Where the hell do you think you’re going?

Where the hell do you think you’re going?

Posted on March 11, 2022 at 11:50 pm by Clay Byrd

Arthur Pleasant and Jeffrey James Roberts – The Devil’s Advocates. 


I don’t think you two really ‘get’ it yet. There is no devil in High Octane Wrasslin’ there is no big bad evil, because we’re all evil. We’re all flawed, there’s just varying shades of gray. There’s no one ta be an advocate fer. There’s no one ta advocate against. Conor Fuse is our white knight, but even Conor has the scars, he’s been through the battles. Even Conor Fuse has had to get a little mud on that armor of his to survive here. 


There’s bigger demons ‘round every corner boys, every corner there’s a bigger, meaner, son of a bitch. Every time you turn down a blind hallway alone in High Octane you should be petrified, everytime you see something out of the corner of your eye you should be jumping. Not because you’re afraid, no, because only the strong survive, and the weak fuckin’ die. 


You’ve already died once, Arthur. 


Ya know, I was perfectly fine ta sit back, relax, have a few beers and see what all went down at Refueled. I was gonna conserve my energy, let Solex handle the dirty work. I figured since we all had bigger and better things ta be doin’, we’d just be focused on makin’ it ta them in one piece. Ya two have yer title matches, and I have somethin’ that means more than any bullshit little title belt. I’m goin’ ta murder the son of GOD himself, the GOD killer. But you couldn’t let me be fuckin’ happy could you? Ya couldn’t let me sit back and enjoy my night, make some quick tags, do some damage, and look ta get out of there quicker than you leavin’ after ya get beat. 


No, you poked the fuckin’ bear Arthur. And I’m already on edge.


So I guess I’m gonna end two fuckin’ careers this month. Unlike Mike’s little going away tour there ain’t gonna be no fun lovin’ Hall of Fame match fer ya, ya ain’t gonna get ta be out there pickin’ up yer flowers before ya sail off inta the sunset. No, you stupid ‘Watchman’ tattoo havin’ cuck. When I fuckin’ murder ya they won’t even give you a fuckin’ ten bell salute. 


The only thing that’ll happen when I’m fuckin’ done with you, is I’ll wake up to a nice letter from John Sektor thanking me for ensuring he retains at March To Glory because you’ll be in a fuckin’ hospital bed. Maybe I’ll break yer fuckin’ arm? Since ya don’t think it’s that big of a deal, I’ll break yer arm and rob ya of that little LSD title shot ya earned by havin’ a double fuckin’ countout. I fought like a demon ta earn my LSD title shot, I fought like a demon ta earn my look at the #97RED lady. What did ya do Arthur? Jump off a ring post when Sektor had ya dead ta fuckin’ rights? 


Congrats, bravo. 


And guess what? Nobody but John Sektor gave a flyin’ fuck. 


Because yer nothin’ but a fuckin’ quitter. When the shit got hard? Ya walked away. When ya realized it wasn’t all fun and games, that every week ya weren’t gonna walk out and smack Scottywood with a fuckin’ mace, ya turned tail and fuckin’ ran. Yer the worst kind of filth Arthur, yer a coat-tail rider. Just like ya rode the coat-tails of the hard workin’ 214 inta War Games, yer ridin’ the coattails of the HOTv champion. I see through yer bullshit Arthur. I know what the fuck ya are. Just like right now I’m sure yer copin’ by rubbin that vial ya wear ‘round yer neck like a fourteen year old highschool girl with a magic crystal. But yer little phallic shaped trinket isn’t some garbage rock ya found in a dumpster and marked up ta sell fer twenty dollars. 


No Arthur, Somehow ya decided ya needed ta carry ‘round a piece of Scottywood’s foreskin in a vial ‘round yer neck. I get it, ya hit a guy with a mace and thought it was really awesome. So awesome that ya needed ta memorialize the moment by putting a lil piece of Scotty away ‘round yer neck so ya wouldn’t forget the violence ya caused that day. 


I don’t need trophies ta remember my violence Arthur. 


There’s no blackouts, there’s no repressed memories. I remember it vividly, I was completely complicit in goin’ ta the depths I went ta. I was complicit when I burned down Six-Time Academy, I was lucid when I smashed Teddy Palmer’s skull in, I was aware when I pulverized Lester Moregrimes. I know who, and what I am, Arthur. I don’t need a trinket ‘round my neck ta remind me of my violent tendencies. 


No Arthur, I’m reminded every night when I go to sleep and see their faces. I shut my eyes for a moment and the haunting begins. I have ta confront the things I’ve done, I have ta feel them, I have ta see them, smell them, taste them. The battles play in my head like a symphony of violence. Each sensation I felt in the moment comes roaring back ta the forefront. 


And the secret to it all Arthur? In that beautiful moment, when I’m covered in someone else’s gore, when I’m bleedin’ from my face, that’s when I’m truly happy. Those moments are everything, little bits of heaven that rain down from the sky. I was born for battle Arthur, I was born for war. When I’m in combat Arthur I feel a calling, and it comes over me like nothing else. I have to fight, I have to go to battle, I have to destroy, I have ta fight fer my fuckin’ life. It’s the only thing I know, Arthur. It’s the only religion I have. 


I’ve been bathed in the #97RED blood, when ya quit I went inta battle after battle. I fought the best in the fuckin’ world Arthur. And sure, I didn’t win ‘em all, but I won my fair share. And ya ain’t nothin’ like those fuckin’ giants. Ya aren’t Conor Fuse, ya aren’t JJR, ya aren’t Clay Byrd, ya aren’t Mike Best, and yer not Steve Solex. Yer what we clean off our fuckin’ boots when were done with a hard day at work, yer the mud we leave out on the fuckin’ porch. That’s all ya are here, and that’s all you’ll ever be. 


You wanna see real vengeance Arthur? Wait until Scott Woodson puts down his last IPA, and finishes up with Bobbinette. When he realizes you’ve been totin’ a piece of him ‘round. That’ll be vengeance. Watch March To Glory if you wanna see real vengeance, see what happens when two men hell bent on actually endin’ each other’s entire existence get locked inta a steel cage with no escape. Because what yer after isn’t vengeance Arthur, yer like a toddler in the middle of Wal-Mart holdin’ the latest funko pop exclusive, kickin’ yer feet on the ground beggin’ yer mother to buy it. Ya want what ya can’t have, ya want that win that ya can’t get anymore. That’s not vengeance Arthur, that’s desperation. That’s watchin’ the granules of sand that make up this run in High Octane fer ya run out. 


Arthur, at Refueled ya aren’t gonna get yer little ‘vengeance.’ What’s gonna happen at Refueled is I’m gonna end a career before it even really gets started. So when yer layin’ in yer hospital bed watchin’ me take my vengeance against Mike Best, and watchin’ John Sektor walk out and wrestle whatever local we can get from MVW. When yer usin’ that straw ta eat yer dinner with the tears runnin’ down yer cheek, remember, Clay Byrd fuckin’ did it to ya. 


And ya can come try ta get some real vengeance. 


If ya got the fuckin’ balls. 




The Behemoth sat on the porch of Steve Solex’s home. The lawn was perfectly manicured, but the front facade of the home itself had seen better days. The pile of PBR cans beside The Monster from Plainview spoke volumes to the type of day Clay had. He wasn’t a drinking man exactly, but when something became intolerable, it could help you to forget. 


“SCOTT! GET YER ASS OUT HERE AND GET THESE GODDAMN CANS!” Clay yelled at the top of his lungs. Scott Stevens-Solex Jr. appeared from the door before the words finished and began scooping up the cans, behind him strode the world’s greatest Dad. Solex gave Clay a side eye as Stevens Jr. scampered off inside with part of the pile of cans in his hands. 


“I’m trying to teach him how to be a REAL man Clay, not like that bitch of a biological father…” Steve said concerned, he’d been working on Stevens Jr. now for weeks, and the progress on becoming an alpha had hit a bit of an impasse. 


“He’ll be a man when he tells me ta fuck myself, not even his daddy would do that.” The Behemoth slurred as he picked up what was left of the twenty-four pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon. 


“Good choice, I drink that all the time…” Steve said with a nod as he pointed to the half case of beer The Behemoth clutched in one massive hand. 


“I could tell, it was the only thing in yer fridge besides protein powder and peanut butter,” Clay said half confused. “Why do ya gotta keep that shit cold anyway?” 


“I put the horse steroids in the peanut butter, figured it’s like the vaccines, keeping them cold keeps them fresh longer,” Solex said without batting an eye. 


“And the protein powder?” Clay said nodding along, at least the horse steroid part kind of made sense. 


“You don’t keep yours in the fridge?” Steve responded, cool as a cucumber. His glorious mustache twitched as he opened the screen door to yell into the bowels of the home. 


“YOU LITTLE…! IF I SEE YOU PLAYING VIDEO GAMES INSTEAD OF LIFTING WEIGHTS ONE MORE TIME!” Steve paused, and Clay knew he was waiting for something to happen in the world Solex had developed in his brain. 


“Kids…” Steve said dejectedly, then he slyly looked up into the yard and winked at nothing in particular. Clay chuckled to himself and carried on the conversation. 


“I left a twenty in the fridge fer ya,” Clay stated and started towards the old black Ford F250. 


“No need Pal, Bergman sends me a few cases every now and then. When we had our last tag team we had a pretty awesome deal.” Solex said as he reached around in the front pockets of his jean shorts for money. 


“Ya still talk ta him?” The name had made Clay’s ears perk up. Bergman had been a High Octane World Champion, he was another Hall of Famer just like Steve. Possibly another ally in the fight against the Six-Time Academy and their glorious murderous leader. 


“He calls once or twice a month, just to see how I’m doing with things,” Steve says quietly pointing to his head. Clay nodded solemnly, any talk about the delusions Solex experienced soured him pretty quick. 


“Well, if ya talk ta him, see if he’s interested in comin’ out. Heard he was workin’ for Ray again,” The Behemoth said as he stomped off towards the truck and the setting sun. 


“Good idea, see ya later Clay,” Steve shouted at the big man’s back. Clay simply held up his hand and waived. He continued with his drunken lumbering through the yard. He looked into the cab of the F250 and saw his father staring back at him. The disappointed look in his eyes spoke volumes, but The Behemoth continued onwards, not paying it any mind. 


He tossed the door open to the cab and sat the beer down in the middle of the bench seat. The glare from Robert Byrd never changed, as Clay crammed himself into the truck. 


“Yer a fuckin’ figmant of my sub-concious, why can’t ya give me a bit more room ta get comfortable…” Clay said as he contorted himself into a semi-relaxed position. He pulled his black cowboy hat down over his eyes, trying to show how little he wanted the conversation that was about to happen. 


“Because you remember me being six-foot five and two-hundred and fifty pounds even after the emphysema did a number on me…” 


“I thought I had ta shut my eyes and picture this shit fer ya ta appear, we had a routine Pops, and right now I ain’t exactly in the best of moods,” Clay said as he shrugged his shoulders trying to get himself into a better position. 


“Sure, we had a routine Clay… You’d come in here and brood ‘bout Steve bein’ crazier than a stripper that works on Tuesdays and I’d listen ta ya talk… I’d try ta keep yer eye on the prize, on gettin’ what ya want…” Robert turned to face The Monster he affectionately called his son. 


“Well, he winked at the yard today like it was some kind of studio audie…” Robert cut him off before he could finish the sentence. 


“The eye on the prize part of this Clay…” 


“Right, eye on the prize. My prize, a match with a bunch of murderer’s in it. Michael Lee Best’s prize? A farewell tour like he’s Kobe fuckin’ Bryant. They’ll prolly try ta make me walk out with a fuckin’ paintin’ of him standin’ over Max Kael’s corpse like he just conquered the world,” The Behemoth said still with his hat down over his eyes. The mention of Max Kael’s name caused Robert Byrd to sneer, and a faint red glow to come from behind the seat. 


“Isn’t that what High Octane is, a bunch of murderers? Well besides that Conor Fuse boy… I mean sure he electrocuted Michael but he managed to live…” 


“So you know?” Clay said, the glow dissipated as he removed his hat. The only light in the cab was coming from the setting sun at their backs. 


“I know…” 


“And?” Clay asked, for a moment he looked like a four year old caught with his hand in the cookie jar. 


“What’s there ta say?” 


“A lot.” Clay said, growing perturbed. He reached a paw into the case of beer, and wrestled himself out another PBR. 


“Ya didn’t really have a choice Clay…” 


“That’s what I keep telling myself,” Clay said as he tilted back the can, letting the lukewarm liquid flow down his throat. There’s a myth about beer needing to be ice cold to be drank, it does need to be ice cold to taste good, not to drink and The Monster grimaced as he took the can away from his lips. 


“About Mike…” 


“This thing with Mike doesn’t even exist if I didn’t throttle that man to death to get out of the prison in Belize.” Clay said looking at his father. He looked him over, there wasn’t empathy or compassion like he was looking for. Robert Byrd was only stating facts. 


“Ya don’t think you two were destined for this?” 


“Sure, somethin’ put me in that prison before Rumble at the Rock. Somethin’ made sure that some big gaijin foreigner workin’ in Japan ended up with some type of Kael murder machine in my brain. But why would it all lead to this? Why would that bring me here? Dad… I didn’t even know that feller’s name…” Clay slammed back the rest of the beer, and crushed the can in his hand. He tossed it out the driver side window and into Steve’s perfectly manicured lawn. 


“Did his name matter to you? Was it going to change the outcome? Clay, you had a choice. The biggest moment of your career, a chance at the World Heavyweight Championship… A chance to face the best High Octane had to offer… You don’t think if you had managed to win it, that Mike wouldn’t come for you then? Do you think he’d sit back in his ivory tower and be satisfied with you winning the world title?” 


“Prolly not…” Clay mumbled as he grabbed another can, cracking it open and taking another enormous drink. 


“Right, and could you ever let Jace Parker Davidson main event Iconic…” 


“No… but I didn’t have ta kill him Pops, I’m sure there was another way out of that hell hole, I’m sure I could have figured somethin’ out…” Clay sat up straight in the truck, and placed his head on the steering wheel. 


“This ain’t the way ta head inta March To Glory Clay… hell this ain’t the way ta head inta a match with a bunch of killers… This is how you become a statistic in the ring tomorrow…” The Behemoth nodded, grabbed his hat from the dashboard and kicked the door of the truck open stepping out into the now setting sun. 


“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” 


“Sure ain’t soberin’ up sittin’ in that truck with you,” Clay said as he slammed the door, rocking the big truck. He slammed back the last of his can of PBR and dropped it aimlessly in the yard. He marched back to the porch of the dilapidated home and straight through the front door. 


“Lady problems?” Steve Solex asked as Clay stormed past him, as he went up the falling set of stairs. 


“Sure Steve, ya could say that… tell Scotty that son of a bitch neighbor of yours tossed beer cans in yer yard again…” Clay said infuriating Solex. He stormed down the steps and opened the front door to see the two cans of beer in his perfectly cared for lawn. 


“YOU WONT GET MY YARD OF THE MONTH AWARD THAT EASY FRANK!” Steve screamed out the front door. 


In the cab of the truck, the faintly glowing red orb dimmed, and faded back to it’s cold lifeless black core. It’s illumination had been hidden as it had finally found a resting space under the bench seat of the truck.