get much time with your old man. But anyone who did, knows what it’s like to compete against their father. And, unless you’re a psycho with the last name Best, the dad’s usually have the advantage.
They know the game.
They know the tricks.
But more importantly, they know how to get under your skin and make you fuck up when it matters most.
And, honestly, even on the rare occasion that you’d pull one off against the older version of yourself… they’re still the one who’ll take more away from that loss than you ever could. Because all that extra experience slows the game down. The knowns become givens. Your mind frees to take in more information, more detailed information.
That’s exactly how I plan to use our little match this coming Saturday night at The Pit in the great state of New Mexico.
I’ve taken all the time I needed this week to study you as best I can. And come this weekend, I’ll be playing the game at a higher level. I’m going to throw things at you that you haven’t seen before. Just to see how you react. Then, win or lose, I walk out with a better understanding of how to handle you and how to take advantage of your weaknesses.
Just as I did with Brian Hollywood two weeks ago.
You see, these matches leading up to Rumble at the Rock don’t mean shit to me at face value.
My record doesn’t mean shit to me.
What does mean shit to me? Getting that World Title shot after I win the Seven Deadly Sins match at Alcatraz. And I will win, Mr. Roberts.
Win or lose, come ARR AYE TEE ARR…
You’ll be Doozed and Abused.