Posted on September 7, 2023 at 1:40 pm by Conor Fuse


Where did I go wrong?

October 30, 2022. For three years this period in the calendar is the absolute worst. It is so incredibly unfair. Impossible and unrelenting. Painful and dishonest. 

2020, Rumble at the Rock, my debuting HOW pay-per-view match.

Lost to Jatt.

2021, Rumble at the Rock, a major World Title defense.

Lost to Mike.

The most demoralizing blows of my career. Both of them made me scream “GO BACK TO TAG TEAM WRESTLING.”

What did 2022 bring?

Glad you asked.

I sit outside Alcatraz for a different reason. A much more concerning transgression. See, the past two years I hung my head and wondered if I had it in me to make it further. It was a question of talent and abilities. In 2020, it was a legitimate examination of Conor Fuse’s flaws. In 2021, I wondered if I could achieve long-term main event status or would there be a permanent glass ceiling over my head? Throughout those years I answered these questions. I can hang. I am good enough. There is no glass roof and if there was, I easily jumped over it. I gained confidence. Gone were the days I worried about defeating Cancer Jiles for the World Title because if that egg sucking nimrod ever came back to High Octane, I wouldn’t blink an eye.

It would take me 97 seconds to pull off the victory.

The point I’m trying to make is the two other times I walked out the prison doors of Alcatraz, I was coming to terms with where I fit into the game of wrestling.

Now, in 2022…

Oh, I fit alright.

“But who am I?” I ask Game Boy as he sits beside me. What a good lad he is, maybe one day he should start his own campaign, a one player affair. He has the talent to make a major dent in this sport with the skills he possesses. The dude has GOD given ability by looking at him. 6’6”, 300+ pounds of PURE muscle. The feedback I’ve received my entire life: “hey kid, eat something.” One glance at Game Boy and it’s assumed he has all the gifts in the world.

Not so different from the individual I just defeated inside the prison.

I’m grateful to have The Game Boy around. I never planned to get rid of a good friend, after all it’s extremely hard to make them.

Friend. Bobbie. Bobbie’s my friend. This was her war and I went to bat for The Queen of Epicness. She never asked me, but it’s what friends do. Stronk and his people were the ones behind attempted murder. For five minutes there, I did what they couldn’t.

I’d say Stronk deserves the end result but this developed into a WAAAAYYYY too serious affair. The OG Conor Fuse simply wanted to wrestle a couple athletes, leap super high off shit and then go home to a night of marathoning video games in wicked celebration.

Apparently HOW doesn’t work this way.

Starting to evaluate my life choices. I can feel myself falling down a pit… not giving a shit about anything, anymore.

I don’t like that. Scary. Isn’t me.

“Did you see the hand? He raised his hand, eh?” I’m pleading as if he wasn’t motionless for a solid ten minutes and the paramedics weren’t trying to resuscitate the guy. Thank god, Stronk raised his hand. He’s not clinically declared dead. Well, not anymore. He was. He was DOA. I did this. I sought revenge and then some.

He lies there. Motionless as he’s strapped onto a stretcher and they throw a white blanket over him. That’s what they do for the deceased. Pretty sure I caught one of them saying “get the body bag”. The black bag. The one that signifies HE GONE.

Jesus, the images in my head. They are burned into the back of my brain. Sure, it just happened. I’m well aware I’m going to remember every finite detail for the next twenty-four hours. I still remember when Hughie Freeman hit me with a leg sweep and that’s probably the first time anyone’s mentioned his nimrod name in over two years since he RAGEQUIT or something.

I dunno if he did, merely assuming.

However, this match wasn’t “one of the many”. It was life changing.

Kinda why I’m running an unsteady hand through my wild blonde hair at the moment. I am going to remember every detail forever. Aren’t I? I don’t wanna use the word trauma but it might as well be defined as such. Am I really going to relive this moment over and over? I can see his hand raise. PERFECTLY raise. Coming back to life. He is a Frankenstein! To think, a few hours ago he was being revived. It didn’t look good. The prognosis was poor.

It still could be. Okay, he woke up. Does he have brain damage? I understand this is Stronk Godson so it might not mean a whole lot but a vegetative state means he ain’t weight lifting. He isn’t wrestling. He doesn’t have a clue what’s going on. Might as well be dead. Pull the cord. It’s done.

What the actual fuck was I thinking? FUSE WHAT WERE YOU THINKING!? You are not one of these guys. You cannot follow this up. You’re barely cool with murder in Fortnite since you know the demographic is littered with ten-year-olds. Placing a fifty pound weight on a man’s chest, running from one end of the room to the next. Jumping as high as humanly possible and sticking my feet through the twisted metal weight.

Maybe there’s a part of me, in the depths of my head, in the ever-so-far aspect within the back of my subconscious…

That wished for this outcome to happen?

I certainly hope not. It’ll change the (pray-to-god that it’s only) short-term trauma into something more sinister. It’ll make me a real killer. A man out for blood, actual blood. It’s not a saying anymore. It’s something I loved-

Whack. Game Boy hits me on the shoulder.

“Thanks, buddy,” I reply. “Really needed the wake up call.”

Deep breath, Fuse. It’s going to be okay. As you know, the paramedics did their jobs.

“I don’t wanna fuck around, ya know?” I mention out loud. “Otherwise you find out.”

I look over at my Game Boy. For a mute freak, he’s a great listener. Even if I don’t get a response, I usually feel what he’s thinking.

“I don’t want to Be Like Mike.” I say with a sense of emphasis. At the time, I was extremely jealous of Mike’s position and everything he’s accomplished. Now, I’m glad I don’t follow in those footsteps. “I came to HOW to be Conor Fuse. Not someone else. There’s enough of them. There’s nobody else who’s built like I am.”

Hallmark bullshit when it comes outta my mouth but it’s true. I don’t need to HOFC on the mic, I don’t need to run my opponents down. I can finish them with my skills and abilities inside the ring. I can out think them on the outside, too. I can do different things half the roster isn’t able to fathom.

“I moved into an old folks home.” Suddenly, I realize Game Boy has no idea what I’m saying since most of that diatribe was in my own head. I do that a lot. I bet he thinks I should enroll myself into an inpatient unit.

Perhaps after another few minutes running the end of Stronk Godson through my mind, I might need to make a reservation. Wonder what mental health facilities they have in the Chicagoland area. Lee has to know. I’m sure he’s referred many of his ex-talent towards specific units. Do they take reservations? From retirement home, to homemade prison, to insane asylum. And it won’t be one from my dreams, it’ll be real. I could reside in a place like that. Ah, yes… instead of old men and women slowly shuffling around the floor and introducing themselves to me for the 97th time this week, I’ll befriend a bunch of mental patience instead. At least none of them will die off so quickly, there will be proper character development.

I should look into this further. I can only imagine what goes on inside the rehabilitation walls. Instead of dentures falling out, I’ll have some screwball’s teeth implanted in my arm if I move the wrong muscle or look the wrong way. Instead of Ruth from next door screaming and yelling in the middle of the night… wait, I guess this example would be similar. Except the inmates won’t be screaming for pudding.

“Should really look into that,” I mumble, although my thoughts are once again overtaken by what happened three hours ago.

I killed a man.

Thank GOD it was brief.

“I did this, ‘Boy.” It’s almost unbelievable to hear me speak these thoughts. This is what the Murder Daddy performs. Our match wasn’t to the death. I wanted to channel a darker side of me. Reality is I hoped to defeat Stronk Godson since my luck has been such shit inside of those prison walls. Never in my wildest imagination did I want my opponent stretchered out. “I did this. Me. Conor Fuse. Dumbass idiot. Guy who lived in an old folks home but SHOULD move into an insane asylum!”

Guess I fit right into High Octane. Much better than I thought.

“I don’t wanna be capable of murder again, okay?”

Rumble at the Rock replays in my mind. Over and over.

Run. Jump. Leap.

Motherfucking STOMP Godson.

I hear the weight crack across his chest. That’s the force I landed with, putting a split through a professional barbell. And people say aerial stuff is outdated and overdone. Not when I’m in charge.

I see his eyes roll into the back of his head. I am breathless, watching in slow motion. 3rd person. There’s a trance over me… for a second there I truly believe I MEANT to do this.

Almost looks as if I planned to do MORE.

And then… the OG Conor Fuse resurfaces. His regular demeanor appears. I melt into my own body, I no longer witness things from a far. I’m scared as shit. Trembling. The most frightening moment I’ve ever had in my life?

It’s definitely up there.

I tilt my head and stare into the sky, in the hopes I can discover a new thought. But the more I tell myself “stop thinking about it”… the more my mind keeps sticking the scene in there.

“I can’t go down this campaign, Game Boy. I won’t.”

I run a frail hand through my hair, as I lean forward, placing my arms on my knees and throwing my head down there, too.

“You wanna know the scariest thing, man?” I ask The Game Boy, knowing he is hanging off my every word.

“The scariest thing in the world is…”

I suck in as much air as I possibly can handle, then slowly exhale it out, hoping I don’t say the very next sentence. Of course, I do.

“… I honestly think I enjoyed it.”

— — — — —


This is why I’m isolating myself. No need for a prison in the boiler room of a retirement home, I’ve told everyone to get out of my life because I cannot be trusted with friends.

Look what I did to Bobbie. How did I not care for Jace? The speed at which I walked away from Walter and my Game Boy. I might end up hurting them.

Fast-forward to the present: Stronk Godson. The World Title. Mike Best.

In that order?

I think the world title is secondary. It’s a nice addition. It’s the men I want to conquer. Everyone is telling me I was SO CLOSE against Mike. Yes. I was there. I witnessed it. Others have told me they can’t wait to see what happens when the ultimate rematch begins… Stronk Godson vs. Conor Fuse.

I have done a lot of thinking. Hell, I’ve done a lot of watching. I have sat here, on my couch, and I have kept my eyes glued to the TV screen, divulging in Rumble at the Rock on repeat.

Then I realized there’s nothing in my VCR and the television has been off for the entire time.

I don’t need to see it replayed in front of me when I REPLAY IT IN MY HEAD EVERY GOD DAMN FUCKING SECOND.

Who is Conor Fuse? For the past year, whenever Stronk’s name is mentioned… I let him know exactly how I felt during that moment when I took his life. I have reflected for over ten months. And I have come to the conclusion…

I meant to kill him.

But when we push too far… when a thought is only that, a thought. It might not do harm. No doubt in my mind, as I race across the floor and jump into the air… I intended to punish the human body.

Murder. Death. Kill.

But once you get something in life, once it’s there in front of you… it’s an entirely different experience. There was pain that ran through my face. Concern. Regret. Worry. Every bit of it was true.

I reach into my pocket and I pull out my vintage flip phone. I desire to be alone. I said this next campaign has to be mine. No games. No distractions. No stupidity.

Guess I’m tweaking that rule.

It doesn’t take me long to dial in the numbers. I know exactly who I’m gonna call

The other person picks up.

“Hi. It’s me, Conor Fuse. We talked yesterday. Oh, and the day before that. Oh, and the day before that. Yeah, I’ve called a lot. I’m sorry. Listen, do you have availability for Monday?”

The picture. It sprints through my head again. The entire sequence. The full event towards making Stronk Godson’s heart stop.

“Yeah? You do? That’ll be great. Please put me down for Monday at 8am.”

Fuck, it felt so good to see his face turn purple.

“Pretty sure I’m gonna need all the support I can get.”

— — — — —

It’s okay Stronk, I’ll go first. 

Been a long time coming. Ready for round 2? I certainly hope you are. They’re calling this the greatest Chaos match in the 42 episode history. Some are even going so far as to say this is the most anticipated televised contest in High Octane, period. That’s a lot of fucking pressure, bud. Don’t screw this up.

The match alone is a lot to get your panties in a bunch. You know, title match. West Virginia is for Lovers. Then put it into further context… considering the previous Conor Fuse vs. Stronk Godson story.

Jesus Christ dude, this has to be an incredibly emotional time for you. Approximately 365 days ago you were fighting for your life.


Like literally actually fighting for your life.

Glad you kicked out at two, buddy. Or was Joel Hortega counting and you kicked out at DOS? No matter, it was touch and go. The post traumatic stress has to be building up inside that pea-brained head of yours. ALL CAPS move to sOmE cApS when sTrOnK GOdSoN remembers what happened in Alcatraz.

I’ve always been curious to ask about your experience. It’s the polite, Canadian thing to do. We all know what my reality was. Fuck buddy, I can’t stop replaying it.

Can’t stop.

Won’t stop.

Smiling ear-to-ear.

Now you go. Selfish of me, almost narcissistic rather to put my own name in every sentence and not consider there was another person in this equation.

Let’s hear it. They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die. Fact or fiction? Did you see Shelley Greene jumping into your dreams and telling you what your memories were? Was the abbreviated trip to heaven nifty?

I’m not trying to be cute, legitimately asking, bro. I WANT TO KNOW. It interests me.

Because something like this will never happen to Conor Fuse. I have unlimited energy. I cannot physically be kept down. Many have tried, all have failed. Including you. Because when I go HARD…

There’s no chance.

Christopher America tried. God damn right he was the better man at March to Glory earlier this year. I still ended his title reign. ME. I fucking pinned him. Never confuse a single defeat with a final defeat. In the end, Conor Fuse delivers the ultimate closing W.

Enough about me. There I go again. We should be focused on YOU.

Seriously, what was it like to die? Were there naked angels with big titties? Is God cool or vengeful? Penis or vagina? Inquiring minds want to know.

You’ve never spoken about it and I think you should. It’s fucking therapeutic dude. Plus it would provide incredible insight to all these pricks on this roster when their time is up.

Unless you went to hell.

Or… maybe, just maybe… the afterlife is exactly how I think of it.






Like before you were born.

That’s what death is to little ol’ Conor Fuse. I’m an atheist. When I go, I return to my blank slate and I take 0 memories with me. 0 titles with me. 0 shits with me.

But hey, I’m a dipshit. A fucking idiot. What the hell do I know? Maybe there really is a heaven. Perhaps the devil does exist. Better yet, when we all get there, me, you and Bobbie can have that wild blood orgy since she is oh so sexually attracted to you.

You’re nothing but a clown comment, Stronk. Nothing you say is funny. Zero lands. It’s boring. It’s tiring. It puts me to sleep. Might be the only chance you have come Sunday. Shout to me in CAPS MODE when we’re in the ring, you’ll lull me to bed. Pin. UNO-DOS-TRES and carry on!

News flash: Bobbie never desired your dick. Everyone in your life uses you. You are sad and pathetic. You are a pawn. I exposed you once. I can easily do it again. The photoshopped images of you on a bull… horse… humpback whale… who cares. I roll my eyes when Lee posts them. So you donate to the High Octane food drive.

Get bent.

Every second you open your mouth my eardrums seep blood at a RAPID pace. I need the local transfusion clinic on speed dial.

Take, for example, what you said to me leading up to WarGames.


This is nonsense, you fuckstick schmuck. This is silly talk from a kindergartner. Can’t believe I expected MOAR.

And if I suck so bad, dude… if I’m so terrible at everything…

What does that say about you?


Listen, I’ll give you minor credit. I’ll send tiny kudos your way. At this year’s WarGames you took me and threw me over your shoulder… snatching #97 out of my grasp when I finally thought I recaptured the gold. You got me. I was defeated by YOUR hands. Sure, it was multi-man and yadda yadda I had a garbage team etc, etc, truth of the matter is you won.


Standing O.


I swear it’s the ONLY time you’re gonna do it.

You wanna be one of the big boys? Mike? America? Sektor? This is YOUR chance, Stronk. Shut the annoying, righteous moron up for good. BE the champion THEY say you are. Walk past me on route to a wonderfully dominant title reign. Make an example. Tell Mike Best that Conor Fuse isn’t worth his time.


Spoiler: won’t happen.

I am going to eviscerate you from this earth, Stronk. I am going to take your massive body and I am going to break it off limb-from-limb with a shit eating smile on my face and a mischievous giggle. You literally can’t catch me, I am the fastest human being alive. Your tree trunk arms won’t do damage. They cannot enclose fast enough to wrap themselves around my body…


Because there’s no one else in this match. Godson has my undivided attention. And it’ll be a fair fight, with no additional stipulations. If I put a fifty pound weight on your chest and STOMP a mudhole through it on Sunday…

I’ll be disqualified.


Kinda sucks but hey, I don’t make the rules. Consider yourself blessed. You might actually make it to In God’s House. Let me scale back that anxiety to a minimum. We’re good, bro. YOU’RE good. And you’ll live to see another day.

Until I’m awarded the championship.

Then all bets are off.

See, after the bell rings thrice, and I’m given back #97, I ain’t finished. We’re simply getting started, my little muppet head. Then everything IS fair game and Stronk Godson SHOULD be terrified.

After the match is where I finish the job, because I will not hold back any longer. The MacGuffin is mine. I have the object that represents the highest form of order in our sport.

But I won’t have my trophy.

And no, I’m not talking about video game achievements. I gave those up. I want a real trophy. I want to hold it high into the air. I want the peasants… the n00bs… the wannabes in the back to look up from the lower platform they stand on and see what I hold high.

The head of Stronk Godson, dripping blood from his neck, veins and other liquids falling out and onto the floor.

As you probably have figured… the Conor Fuse of 2022 didn’t want to murder you. He was stunned at what happened and immediately regretted it.

Vintage Fuse was so mundane.

Post-match I am going to crack your skull open, slowly plucking out your neurological deliciousness. I’ll munch on them for shits and gigs but it won’t last long. I doubt it keeps my stomach satisfied because, of course, your brain is so fucking tiny.

Next, I’ll work my way into devouring your arms. The enhanced muscle mass I rip off will make an excellent source of protein for those extremely thirsty women in the crowd that apparently love you so much. I’d tear your dick off, but, of course, it is also fucking tiny.

Finally, I am going to drag your legs to a corner of the ring and wrap them around the ring post. I’ll proceed to apply a figure four leg lock so brutal and unrelenting, I will never let go. Like, ever. Your head will previously be decapitated, your arms torn apart and thrown into the crowd… but it’s your legs, buddy. Those massive, stalky, cedar trunks…

I want them for myself.

I am going to hang off them until they pop out of your pelvis. From thigh to foot, they are my property.

You ever come across one of those murder shows where they tell you the victim’s body is totally unrecognizable? After Conor Fuse’s day of reckoning is complete… everyone will ask what type of orphanage I slaughtered. You’ll be in so many pieces they won’t have a clue if it’s one person or a whole pack of dead babies.

If you think this is too extreme… if you think I’m being the silly one now… then I can change course.

I killed you. I made your heart stop. It wasn’t permanent but by GOD I did it. I ended your life for a period of time and you are so incredibly lucky you had something left in you to kick out at 2.999999. I placed a weight on your chest. I ran with everything I had, as fast as I could, and I leapt through the air with such force, height and distance, I’d give Mike Powell and Bob Beamon a straight-up stiffy.

I did this to you. Because I did this for Bobbie.

Chaos 42, I’m doing it for me.

So what does that say about the outcome? Don’t worry, I’ll tell ya.

Don’t bother writing a promo. Instead, put together your own obituary. For fuck sakes, write it in ALL CAPS for old times, I’d expect nothing less. You can jot down the quaint little jokes you desire. Take some cheap shots at me, too. In death, you can have the last laugh, I’m not a fucking monster.

Here lies sTrOnK gOdSoN. A fake world champion. A High Octane puppet. Placed 97 feet into the ground by the man who always had his number, the merciless killer in HOW and the former video game kid who just didn’t give a shit.

Goodbye, big man. Hello 3rd World Championship reign.

I finish the job this time.