Oh right, I’m the World Champion.
I almost forgot– see, everyone has been so up in their feelings about ol’ ONE KNEE MIKE that they seem to be sleeping on the fact that I am the single longest reigning HOW World Champion of all time. All I hear about now is HOFC– a bunch of dumb shit troglodytes stepping up to the plate, telling me how they’re gonna be the one to end a ten year long streak of wins in that cage. They aren’t, by the way… that’s a spoiler. I will be the next HOW HOFC Champion, no matter who I have to tear through to win it.
I mean, I’m the champion already.
Never lost it.
But this week isn’t about smashing peasants inside of a steel cage… this week is about smashing peasants inside of a standard wrestling ring. Not just any peasant, either– this particular peasant is taking his second shot at the champ in one reign of the championship.
“Cool” Cancer Jiles.
What a beautiful love letter, Jiles.
Heartfelt. Sincere. No sarcasm whatsoever. If I knew we were gonna suck each other’s dicks this week, I would have manscaped. Not that I have a super gnarly bush in the first place or anything. Like, it’s definitely not a rainforest down there. HOA approved hedges, maybe, but not jungle.
The forest has not reclaimed the land.
But hey man, grab yourself a toothpick and have a seat. I appreciate the kind words. I appreciate the acknowledgement, because you’re right— I’m the greatest of all time. The statistics don’t lie. My record doesn’t lie. And you’re right again, we’ve known eachother a long ass time. Been down a lot of roads together. So let me return all of your kind words with a a compliment of my own, and one that I truly mean from the bottom of my heart. There is something you do better in this business than anyone.
You throw bullshit curve balls.
This one was REALLY good. Showing respect to the champion— the one thing no one else seems to do lately. Acknowledging the GOAT. Such a bold, unexpected strategy from a guy who has always been pretty outspoken in his distaste for me. You must have figured that I was so used to be shit on and no-sold that maybe, just maybe, I’d be your World Title granting genie if you rubbed me a way I didn’t see coming. Great curveball, Jiles.
But I’m batting a fucking thousand.
Here comes the big hit.
You are a simpering, sniveling bag of “whatever is currently convenient”, Jiles. The last time we faced off, you just couldn’t shut the fuck up about your outrage at the way I betrayed my own brother. At the way that I cut someone down who loved me, and trusted me. You wasted ninety percent of the oxygen in the room trying to make me feel guilty for striking out against my brother who wasn’t truly my brother, and now here you are licking my boots before you’ve even cleaned Bobby Dean’s DNA off of yours. There is nothing you won’t say, nothing you won’t do, and no one you won’t betray to try and get a single fucking licked boot ahead in this business. And hey, I’m not one to throw stones from glass houses– I’ve made quite a career out of the games you’re playing at.
But it’s supposed to help you get ahead.
I scraped and clawed my way to the top of pro wrestling. I did things I wasn’t proud of. I turned my back on friends and family. I sacrificed my own happiness. I fucking killed people, Jiles, and I did it over a lot more than a pair of sunglasses. But the juice was worth the squeeze, because I used that raw energy to propel me into the hot seat. I used it to to take the throne. What the fuck did you do with all those betrays, Jiles? What are you gonna make of yourself by betrayed Bobby fucking Dean? You clowned a lovable fat guy who just wanted to be your friend. You think that segues into becoming the World Champion? You think tossing him through a pastry shop window is going to make you any more famous than you are right now? At least everything I’ve done in my life lead up to something, Jiles. It had a purpose.
You’re just kind of a dick.
Systematically, you are just losing everyone who has ever given a fuck about you, and to no end. With zero plan, or purpose. You have struggled to stay afloat in the middle of the card for over ten years, coming and going from HOW, and every partnership that you have ever entered into has ended out of fucking boredom. You take your stagnant career out on those around you, and work so hard to make sure that EVERYONE knows you’re too cool for it all. That you’re just doing this all, like, ironically, man. Nothing that you have ever done has ever mattered to the wrestling industry, no matter how good you’ve ever been in the ring. And now you see one more opportunity to turn it all around, and you decide to hit me with the curve.
I’ll compliment him.
I don’t need your fucking compliments, Jiles.
I know I’m the best in the business. I carved that record out for myself, one victory at a time, over guys like you who said I couldn’t do it. Over guys who pissed and moaned that my father gave me everything. It takes me three victories to get the kind of credit that people like you give yourselves for one, so I don’t need your “heartfelt” curveball bullshit. Yeah, I’m pretty fucking good at this, Jiles— in other news, water is wet, the sky is blue, and the eGG Bandits overstayed their welcome by like seven fucking years. I hold literally every HOW World Title record. I retired the ICON Championship. I retired the HOFC Championship, they brought it back, and I’m about to effortlessly and seamlessly fucking win it again. But you wanna waste studio time to “acknowledge” that I’m the greatest wrestler of all time?
Who the fuck are YOU?
Motherfucker, my face is on the money around here. You think it means jack fucking dick for you to tell me how good I am? You think I seek your acknowledgement, your validation, or your approval? Love when the fucking busboys of HOW tell the chef how much he’s killing it in the kitchen. Do you think I’ve done a good job as the World Champion, Jiles? Do you think I’m really putting my best foot forward? Go actually fuck yourself, you patronizing little twit– such an obvious fucking curveball play that you’re lucky I don’t smash you square over the 97 Red Monster and forget your fucking name.
Fucking midget league players calling Brady the GOAT.
I don’t know if you heard, Jiles, but this is my year. This is the year of no losses. This is the year of no setbacks. This is the year of nothing but success. I am wildly in love with a woman who loves me back, even if she doesn’t quite realize it yet. I am putting a fucking divorce behind me, relatively unscathed. Haven’t you heard? I’m getting engaged, my dude. I’m getting fucking married. And not to some bullshit OBGYN for a wrestling goof, either. Real love, homie.
Like the one you’re gonna take on Saturday night.
I am feeling myself, I am in the prime of my life, and there are no arbitrary universal rules holding me back anymore. You ever been in love? In real, actual, “fuck you” love? Because I hadn’t, Jiles. Let me tell you, man, it’s a fucking cheat code. It’s a shortcut to the fucking center of life’s maze. I am SO FUCKING HAPPY, all the time. Guy’s like Dan Ryan, much respect, they think that that kind of thing holds you back. They think that you gotta tuck that shit into the shadows, and find your inner monster. But let me tell you a secret, Jiles.
It fucking makes me better.
For the first time in my career, I’m enjoying wrestling again. Because she’s watching at home and cheering me on. For the first time in my career, I actually give a fuck about something other than me, and it is EMPOWERING. This belt on my waist, it isn’t just for me now. This isn’t just my fucking load to carry. I’m gonna leave the arena on Saturday night, and I’m not gonna celebrate with a forklift full of fucking cocaine and reruns of Ru Paul’s Drag Race. I’m gonna celebrate with someone who GIVES A FUCK.
Lonely old Jiles, on an island alone.
The wrestling business is fun again, Jiles, and that’s the number one reason you’re fucked. Because I’ve been so bored. So burned out. So desperate to just lose this fucking title, so that I can move on with my life. But now? Now I’m reinvigorated. Now I’m primed. I’m FUCKING PUMPED, and that is the death of everything in HOW not named MIchael Lee Best. She likes my fucking promos. She watches my fucking matches. She has the FUCKING WEBSITE BOOKMARKED. Thousands of screaming fans in the stands, but no one has a bigger fan in the world than the one I have sitting at home, waiting to find out how I do this week. Big Bad Wolf of HOW, Mike Best, writes love letters now. I get excited to cook meals together. I have long talks about the future with a big stupid smile on my face, and if you saw it you’d call me weak and you’d make fun of it. My father calls me with a wellness check three times a week, because he can tell I’ve gone off the deep end.
And it’s made me scarier.
It has made me more confident.
This isn’t weakness, it is strength. Having something to lose is not a liability, it is a motivation. I’m taking better care of my body, instead of ingesting fucking garbage and relying on my natural talent to get me by. I’m sleeping better. I don’t have fucking sadness and anxiety consuming me and fueling a rage that gets me into trouble. I am my best. Fucking. Self. with this woman, and I can promise you that you picked the wrong week to get rid of the only true fan you had left in the world, Jiles.
This is my year, and I am fucking certain of it.
I am so confident in the year 2021 that I am INVITING the chaos. I am INVITING the strife. I am INVITING the forces of entropy to fuck with me, and that is why I VOLUNTEERED to run the gauntlet. This is why I VOLUNTEERED to take on every single member of the HOW roster, one by one, until I either lose the HOW World Championship or find my dick in the dirt and someone actually takes this motherfucker from me.
This was a choice, Jiles.
I smashed through the records for longest reign and most defenses, hereby holding every single title record for the HOW World Championship. Smashed, Jiles. It isn’t even gonna be close. I’m gonna face every member of the HOW roster, all the way to the top of the heap. I’m gonna fight the best, of the best, of the best until it all burns down.
You’re number two.
That’s from the bottom, Jiles. ASCENDING ORDER, Mortal Kombat style. You aren’t the guy, Jiles. You aren’t taking this title from me. You’re a means to an end, a match on a streak, and a rung on a ladder toward the top. You are a single knee and a three count, and then you can go back to figuring out whatever stage of disarray the eGG Bandits are gonna be in this week. I don’t need your praise. I don’t need your curveballs. I don’t need your fucking HELP. So you can miss me with your little Stevens-esque glimmer of hope at the end of your love letter, talking about “how enthralling it would be to be the guy to take it away from me”. Yeah, no shit, Dick Tracy. Of course it would. What was your first Clue? I have a Monopoly on this championship– I’m not sorry for the Risk you take when you step into the ring with me. You’ll be in Trouble when I Connect 4 knees with your fucking Cranium, because I am numero Uno and it Boggles my mind that you think that trying to take my title is anything but a Trivial Pursuit.
You are a chute. I am a ladder.
And I’m board of these fucking games.