Coke Zero – All the great taste of Coke, but without the sugar. They say that, but it’s just not the same is it? It pales in comparison, leaves a suspect aftertaste and has different packaging. It’s the beverage equivalent of Bill Dynamite and The Legend. Legend, you’re the Coke Zero to my Coke Original. I’m the one that got the people drinking this crazy shit, and then the losers who couldn’t take the calorie content wanted something different. Something watered down, something diluted, something lacking a major ingredient. The sugar. The sugar gives it the pizzazz. Without the pizzazz, you’re left with nothing like the original product. Legend, I’m not going to pretend that you’re not a phenomenal athlete and a great wrestler. They say I’m stupid, but I’m not that stupid. I’m not underestimating you like a fool. But I’m the man that people pay to see, whether you’re World Champion or not. I’m the innovator, the original superstar, the larger than life figure that generates interest worldwide. And you? You’re the inferior alternative.
The reputation you’ve made for yourself over the past year or so is somewhat staggering to comprehend. And it’s clear that many people buy the hype. But sooner or later, the masses will realise that you’re just a fad, a passing phase. However good you get, you will never surpass the legend that is Bill Dynamite.
Frankly, I don’t see you as the true eWo World Champion. Just because you traded in that piece of scrap metal they call the BWF World Title for it, doesn’t make you the true champion. I went through a gruelling tournament in the original eWo to win that belt. I had to beat my best friend along the way and then beat Dylan Dunn in a 2 out of 3 falls match that is possibly the closest match I’ve ever had in my career. I put myself through physical torment and anguish to win that belt, a belt that I cherished until Johnny Legend pinned Erin Jacobs in that triple threat match to take it away. And you come right in, and get “given” that prestigious title? It makes me sick.
If you must know, Legend, I couldn’t give a flying bag of shit about Brian Carter. This match to me is about you and me. This is my chance to make you feel the pain I went through to get the eWo World Title. Pains you haven’t felt yet as eWo Champ. And seeing as I’m now one half of the eWo Tag Team Champions, I won’t be getting a shot at you for the World Title for the time being, so I’ll have to take any chance I get to show you who the main man is around here. I’m the boss, I’m the idol, and I’m the hall of famer… Not you.
I’ve proven it to you before. In px:w, we went one on one for the only time. Those who jumped on the Legend bandwagon started to think twice. I came out on top. I’ve already shown you who’s boss, but now I have to do it again? At least this time you can hide behind your tag team partner. Throw him to the lions and let him take the beating. I don’t discriminate; I’ll beat Brian to within an inch of his life so early in his short career. To send you a message, if you haven’t received it clearly already.
For a second, you’d be forgiven for thinking I’m discounting my tag team partner from getting the job done. On the contrary, Czecher has a win over The Legend too, doesn’t he? A little known fact that in All Pro Wrestling, Czecher pinned you in a triple threat match before winning the All Pro Title. So before all the Legend fans start blindly backing their “champ” in this match, they should look at the records and think again. For once, the unbeatable champion, the Legend, has to be the underdog in a match. Tag Team match it might be, but both of us have held World Titles, and both of us have wins over you. This time, your record and reputation count for nothing. Are you and your partner up to the task of avenging those defeats? Trust me on this, Legend, just like last time we met, I’ll make sure some more of those believers start falling off the bandwagon and realise that the sun does NOT shine out of your precious arse.
Now I was just going to walk into this match and beat you two normally, probably without breaking a sweat, which is saying something considering I sweat like a pig squeezing out a shit. But you said a few things that got my goat. I’m not one for mind games. I say what I want, when I want, and I don’t give a fuck what the consequences are. You, on the other hand, profess to be the king of mind games and all that bullshit. Well I couldn’t give a shit.
What you said pissed me off, I’m not gonna lie. You got me back into shape. Congratulations. What thanks do you need? Well done, you’d make a great personal trainer. If I spread the word, you might get a workout video on the shelves for Christmas. Seriously, did you want me to suck your dick for it? Well I’m sorry I’ll leave that to Brian because that hasn’t been my thing since the 80s, man.
And let’s just get one thing straight. You got me back into shape, but you didn’t teach me SHIT other than eating right, and training. As for being more conniving and diabolical, I’ve always been conniving and diabolical. I invented conniving and diabolical. I was conniving and diabolical when you were in fucking diapers; and I hear that wasn’t too long ago.
And you’re going to bitch slap me? BITCH SLAP ME? I’d like to see the guy that bitch slaps Bill Dynamite and doesn’t get knocked the fuck out. You wanted to get me all riled up? You’ve succeeded. Your “mind games” have worked. But in who’s favour? This is a tag match, with the belts not on the line. Frankly, I was gonna take it easy in this match, go through the motions. But then you had to say that. And you’ve got me motivated. An unmotivated Bill Dynamite wins World Championships… A motivated Bill Dynamite rips your fucking throat out you son of a bitch!
I dare ya, I double-dare ya. Bitch slap me, Legend. Please. I’m begging you to do it. I’m gonna just stand there and let you do it so I have an excuse to tear you apart. Your mind games have you got you into a whole world of shit, Legend.
Congratulations.
If I said it once, I must have said it a thousand times. “George…” My agent, “…book me The Royal York Hotel.” I’ve stayed there before when fighting in Toronto, and I have to say it was a thoroughly pleasant experience. Imagine my dismay when he mentioned he thought he’d save me money by booking a cheaper, more “cosy” hotel. This past week I stayed with some old friends I knew in Toronto, but it’s not long before Billy D overstays his welcome.
Booking a classy hotel is imperative to my stay in Toronto throughout my contract with eWo. I have to appear, at least to the younger members of the roster and the fans, that I am the idol I say I am. Idols stay in five star, luxury accommodation. When I come back from the arena, I wish to sit in a sauna, get a facial and a foot rub before maybe a scotch and then bedtime. It is absolutely essential that my stay in Toronto is not as excruciating as it normally would be had I mingled with the general Canadian public.
As I drive through Downtown Toronto in the taxi that smells like rotten egg and dead guy, I hang my head out of the open window but instead of breathing in fresh air, I suck in a hundred gallons of pollution in every breathe. If God smokes, this place is his ashtray. I hold my t-shirt over my face to perhaps filter through some breathable air as the taxi stops abruptly in front of a grey building close to the scum-ridden bus terminal. I step out and hope to god this isn’t the place George booked. I thought for a second, due to the sheer state of the place, that I had arrived in Basra. I take a look at my reservation slip and check the name on the sign, which has a huge globule of green phlegm smeared over it. The name is the same as it is on my ticket, The Bay Street Motel. I check closer, as if I’m having a terrible nightmare. Unfortunately, this is the place, and as I stand there in shock, the taxi driver has unloaded my luggage and accelerated off out of the area quicker than I could even haggle the price of the fare.
After some struggle, I hold all my gear under my arms and begrudgingly walk towards the entrance. I dread to think what diseases I’ll pick up just touching the door handle so I use my arse to open the door and shuffle my way into reception. In reception, the clerk sits behind a barred window, with a baseball cap on that has holes in, chewing gum like it’s going out of fashion, and smoking a rather huge joint. I drop my stuff on a small couch that looks like it was made eight thousand years ago, and has never been cleaned. I approach the window and cough subtly to maybe distract the clerk from his comic book and maybe get me my room key. He doesn’t respond. I cough louder. He looks up at me, but before I speak his eyes go right back down to reading his comic.
“Don’t make me cough again, son.” I say calmly. “Because you’ll soon be the one coughing and I’ll be the one cackling with my hands around your throat.”
“Can I help you?” He says without an ounce of enthusiasm.
“Probably not, but I’ll try anyway. I’m Bill Dynamite. I have a room booked here by credit card, I’d like to have my key, please.”
“Oh yeah, Mr Dynamite.” He takes a quick look at the booking sheet, which is covered in doodles of tits and cigarette ash. He moves a bottle of Tequila and sees my name underneath it. He wheels his chair back a few feet and takes the key from the hook before dumping it down in front of me. He picks up his comic and starts reading again before mumbling, “Room 23. Second Floor. Have a nice stay” under his breath.
I dare not ask the guy to take my stuff up to my room, I fear it would be stolen and swapped for crack quicker than The Legend gets his cock out in a strip joint. I stuff it all under my arms again and press the button for the elevator. After a few minutes of creaking and banging, it arrives. I pull back the steel shutter and step in. The elevator is so small I can barely fit my tiny pert cheeks inside, it smells like a public toilet, and has a shit stain going up half the wall. To my right is a message written in marker, it reads “Big Bob’s Rape Count” with every number from one to twenty-two crossed out and twenty-three written proudly next to them. A smarter rapist would use a tally system. Much clearer.
The lift stops and I open the gate, which leads to my floor. Hanging out in the hallway is a bunch of guys in black jeans and white wife beaters, smoking cigarettes. They turn around and stand silent watching me struggle out of the lift with all my gear. They turn back to each other and continue with their conversation. I finally find my room, the door numbers are written on with pen. The room next to mine is blocked off by police tape; it has a handprint in blood on the wall next to it.
I open my door, which has bullet holes in it and didn’t even need a key, since the lock is broken anyway, and I walk in. It’s smaller than my wardrobe and smells worse than my toilet. From the ceiling hangs a bunch of loose wires where a light should be. I guess I’ll have to make do with the lamp on the bedside table, but on closer inspection, the bulb is red, and unless I’m planning on pimping myself out tonight, it is no use to me at all. The bed has no blanket, only a sheet that has more cum stains than Neverland Ranch. The TV has no bigger than a ten-inch screen and doesn’t even turn on anyway. After a quick look around I realise that there is no toilet in my room, nor is there even a sink. I open the door and wander back into the hall way and check where the shitter is. Naturally, the only shitter on the floor, is to be shared by all guests and it’s right next to my room and by the sounds of things, King Kong himself is in there right now, dropping a serious load. From the stairwell comes 3 hookers, they look like the 80s exploded. They have bleached blonde mullets and tits to their knees, fishnet stockings and tight leather skirts. They must be no younger than 120 years old. I vomit a little in my mouth and come to the realisation that under no circumstances will I stay here any longer.
After grabbing all my stuff again, I march down the stairs, I don’t use the lift because one of the prostitutes has a client in there, and he was even older than she was. I get to reception and without grace or style I throw my shit on the old sofa and bang loudly on the desk at kiosk. The clerk takes a gulp of tequila and looks up at me with a look of disinterest, safe behind his bars. I’ve no doubt he’s been behind bars most of his life.
“Listen Sancho, I’ve decided that I’d rather cut my cock off with a rusty blade than stay in this rat-infested crack-den any longer!” I say quite abruptly.
“So go, who’s stopping you?” He asks.
“I’m afraid my agent already paid a week up front on my credit card.”
“Aww, diddums.” He mocks, with his head slanted.
“Ok, look. I probably contracted AIDS just looking at the place, but I still just want to get the fuck out of here. The room next to me was barricaded with fucking police tape, for fucks sake!”
“Yeah, Big Bob finally got caught. Nice guy too.”
“So, how about you just refund me my money, I’ll get out of here and leave you and your crack dealing prostitute friends alone in peace. If I ever wanna get pilled up, rape and murder a woman then blow my brains out with a shotgun, this will be top of my list of places to do it, I assure you. But tonight, I wanna get some sleep, and a fucking foot rub!”
“If you want a foot rub, you could ask Claudia.” He suggests.
“I would but I’m afraid on contact with her my foot would simply fall off. So just give me back my money, I’ll be on my way. Ok?”
“I don’t think so, gringo.”
“I’m leaving with my money, one way or another, so please don’t make me do this.”
“Do what?” He asks foolishly.
“This!” I say as a put my arm under the gap at the bottom of the bars. I grab his sweaty shirt and pull him as hard as I can towards the bars. His face collides with the metal with a sick thud and his nose breaks instantly. He tries to break free but I just keep smacking his head against the bars until his body goes limp and falls back onto his chair. I keep my arm in the kiosk and hammer punch the till which flies open with a ring. I take a handful of cash and count it out. It’s more than I paid, but I’ll take a little extra just for the trouble. I stuff the cash into my back pocket, grab all my stuff and walk back out onto the street. Instead of hailing a cab, I walk to a nearby bar to get myself a much-needed drink.
As I go up to the bar, I realise standing right next to me, ordering a beer, is none other than my tag team partner, Czecher.
"BILL! Where the hell have you been?" Says Czecher. He cares about me.
"I think... I've been to hell. Or Canada, whatever you wanna call it." I say completely honestly.
"...Right. Why didn't you come to the hotel?"
"My stupid arsehole for an agent... he's such an idiot!" I say angrily.
"What, George? I always thought he was a stand up guy." He says in his defense.
"Yeah well, he fucked up this time. Let me get a beer, we'll get a seat and I’ll tell you all about it."
EgoCzech Out.
