High Octane Wrestling
Published: Written by: Cecilworth Farthington

Idiot Note: I locked myself out and Lee fixed things, I edited only for formatting I promise!!!

We were going to have a party. There was going to be cake.

Do you know how bloody fucking hard it is to rent an arena ready pirate ship that can host a fifty lady rich Las Vegas showgirl cancan routine? It’s really a lot of work. I sourced it, I made the calls, I booked it all. There was confetti, there was a dance number. Men would have wept, woman would have been impregnated, it was truly going to be a party like no other. Everyone would have went home with a Lee Best Commemorative Eye Patch so they too could pretend that they were stabbed in the eye by a particularly aggressive skeleton.

The last Refueled, that was meant to be a special moment for me and my client, my dearest boy, the ICON of ICONs, Cecilworth M. Farthington. It should have been a joyous day, we ousted the King of Shitty Death Matches and Eye Stabber Extraordinaire . It’s fitting that his last dying breath as co-leader of this company was tossing in a bunch of pointless, futile extra stipulations to a match that ended up entirely as a wet fart. Yes Lee, let’s wait eight billion hours to have a crew rip down the cage just so John Sektor can use a knife to cut some rope and then end the match.
Gripping stuff, really.

So if I went to all that effort, you may be asking yourself, as is your right, “Dirk, why was there no party? Why did Cecilworth sit in Mike’s office and pretend to be interested in a briefcase? Why did Cecilworth sound ever so slightly differently?”

That’s a very sensible question with a very quick response. My client is being a whiny pissbaby.

Farthington: Dirktrude, did you even book the flights yet?

The voice of our beautiful lad, the HOW ICON Champion and the Permanent Perfect Paradigm (wait, wasn’t there a Triple P already? Look, that’s not the point) Cecilworth M! J Farthington. We find ourselves at the offices that Dirk Dickwood occasionally shows up at to pretend he his an agency deeper than one client. You could say when that client is CM!JF you probably don’t need to go much deeper in terms of recruitment because your bank account will get pretty swole real quick. A rather down in the dumps and disjointed Cecilworth and slumped across the large leather couch the sits against the wall next to Dirk’s desk. Hanging across the armrest of the couch sits the HOW ICON Championship. Hanging above Dickwood’s desk in a class case that has been very carefully mounted sits the now defunct OCW Paradigm Championship.

Dirk glances over to Cecilworth, breaking his intense concentration of scrolling through Twitter without actually reading any of the comments.

Dickwood: Flights? Are we meant to be going somewhere this week?

Farthington: Mike said something about Chaos and Doozer and belts. I’ll be honest, I love my BEE EFF EFF but I was really distracted by the mental image of a large gorilla wearing a tiny hat and once that plopped inside my head, I was really off in my own world. Then that Eric guy showed up and Mike said I had to be nice to him because he is also mourning the loss of my father. That show was kind of a blur if I’m honest. Shouldn’t you do your agenty thing and go and look into it?

Dirk leans forwards on his Alienware Desktop PC, which is very important from a product integration perspective and begins to click and clack on his keyboard. You can hear ever clack as The Manager of Champion (singular) recently invested in a typewriter based keyboard after a very large non-gentleman recommended the product. He stares at his email inbox for a few seconds as the clicking continues.

Dickwood: Oh, there it is. Yeah, Mike says you have to go to Chaos this week and defend your title against Doozer.

Farthington: Didn’t he just lose a title?

Dickwood: Failing upwards does tend to be the HAITCH OH DUBYA mission statement, yes. I mean, how else do you explain Scott Stevens, World Champion or indeed Scottywood, World Champion.

Cecilworth looks down at the ground from his horizontal position, more sheepish in appearance than he was mere moments ago.

Farthington: Please do not discuss World Championships with me Dirk, I could have had one if there wasn’t a very strong and powerful knife under the ring.

Dickwood: You would have committed a LITERAL MURDER if Sektor didn’t stop you. Farthington: Potato, potato.
Dickwood: I thought it was pronounced potato.

CM!F, the treasure that he is, begins to rock back and forth, encouraging himself to at least may from the apathetic lazing to a slightly less lazy seated position. This does appear to be a bit of a struggle however, as if he’d been positioned napping on the couch for the last few hours, if not days.

Farthington: Anyway, what’s a little light murder of a rude teen if it gets me some sweet red leather.

Dickwood: Weren’t you the one who did that big RAHRAH speech to crowd before War Games to stress how important that ICON championship is, how it was actually the belt to win, how it was the championship that matters in HOW?

The Best Boy glares at the title with an element of hate in his eyes.

Farthington: Feels a bit different when the Salty Seadog passively aggressively tosses it at your head as the next HOW stable of “legends” who are here to “save the company” wank each other dead centre of the ring using the mental picture of those two planes driving right into the Twin Towers. Or at least I think that’s what gets them off. Were the War Games crowd warned that the first five rows were a splash zone?

Dirk begins to compose an email to the HOW travel department to make arrangements for the upcoming Friday Chaos as Cecilworth continues to mope on the couch.

Farthington: Did you know I was the first champion crowned in this era Dirk?

Dickwood: Is this one of those things where you’re sad so you just repeat basic and obvious facts that I was there for? That’s always a fun fucking game.

Cecilworth manages to power himself up enough that he raises his head slightly and jerks it towards Dirk.

Farthington: First champion crowned. Did you also know that to date, I am the only person who has actually successfully defended his belt? Three times in fact! Max couldn’t do it, as sad as that is to say. The Bandits couldn’t, Halitosis couldn’t. Yet in three different kinds of matches, three completely different struggles the swampy hellhole of Florida and I left it with this belt. This… it should mean more. I should have been able to celebrate at War Games, I should have had a real moment. I mean who the hell walks out of War Games with the same belt they entered with?

Dickwood gives a good old thoughtful rub of the chin for a few moments.

Dickwood: Shane Reynolds?

CM!JF slaps the oak table sitting next to him in either delight or anger. Can’t quite work out which one it was.

Farthington: And I’ve beat him for the white whale before so we can scratch him off the list. It never happens Dirk. It never happens. A truly unique thing for the HOW audience and how is it recognised. Controversial officiating and a belt tossed at my head. I mean Dirk, I don’t blame Sektor, I blame shoddy officiating. My arm went over MJF before she made contact with me, and not in a sexual way you filthy minded fiend. That pin should have been mine. I should have survived War Games. That’s just poor refereeing, that’s what that is. Then Lee pulls that LSD title out of his very wide and loose anus just to cheapen my moment even more. I can’t believe I got tied up with that.

The blood begins to pump a bit more through our beautiful boy’s veins as he shoots right up from his firm nap position. He grabs the ICON championship from the arm rest and slings it over the shoulder.

Farthington: Still, as the recently departed Christof Mercia said into the microphone hole on the last show, I did have the audacity of hypocritically winning and defending my ICON championship multiple times, he really got me. Then one of the other ones, I think the one that constantly reeks of human piss, he compared me and my friends to a monolithic empire like it was a bad thing. Disney owns the world Dirk, IT OWNS THE WORLD. Did these idiots just step out of a time machine and think they could just do the same tired shit and get away with it?

An awkward silence lingers in the air for a few moments. Dickwood: Do you really want me to answer that?
Cecilworth doesn’t do much to respond, he’s getting a bit fired up you see and is on whatever the human equivalent of a “tweetstorm” is. Urban Dictionary tells me it’s called a rant, so let’s go with that.

Farthington: Oh also, I make tweets and that is also bad. Did you know twitter is bad? With the amount of people ON CAMERA who ramble about the hit website TWITTER DOT COM, you’d swear they’d been bought off by Instagram or MySpace or Friends Reunited. Well, it’s that or they were trying to impress a really niche audience of people. I mean that Venn Diagram of people who care about Twitter and people who hate Twitter and really want people to know about it probably intersects at half the HOW roster for reasons I can’t even begin to comprehend.

This HOW tale is sponsored by twitter.com. Twitter.com, it’s for tweeting. Exhausted by his mini-rant, Cecilworth slumps back into the couch.

Farthington: I don’t see the point in any of them at this point.

Dirk gives a sympathetic nod to his charge.

Dickwood: This is really about OCW, isn’t it? You never handle loss very well.

The British Beauty… wait, I don’t like that one. Forget I added that nickname. Let’s all pretend that one didn’t happen. Anyhoo, CM!JF gets a bit on the weepy eyed side of things

Farthington: All of that work for nothing Dirk. All of that work and effort, the brand being built, the endless victories, the title, the legacy… I finally became a god damn name in this industry. I was the talk of the town. I was feared. People actually feared me Dirk, they refused matches with me. My peers in the industry were all talking about my Gentleman’s Games. I was something… someone… that mattered. Then I wake up one morning to an e-mail from the head office that might as well have said “so long, and thanks for all the fish”. Wait… I think that’s what it actually said.

Cecilworth looks up to his encased former title as pride and loss wash over him at the same time in a terrible cocktail of emotions.

Farthington: I never even got to give it a proper goodbye. I bled in North Korea, my skull was oozing and leaking all over the joint as a very, very large and heavy man attempted to murder me by repeatedly drilling my neck hard into the mat. He wanted to murder my brain mind. I earned every single pound that the Paradigm Championship weighs and a week later, none of it matters. Nothing matters, it’s all gone. My legacy as a fighting champion, a top tier wrestler, often number one in the god damn company, gone in a flash. Gone without so much as a final bow. Just a “pack up your locker and fuck off” and what… now all I have is HOW? Mike’s in charge, so OF COURSE that’s better than it was but that one eyed fuckwit is always lurking around with some stupid plan to ruin it for everyone.

Dirk’s fists begin to clench as he tries to keep himself at a calm and even keel of emotions as the self-pity party continues.

Farthington: Next week, next month… I could get that same mail from HOW. I could randomly wake up one morning and on a whim be told “you know that impressive legacy you were building, you know that ICON Empire that you are seeking to establish, forget about it, we’re done here”. There’s no guarantees in this industry Dirk, it doesn’t matter what I do. When HOW in the Intensive Care Unit a few months back, I was there to nurse it back to health. I was one of the few who give my loyalty to a company that I despise. We all have that family member, the one we loathe but should they be in an hour of need, we’ll rush to their side. It’s just coded in our DNA. HOW is that relative to me. I detest Lee and everything he stands for. I’m tired of his games, I tire of him trying to play his employees. I tire of ineffective management and I truly believe that Mike is the man for the job. I wouldn’t have put my body on the line to win him one percent of the company if I didn’t believe that. Yet… something doesn’t feel right. The Pirate King isn’t simply going to walk away going “ah, you got me” no matter how much he’s playing the role right now.

Cecilworth finally gets himself up off the couch and begins to walk towards Dirk’s desk, the OCW Paradigm Championship resting directly above his head.

Farthington: Our Salt Shaker God is going to ruin this again. I know it, I can feel it in my bones Dirk. I did everything in my power to wrestle control away from him as you did and yet I can’t help but feel like it’s all for nothing. Being the only ICON of the new era doesn’t mean much if the petulant 49% stakeholder is threatening the death of the company over Twitter and the company website. So what do I do Dirk, do I show up at Chaos? Do I give Doozer the fight he deserves? Why? Why do I put my body through that? So I can wake up the Sunday morning to a front page news article from AITCH OH DUBYA GRAPPLES DOT ORG that says “lol we’re closed but I digress”. Is that what we do now? Cling on week upon week while the Damocles’ Sword of Closure continues to swing above us at every waking, breathing moment.

Cecilworth scrunches his eyes in sadness as he continues to glare at his very much dead OCW championship.
Farthington: I’m tired Dirk, I’m tired of being the man sitting at HOW’s bedside and holding its hand. I was there show one, show two, show three…

Uncharistically from the red faced Scottish ball of rage, he decides to launch himself up out of his office chair and saunters towards his charge. Without uttering a single word, he opens up his palm and swings with an almighty force. He smashes his palm into CM!JF’s cheek, or as a normal human would describe it, he slaps the shit out of Cecilworth.

Dickwood: This is getting too fucking sad. I mean I’ve seen you in slumps before, god knows I’ve seen you at your fucking worst, like that time you went suicide pistol shopping after your loss to Scott fucking Stevens but this… this is too much. You got fucked by OCW. There is no way around it. You were becoming a force in that company, you were becoming a force in HOW and people were finally seeing you for the god damn talent I’ve always fucking known you are. Otherwise I would have fucked off up to a whiskey distillery years ago. You need to take a fucking look at yourself mate. A long hard look at yourself. You DEFENDED your fucking title at War Games, you WON overall control of the company for your closest fucking friend. So the bald headed fuckwit we both hate didn’t give you a hearty round of applause and an “attaboy” when you retained. Does that matter? What is his word worth now? Fuck all. He can loom in the shadows like the uncharged rapist that he likely is, it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t control your future. MIKE controls your future. YOU control your future. As long as both of those facts are true, HOW doesn’t die. The eMpire is the reason the company is alive. You, Mike, Max, you made sure of that. Egotistical fuckballs like Ground Zero want to bandwagon off of your efforts like the pathetic vultures they are. Leave to fight their petty wars for the scraps because right now you are god damn god tier in this company.

Dirk staggers over and lifts the OCW Paradigm championship from the case above him and glares at Cecilworth.

Dickwood: You need to put this shit…

Dirk looks up to the glass encased belt he is holding above his head.

Dickwood: … behind you.

Dirk tosses the defunct champion down the ground with an almighty roar. The glass scatters in all directions as Cecilworth’s eyes go wide, perhaps like his is contemplating choking his manager to death with some rope like he had recently hoped to achieve at War Games with MJF. Dirk sees the mildly murderous look in CM!JF’s eyes and decides the best thing to do is slap his charge once more in the face. Cecilworth staggers backwards over the OCW Paradigm Championship and crashes back into the couch. Dirk turns towards him, his finger wagging constantly and furiously.

Dickwood: If you don’t want that fate for YOUR ICON championship then we get on the fucking airplane to Chaos, we show up at the arena, we walk into the god damn main event and we remind Doozer and every other passive aggressive shitwaffle who bitches about you saying mean words about them who you actually are. We remind every single person with a television tuned to the Hottest V that Cecilworth M. Farthington, ICON of ICONs is STILL the only champion in the damn company who matters. You remind everyone to look upon your white leather belt ye mighty and despair.

Dirk begins to furiously stomp the championship on the ground. Being a frail alcoholic who can barely pack a punch, it doesn’t go very far.

Dickwood: Doozer is in a bad place right now, the Sad Sack Eight done a real number on the bandits before they performed their contractually obliged ring crew duty of taking down the set. Don’t get me wrong, I like the guy, he helped buy you a lovely ascot before the ICON Battle Royal but… he’s vulnerable right now. He’s weak. You want to send a message to every braying pudgy ball of disgrace who thinks that you are somehow less than because John Sektor knows how to operate a knife? Well… you stay, you fight and you go to war. You break that fuckers ICON record. You defend the title more than anyone else, you show the world that the ICON Championship is THE fucking championship in this company and you start that with Doozer. You get out of your fucking sad sack slump because your side piece threw herself in front of the train tracks. You are CECILWORTH MOTHERFUCKING FARTHINGTON. A War Games winner, a Solitary Confinement winner, you hold accolades in this company the Depression Eight wish they had. So you didn’t leave War Games with that red leather that has been passed around so much she has to call every former champion with a health warning. You are the ICON, the champion that matters. You are the NEW ERA of HOW and I’m not letting this fucking pity party get in your way of legendary status.

Dirk kicks the title under his desk and hauls Cecilworth up from the couch, delivering an intense glare right into the eye holes of his young charge.

Dickwood: We’re going to Chaos, we’re going to have a polite and respectful murder of Doozer and you are going to remind people of who you truly are.

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