High Octane Wrestling
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Published: Written by: Michael Best

And I saw when the Lamb opened one of the seals, and I heard, as it were the noise of thunder, one of the four beasts saying, Come and see.

And I saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering, and to conquer.

-Revelations 6:1-2

 

I think we need to have a chat, Noah. 

 

First off, let me properly introduce myself to you– it seems like you maybe forgot who the fuck I am, so let me give you the courtesy of a quick little reminder. My name is Michael Lee Best, and I am a HOW Hall of Famer. In fact, I am arguably the Hall of Famer. I am an eight time former HOW World Champion, a five time former ICON Champion, a three time former LSD Champion, and despite what the record books properly reflect, I am at least a three time former HOW Tag Team Champion. 

 

I am the Gypsy Giant Killer, the man who destroyed Jatt Starr, and the man who made Aceldama lose his smile. I have won every major match there is to win in High Octane Wrestling, from War Games to Solitary Confinement to the six man ladder match at ICONIC. I have won the LBI Final, beaten Chris Kostoff in the yard at Alcatraz, and I have held the HOW World Championship for more cumulative days than any other wrestler in HISTORY. 

 

I am a High Octane Legend. 

 

I am the final fucking boss of HOW. 

 

I am a motherfucking God King whose throne is built upon the bones of my enemies, and heavy lies the crown when it is forged from so much High Octane gold that I could destabilize the economy of some small nations if I ever decided to use it to back their currencies. The fact of the matter, Noah Hanson, is that in the land of sharks, I am the greatest of the Great Whites, and there are several of your peers on this High Octane roster that have continued to exist only because I decided that it might be so.

But let’s pretend that you don’t care about any of that. 

 

Let’s pretend that you don’t give a shit about statistics, or that a man with ten percent of my HOW resume would have had a hell of a career. Let’s pretend that you are keenly aware of exactly who I am and what I have done in this company, and just boil it all down to the one thing that should scare the living hell out of you, Noah. 

 

I am the greatest HOFC Champion in history. 

 

And I’m not talking about a lackluster, five round MMA division trying to cash in on the cage fighting dollar back in 2009. I’m not talking about a couple of guys talking shit and having themselves a little No DQ match to settle it. I’m not even talking about Mike Best and Christopher America breaking through the glass ceiling of HOW by smashing through the wooden floor of the Roman Coliseum. I’m talking about the most violent championship reign in the history of High Octane Wrestling. 

 

Maybe you won’t remember this, because back in 2016 you still had me blocked on Twitter with your fingers in your ears, screaming “LA LA LA” at anyone who didn’t think Sex & Money was the raddest name in the history of confusing tag team names, but I forcibly and purposefully removed a man’s head from it’s shoulders with a FUCKING SHOVEL on a REGULAR WEEKLY SHOW in defense of what many considered to be a mid-tier championship. 

 

I am the undisputed King of the Deathmatch in HOW. 

 

I’m not talking about barbed wire and exploding rings, or shitty garbage wrestling. I don’t carry bags of tacks to the ring, or feel the need to crucify my opponents to show everyone what a big ol’ badass I am. I am talking about literal motherfucking death matches, Noah Hanson. The kind that don’t end in a three count, or a submission. but a fucking flat line. When I won my third and final HOFC Championship in 2016, I didn’t defend it in Last Man Standing matches. 

 

I defended it in Last Man Breathing matches. 

 

And for what? It wasn’t for the HOW World Title, or even the prestigious ICON Championship. It wasn’t in blood feuds with mortal enemies, after months and months of buildup. It was weekly shows, weekly defenses, and the rules were simple– if you wrestled for the HOFC Championship, the only way to win… was to survive. I cared so fucking much about the HOFC Championship…

 

…that I was willing to die for it. 

 

I was literally willing to end a human life to protect my championship, Noah, and when I retired from the ring in 2016 it came with me. Because no matter how many men stepped up to try and pry that belt from my cold, dead hands, not one of them succeeded. And when I hung up my boots in what I thought was the end of my career, not one single motherfucker in this company had the balls to pick that belt up and try and continue my legacy. It was never vacated, it was never abandoned, it was simply… retired. 

 

Well, I’m back, Noah. 

 

I’m back, and I’m bringing the HOFC Championship with me. 

 

Call it the Third Coming.

 

I don’t care if High Octane Wrestling isn’t acknowledging it. I don’t care if they aren’t sanctioning it, or counting it toward the record books. They retired Ninety-Nine and hung it from the rafters, but it doesn’t change the fact that Gretzsky is the Great One, and if he walked back into the NHL tomorrow they sure as fuck wouldn’t make him pick a new number. I am the true and rightful HOFC Champion, and you, Noah Hanson? 

 

You’re the first contender. 

 

Congratulations, bud, you won the lottery, and I’m not talking about the Mega Millions. You get the rights to step into the ring with the undisputed, undefeated, unfuckingstoppable HOW HOFC Champion in his very first match back as a member of the full time roster. Did you see what I did to Christopher America at Rumble at the Rock, Noah? You been watching tape? 

 

Did you see him break my nose?

 

Did you see me shrug it off, and beat him half to death with a book? 

 

A book, Noah. Since I assume you’re floating around at a “Thank fuck McDonald’s has a picture menu” reading level, that’s one of those big, bound paperweights with pictures of Clifford the Big Red Dog on them. I nearly beat a human being to death with the written fucking word– something you ought to be pretty used to me doing by now. 

 

Did you watch me turn his face into the world’s most patriotic bowl of ground beef, with the very HOFC Title that I’ll be carrying to the ring with me on Friday Night? 

 

Of course you didn’t, Noah. 

 

Because you’re a busy man. Because you’re too busy flaunting around Twitter about a bunch of matches in the Who Gives A Fuck Wrestling Federation in bullshit tag matches against the Fisher Price Express. You’re on the countdown to 400 wins, and I’m not gonna slight you, Noah– that’s a fuck of a lot of wins. If you wrestled a match a week, it would take you just shy of eight fucking years to rack up that many wins. Eight fucking years. I’m not gonna discount your years of experience in the ring, and people fucking sleep on you, Noah, but let me make one thing very, very clear to you: 

 

You’ve never been in the ring with Michael fucking Best. 

 

For all those years that you hated me with every fiber of your being, it was always just Twitter. Just a few tweets about Kentucky Fried Chicken, and a few little snipes in backstage segments. We’ve never wrestled a match or thrown a punch between us in the entire time that either of us have worked for High Octane Wrestling. So as a professional courtesy, from a High Octane Legend to a… and I hold back actual vomit as I type this… PWX Legend… let me give you a piece of advice that you need to cling to from now until the final bell on Friday night at Refueled. 

 

Don’t sleep on me, Noah, cause I sure as FUCK am not sleeping on you. 

 

I want you to get into that wrestling ring and beat me within an inch of my fucking life, and then I want you to keep going, Hanson. I want you to throw everything at me but the kitchen sink, and then I want you to go back and get the fucking sink. I want you to do your God-damnest to actually fucking kill me at Refueled, because that’s what the fuck it is going to take. 

 

You will have to fucking kill me, Noah. 

 

Because on Friday Night, it doesn’t matter if Lee Best, Scott Woodson, or big fluffy cloud actual Jesus himself says otherwise, I WILL be defending the HOFC Championship. The championship that a HOW Hall of Famer literally fucking died trying to take from me. And it might not be HOW’s “premier deathmatch championship” when we step into the ring at Refueled, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not going to defend that belt with my fucking life.

 

Sure, it’s just a regular old  singles match. 

 

Sure, it’s the show opener.

 

But as talented as you are, and have always been, inside of a wrestling ring, I also know that you’re old as shit and dumb as dirt. So let me just make myself real fucking clear here: 

 

I HAVE KILLED MEN FOR THIS BELT. 

 

LITERAL MURDER. 

 

THE MURDERIEST MURDER THERE IS. 

 

Not like Darin Zion playing pretend with a sniper rifle on top of a Dunkin Donuts, fighting crime with his big plastic pew-pew. Not pretend murder, Noah. Real, actual, “I took out a shovel and physically removed a man’s head from his shoulders” cold blooded, HOW sanctioned murder. For what some would say is just a piece of leather with a big silver plate on it.

 

But isn’t just a belt. 

 

This isn’t just a championship. 

 

This is H. O. F. C. 

 

Four letters emblazoned upon metal, that represent my rise to power and glory in this company. This is where it all began for me, Noah– my first singles championship, and what could potentially be my last. This belt is long nights driving between towns, long before I knew that Lee Best was my father. This belt is blood, and sweat, and tears, and a reminder that *I* made my success in this company, not my fucking last name. 

 

This belt is everything, Noah, and I will stop at NOTHING to make sure that I leave Refueled with it around my waist. I don’t give a fuck if it doesn’t count. I don’t give a fuck if it goes in the record books. So at the risk of sounding so much like my father that I’m forced to shave my head and sing “PROUD TO BE AN AMERICAN”: 

 

Get the fuck off of Twitter, dickhead. 

 

Get your head in the god damned game, because I’m doing something for you that no one else in HOW has ever had the courtesy to do: I’m taking you seriously. Main event seriously. Legend of wrestling seriously. You’re a hokey hack who couldn’t talk trash if you were on a talk show about garbage, but you are a fucking wrestling legend and defending this championship against you means something. 

 

This means something, Noah. 

 

No more jokes about Colonel Sanders. No more jokes about Sex and Money. No more jokes about Hanson Fucking Smash. You’ve wanted into the big leagues all these years, and now you’re up to bat. Michael Lee Best versus Noah Hanson. 

 

Take it seriously. 

 

Get your head in the fucking game. 

 

Get into the ring and help me remind all those fans in the arena, and all those boys in the back, that the HOFC Championship means something. You’ve been granted the chance to finally make your fucking bones in this company and step into the ring with the most decorated wrestler in its history, and I don’t wanna hear another fucking word about the Fisher Price Wrestling Federation until the final bell as rung and one of us it standing tall.

 

I want you to fight me harder than you’ve ever fought in your life. I want you to stop giving a fuck about three hundred ninety nine other wins, and focus on the one that could make your career. Whether you walk away from that ring on Friday Night, or whether you leave on a fucking stretcher, I want you to know in your heart that there was NOTHING else you could have done. That you could not have fought an OUNCE harder, and that there wasn’t a FUCKING INCH left inside of you that could have kept pushing. 

 

I want this title defense to mean something, and I don’t want to walk out with that championship unless there is no doubt in either of our minds who earned it.

 

I don’t know if you can beat me, Noah…

 

But I’d kill to find out. 

 

 

 

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