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Previously, on Hollywood Bruvs!
MIKEY: Hey BRUV, how about a nice FRAPP? How is your addiction to ALCOHOL today?
KENDRIX: Boy I wish I could have ALCOHOL right now instead of a FRAPP. Thank you for asking, BRUV.
MIKEY: You are welcome, BRUV. Should we talk about our BIG TAG TEAM WRESTLING MATCH this week at REFUELED? Those OPPONENTS of ours sure are OPPONENTS.
KENDRIX: Yes, but only if we talk about it in WEIRDLY SPECIFIC DETAILS.
MIKEY: Of course, BRUV. This is how human friends talk EVERY DAY.
KENDRIX: Remember UTAH, BRUV?
MIKEY: BRUV I totally remember UTAH. Wanna talk about it for a WEIRDLY LONG TIME?
KENDRIX: I have literally no identity. FRAPPES.
MIKEY: Not having an identity is TIGHT. HIGH FIVE.
I’m struggling too, Jesse.
Let me be real honest with you, because I feel like there hasn’t been a lot of honest conversation between our respective factions in this ongoing dick measuring contest that’s been going on for… shit, how long exactly?
Hold on, let me go ahead and ask Andy Murray, since apparently he’s been keeping count in the Trapper Keeper he bought, back when he came up with most of his jokes.
What’s that Andy? 110 days?
Almost four months Mr. Kendrix. Four months of passive aggression, backhanded insults, and all out war. Four months of disconnect, because we haven’t just sat down and had a real conversation. And I think that maybe you and I can bridge the gap, Jesse. Maybe we can be the voice of reason. Maybe we can start the honest discussion that needs to be had between the Group of Death and 24K, so that we can finally start to coexist in HOW.
Truth be told, I don’t know a lot about you.
I don’t think anyone does. I know that you used to be in UTAH, and you were pretty damned good right out of the starting gate. I know that you enjoy frosty, caffeinated beverages. I know that you never seem to speak when Mikey Unlikely is drinking water. But despite not knowing a whole lot about you, you’re the guy I wanna talk to right now. Because you and I, we have a few things in common, and common ground is the best place to start.
You and I are addicts, Jesse.
I used to like to do cocaine. Like, a lot of cocaine. Like, the way that you and Mikey like FRAPPES, except that instead of FRAPPES, it was cocaine. I could bury my face into a table full of the stuff like that kid in A Christmas Story with the mashed potatoes, and show all my buddies how the piggies eat. Like, I really really really liked cocaine. I shoved two eight balls of the stuff up my asshole before Rumble at the Rock, once, and nearly died of an overdose when one of them ruptured inside of my colon. I once got so high that I almost had a threesome with my own father. I mean, like, cocaine really fucked my life up for awhile there, buddy, so I totally get where you’re coming from.
Addiction is hard.
Addiction completely changes every single facet of your life, until you look around one day and realize that everything in your life is an excuse to indulge. That little voice in the back of your head is always rationalizing– hey man, you had a tough day. Live a little. You’ll screw your friends, you’ll screw your family, and you’ll shun anyone who tries to help you. You become a slave to the parasite that lives in your brain, and all it wants is a little more of the hair of the dog that bit you. I was in a really bad way, for a really long time. And then? Then, the cocaine got in the way of my career… so do you know what I did?
I stopped doing cocaine.
Because that’s what I do, Jesse.
I put a hard stop to things that get in the way of what I want to achieve.
We’re both addicts, Kendrix. The difference between us is that I am a winner, and you are the fourth most important man in a wrestling stable that will not exist in one year’s time. Maybe that sounds a little harsh, but hey, we’re gonna have an honest conversation, right?
So let’s have an honest conversation.
You’re not a loser because you’re an alcoholic, you’re an alcoholic because you’re a loser. If it wasn’t liquor that caught you by the tail, it would have been scratch tickets, or internet porn. You’d be paying some Amazonian looking broad to step on your ballsack in high heels and tell you that you’re worthless, because you’re a weak-willed little bitch at the bottom of the world’s most repetitive four man pyramid.
You’re struggling, Kendrix.
But so am I.
You know those nights when you’re staring into the bottom of an empty glass, and you’re fucking salivating at the idea of filling it up and having a drink? Your hand is shaking, and you’re thinking “man, I know this is a bad idea”, but you just don’t know how much longer you’re going to last without giving in? I quit coke for good back in 2015– you could wave an eight ball under my nose right now, and I could turn you away without a hint of sweat on my brow. But sometimes, I’m weak too. Sometimes, even I have demons that I can’t hold back anymore. And right now, Jesse, I’m staring down into the bottom of that glass, and my hands won’t stop fucking shaking. Right now, I think I’m gonna take that drink.
I’m going to fucking eviscerate you guys.
I’m not supposed to. I’m supposed to behave, Jesse. I’m supposed to be a good company man, and do good company man things. I’m supposed to keep the peace. And I’ve been trying so hard to get this monkey off my back, for so many years, and just do what the fuck I’m supposed to do. I’ve been trying to grow up, and stop with the outbursts. Stop with the tantrums. Stop going red, and watching the world burn at my slightest inconvenience.
I have an addiction I can’t beat, Jesse. I’ve struggled.
And God knows, I tried.
I tried. I fucking tried. For 110 days, I’ve tried everything that I could think of. I’ve played ball with Lee Best, and his pleas for me to be patient. I’ve bit my tongue so hard that I’ve drawn blood. I’ve smiled, and shucked, and jived, and pretended really fucking hard that if I continued to set a good example, that four men with two brains (because you’re half-wits, follow along) would eventually figure themselves out and become bearable members of this roster.
I tried everything, Jesse.
I dragged your little punk bitch pretty boy into a wrestling ring and the world watched him pull a Kaepernick– that’s where a guy takes so many knees that he stops appearing on television– and I thought that maybe it might turn things around. I thought maybe you’d pump the brakes on being smug, lazy, entitled little cunts. I thought that it might give you some pause, and realize how utterly garbage you were going to look when you started to get steamrolled by all the people you’d called garbage on your way to the middle. I thought that maybe if I got onto a microphone, and put you guys over as some force of nature, that you might take the fucking cue and learn to be good at your jobs. I’ve tried goddamned everything, boys, and yet here I stand.
But don’t worry, 24K– you didn’t beat me, I beat myself.
It’s my fault. I overestimated your ability to thrive in a company that doesn’t run on bullshit Supermen and trope cliches.
Andy Murray’s biggest weakness is his necrotic, diabetic, syphilitic knees, and it’s beginning to fucking baffle me– how the fuck did Andy Murray blow out his knees, when the only thing I’ve ever seen him running is his mouth? This motherfucker has been here for a cup of coffee, but to hear him talk, his record shouldn’t matter– all he’s beaten are a bunch of “washed up nobodies”, right? It’s inevitable, right? How does a man with such profound experience and dedication to the wrestling industry have such a blind spot to what an annoying, excuse making, clown shoes leech he’s been since the day he walked in the door? It’s not cute. It’s not funny. It’s not “good heat”. It’s repetitive, unimaginative, repetitive, lazy, repetitive, no-selling garbage— I know he thinks he’s hard, but maybe he should have kept that Viagra.
And then there’s James.
“I am the single greatest technical wrestler of all time, BAR NONE” gloated a man who is currently pregnant with twin patellas, because I didn’t wear a rubber when I knee-fucked him so far back in time that his promo material was still fresh and relevant. This fucking dingleberry on the taint of HOW is gonna keep holding on for dear life as we wipe him off our collective assholes one by one, not realizing that what we’re leaving behind is just an obnoxious shit stain. Hope he enjoyed his trip to Hawaii, because I fucking put him there. Because I sent him into a loss spiral that turned him quieter than Anne Frank’s attic, and it took him two fucking weeks to come up with “you didn’t beat me, I beat me”. Shut the actual fuck up, you animatronic, paint by numbers remnant of the year 2008– the only reason he’s still alive is that I didn’t wanna break Andy Murray’s immersion.
But hey, you guys are sick of hearing about Andy and James, right? Because we think you’re “hiding behind them”, right? Because we’re ducking you, right?
I think he’s hiding behind you.
Mikey Unlikely is a big time champion with an even bigger mouth. And you, Kendrix? You’re the quiet killer. I’ve watched you guys tear it up everywhere that you’ve ever gone, and it’s been no different in HOW— shit, you’ve clean wins over the Group of Death, so I’d be a moron to pretend like they aren’t two of the most talented guys in professional wrestling, wouldn’t I?
Cause you look stupid when you bury people who can beat you, Bruv.
On your own, you two are dangerous. Together? You’re a force of nature. The perfect blend of talking the talk and walking the walk. Of not taking yourselves too seriously, but still making sure that once the bell rings, everyone knows you’re a threat. Two guys that you don’t sleep on, because they’ll murder you in your dreams like Freddy fucking Krueger. You should be the HOW Tag Team Champions right now. You should be the centerpiece of Mario’s tag team division. You should be recognized as the rising stars of HOW’s 2020 class, because you are perhaps better right now than you have ever been. So no, I don’t really have any shit to talk about you or Mikey when it comes to standing in a wrestling ring. And since we’re being honest, I don’t really have to— there’s already someone on the HOW roster who does a great job at marginalizing, trivializing, and neutralizing the rising stock of the Hollywood Bruvs.
See, cause Andy Murray has to be the star of the show.
The Hollywood Bruvs are perhaps the single greatest tag team to ever be turned into shitty comic book henchmen. Every time the Hollywood Bruvs achieve something, Andy is there faster than Jimmy Johns to say “look what WE did”. We. We. We. He French all of the sudden, motherfucker?
Why don’t you “we we we” all the way home, you little Brexit-fried cunt.
The Hollywood Bruvs are the number one ranked tag team in HOW, higher than the tag champions themselves. The Hollywood Bruvs only have two losses in their HOW career, and they’re both to Andy fucking Murray. If you want support, buy a push-up bra, because Andy Murray is letting these two boobs SAG like Mikey Unlikely’s union dues. There is sincerely nothing that I can say about the Hollywood Bruvs that is going to take as much away from them as their own fearless leader already does, every single time he opens his mouth. He sits in your suite and mooches off your lifestyle, then brags about how he’s got nothing to lose. He brags about your accomplishments like they’re his own, and then disavows your failures. And if you have something that he wants? He takes it, and you let him, because the greatest tag team of this era is content being nameless, throwaway lackeys to a man whose promos I listen to at bedtime because I find the repetition comforting.
And he sure did open his mouth this time, boys.
I’m struggling, Jesse.
Because Gray Liotta got on TV last Saturday and talked his gangster shit, and now he’s sent his Goodfellas to pick up the tab. He got up on his soapbox and he preached, Bruvs, and now he’s sent you to die for his sins because he knows he isn’t making it out of War Games without a sacrifice to GoD. He is the shepherd, you are the flock, and now, he’s led the lambs to slaughter.
He hides behind you, and you let him.
Because you have the heart of a champion, but the empty soul of a loser fucking addict.
You didn’t get “fucked out of War Games”. You just didn’t get drafted. Do you wanna know what I pitched for War Games? I pitched the Group of Death vs. 24K. I pitched the fight we all wanted to see. I pitched the battle of the century. And Lee Best gemmed, and he hawwed, and then he drafted Max Kael as his first overall pick. Because he knew he needed a member of my fucking group to even stand a chance at War Games. Because he knew how outrageously unfair it would have been, if the most dangerous group of people in wrestling were allowed to compete unmolested.
We haven’t been ducking shit.
We’ve been denied our requests.
I wanted Perfection the week after you shitty midgets dropped me on my head with your Big Friendly Giant barking orders from the back of the pack.
Can’t do that match yet, Son.
I wanted Andy Murray one on one, multiple fucking times.
Can’t give that away for free, SON.
I wanted the Hollywood Bruvs in tag team action for MONTHS, but my Father has turned me away like an eight ball of cocaine every single time, because he knows what the fuck I do to people like you. He knows what happens to the people I want to hurt, and humiliate. He knows what happens when I lose that battle against myself, and give into the addiction.
I end careers, motherfucker.
Not just physically. Mentally. Emotionally.
Every horror story you ever heard about HOW ended with me being the monster under the bed, Kendrix. And you can try to kill me all you want, but I’m back in the sequel with a cooler mask and a better set of powers. I break weak willed, thin skinned, fragile egoed hacks because when I get honest, contracts get torn up and agents become free. Since the day that HOW burst back into the world, I have been on the world’s shortest leash, because this is the era of “love”. This is the era of “positivity”. This is the time that I’m supposed to shut my mouth, and have good, clean pro wrestling matches, and promote the brand. But that chain around my neck feels loose, Jesse, and I’m tired of fucking barking. I’m tired of just salivating. I’m getting fucking thirsty, and my hands are getting shaky, and I’m ready to burst off this chain and drink the whole fucking bottle. I’m looking forward to this match, Kendrix. DESPERATELY.
See, I think you guys have confused the definitions of “destiny” and “fate”.
You reach out and grab your destiny, Jesse, but your fate FINDS you. It hunts you down in the night and snuffs you out with a pillow while you’re busy waiting for Mikey to tell you what to say next. This match against us isn’t destiny, it’s fucking FATE.
And the man hiding behind you sealed it.
He sold you out, Jesse. Threw you to the wolves, because he wants you to soften us up before War Games. But you can’t soften stone, motherfucker— you either break it, or it crushes you, and I don’t think you own a hammer big enough to take a fucking chunk out of me. We’re going to make an example out of you, Kendrix. We’re going to hang you from the fucking rafters as a reminder to everyone else that we’re not the Group of Talk. We’re going to punch you in the face until it’s not fun anymore, and then we’re going to finish you off and come for the rest of you at War Games.
It’s not even going to be close.
If a referee has the audacity to say that this was a close match, I’ll beat him to death with a spatula and raise his children to believe he founded ISIS. It COULD have been close. It COULD have been a nail biter. But instead of taking a step back and doing a little research, and showing a little respect, you did the same bullshit you always do. You are facing the two most talented motherfuckers in the history of High Octane Wrestling, and you played it off like it wasn’t a big deal. You played the shitty no-sell game– hey, if we’re saying receipt now, then let’s just be honest about what’s happening, right? You decided you were too cool for school, not realizing that you should have been licking our fucking boots from the day you stepped into High Octane Wrestling.
Cecilworth Farthington hasn’t been beaten in a year. In a year.
IN A YEAR.
Do you know how long a year is?
I already blew my Andy Murray Trapper Keeper joke, and unlike you motherfuckers, I don’t like to repeat myself, so let me just state it pretty plainly– no one has defeated Farthington in over three hundred and sixty five days. He has not lost a match in longer than you will be employed by this company, after your inevitable post-War Games exodus. No technicalities. No bullshit loopholes. Zero. Fucking. Matches. And you wanna know the truth, deep down in my soul? Since we’re being honest? Since we’re just talking, you and I?
I think I’m better than he is.
You think I don’t want the HOW World Championship, because I’m bored with it? Spoken like a man who will never be the fucking champion, because you don’t get bored with being the champion. You don’t get bored with being the best. That’s some projecting bullshit from a guy who is afraid he’ll never make it there himself. From a guy who assumes that because he’s talented, but too weak willed to stop himself from becoming a henchman, that everyone else is just like him. But I’m not like you, Jesse. We’re not like you.
We are better, in every imaginable way.
I’ve had a ten year career in HOW that is fucking UNRIVALED. So impressive that even in your mass-grave level burials, you had no choice but to put over how fucking impressive it was. I’m gonna go out to the ring this week, and I’m not gonna be competing against the Hollywood Bruvs. I’m not gonna be competing against Mikey Unlikely and Jesse Kendrix. I’m gonna be waiting for my turn to tag in, so that I can compete with my best friend to determine which one of us is the greatest wrestler in our faction. I have been waiting for five years to step into the ring with Cecilworth Farthington and finally be a team, so miss me with this “drive a wedge between them” bullshit– you’re goddamned right we compete.
Because that’s what you do when you’re the best, Jesse. You compete.
You don’t send out your soldiers to do it for you.
For one hundred ten days, you’ve been talking your shit and bragging that we never “got a receipt”. Well, your receipt is coming on Saturday night, Jesse. Because this time, you woke up a monster. This time, you fucked your whole franchise. This time, you sealed your fate, so when you get that receipt, tell Murray to hang on to it while he’s waiting in the wings. He’s gonna need it when he returns what’s left of you, and starts shopping for a replacement. You will walk out of Refueled this week with the respect for us that we deserve, whether it is granted or whether it has to be taken from you, and then you will watch your fucking mouths from this point on. Because I’m done playing around. I’m done coddling the new guys. I’m done pretending that I’m not better than you.
Hey, I’m just being honest.
We all struggle sometimes.
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