Thursday, 19 October 2006 – Hamilton, New Zealand
“Here’s a neat idea, you fuckin’ fudge-packers can quit leaning over me! Did your mothers never spank you as children for being rude? By God your manners are atrocious! Just ask me politely and I’ll pass the friggin’ drinks down to you.” Profanity… my vocabulary of choice. The large group of people that surrounds me appear to be entertained, and that’s the most important thing. It’s only been over the last few months that things have been like this though. I guess it’s taken them a while to figure out that while I have the ability to retort almost any comment that they make into something either derogatory, sexual or just plain weird, I never mean to truly offend somebody. That’s just who I am. It’s what I’m about. As I say so often to these people, “it’s my passion”.
Truthfully, I have no idea where I’d be without these guys and gals. I don’t know if I even want to think about that. They’re like my extended family. The relatives you feel you have to put a fake face on for just so they don’t see the bad things about you. Hell, I treat my real family in the exact same manner, so the numerous sentences I spend dragging down their self confidence really isn’t such a big deal.
I love these people. At times I hate them as well, but through and through I love them. I wouldn’t dare let them hear me say that, but in a non-sexual way it’s the truth. Hell, for some of them I guess it could be sexual because there are definitely a few here that I wouldn’t say no to. But that’s not the point.
A lot of times I actually find myself asking just exactly what the point is. The problem is I’m the only one who hears the question asked, so it’s kind of hard to get an answer. Much like it does right now though, that thought passes. Now that I think about it, that’s actually quite frustrating. Have you ever had an absolutely brilliant revelation that you just flat out forget? If so, welcome to my world.
I take the time to discretely fire my eyes around at the group of people directly near me. Smiles. That’s exactly what I’m after. The whole “fuck you” attitude they all associate with me serves its purpose well. I guess I’m what some call the “class clown”, although it tends to extend to away from the classroom as well.
From what I can gather right now, there is around thirty people sitting around a string of tables joined end to end. Me? I’m in the middle of it all, and the people that smiled at my little spiel come from either side of the table, but are largely focused on my left side.
“Well fine, can you pass me a beerr?” The rolling of the “r” sound almost causes me to lose my straight face. Almost. I would never give Jimmy that satisfaction. Welsh idiot… you’d think that after the year of constant insults, he’d learn by now. I guess not.
“Sorry Jimm-ay…” I say, accenting the last syllable, “But I said ask me politely. Now you gone and done hurt my feelings. No beer for you.”
“Isaac…” I ignore is plea to me. Does he think saying my name is going to make me “play nice”? Reaching for the small four-pack of Waikato that’s a little closer to me than it is to him, I pull a bottle out. I wonder if Jimmy’s embarrassed that despite me already having six drinks in me, most of which were Tequila shots which needless to say happen to be a little more potent than this Waikato bottle currently in my hand, I can still straight outplay him like I’m on Survivor. Cracking the corner of the bottle’s lid down across the edge of the table, it pops off causing a rush of froth to shoot up towards the top. Shoving the bottle between my lips, the froth pours out and I gulp it down. It’s not as nice as the beer that lurks underneath it, but as I keep my eyes on Jimmy’s freckled face, my needs are met.
He keeps surprising me. Every time I do something that most would deem to be “rude” or “insensitive”, he’s still surprised. I continue to chug back a large portion of his beer, despite one of my own resting on the table with my left hand secured around it. With about half the drink remaining, I place it back onto the table and slide it sideways to Jimmy.
“I feel a bit guilty, so there ya go buddy,” I say with a nod and a grin. The girls next to and opposite Jimmy both giggle a little, while my friend on my right side actually laughs out loud. Of course he does. He seems to lap up everything I do to such an extent that it almost seems fake. The most surprising reaction comes in the form of a snort from right behind me. Karl Verbeck, probably my best friend since I was about seven, quietly listens to my ego sing its song and I think understands more than anybody that I’m simply doing this for amusement. It usually amuses him too. I think that’s only because a lot of the time he’s just as brutal as I am in what he says, and being that true hate is incredibly difficult to accomplish, I’d say it’s a pretty good bet that he’s just trying to amuse himself too.
“I’m not drinking that!” Jimmy complains, with a hint of annoyance coupled to a hint of recognition at the humour. I tell you what, it’s a delicate business this comedy thing. Especially when you start actually thinking it through. I really need to stop that.
“Suit yourself,” I say, shrugging as I swoop in and easily polish off the other half of the bottle. Burping with excessive volume, I look proudly at my victimised friend. I’ll give him a replacement beer later on, but for now I’ll enjoy the image I’ve created for myself.
“That’s completely horrible! Don’t be mean to Jimmy!” The irritating voice that I now hear drives me absolutely insane, and not in the way you’d expect. It comes from the girl opposite Jimmy, who seems to pop in with a comment exactly like the one she just used anytime she hears me fire off on somebody. Without thinking I feel as if a target now falls upon her. God I wish I thought…
“Oh, because you’ve never been mean to anybody have you? Needless to say, sarcasm oozes out of my mouth with those words. One hung-over Sunday, I came to the understanding that this girl, Naomi Pryce, was the female equivalent of myself, minus a few points in the originality and weirdness sections. Attractive? Check. Intelligent? Check. Accident prone? Check. Funny? Check. A desire to bring down the confidence of those we surround ourselves with? Check. Ego? Check. Annoying? Most definitely.
“Of course not, I’m a wonderful person. You, however, are horrible.” See what I mean about the ego?
“Yet still you have an insatiable desire to be in my presence and here me speak. It’s okay though pumpkin-tits…” My buddy Derrick two seats down from Karl would be so proud of me calling Naomi that, but that’s a story for another time. “…I understand that I just have that effect on people. It’s like I’ve got my own gravitational field that you all just orbit in.”
“Makes sense.” I wait for the punch line. Based upon the way I structure my own jokes and insults, she should have a decent one here. “Your head would be big enough to have a moon or two.”
“I guess that just furthers my point now doesn’t it?” I stick my tongue out a little at her. My next words need to include all those listening though.“You all are my moons. Kinda like Sailor Moon, but without the little outfits. Unless of course you wanna dress up in them, then by all means go for gold.” I finish the line looking back at Naomi, which of course causes her to scrunch up her nose as she lets out a small cry in objection.
“I think I’ll pass,” she says in almost a whining pitch.
“Ah right, forgot I had to pay you for that kind of action.” And there it is… the best medicine in the world… true laughter. The running joke here is in reference to Naomi being a prostitute, but I’m sure you didn’t need me to tell you that in order for you to pick up on that. “So what is the going rate these days? With all the inflation and whatnot I can’t seem to keep track of your prices.”
“What I want to know is why Isaac is interested.” I shoot a glance to my old friend Steph, the other female involved in this small conversation segment of the table-chain. Okay… quick… think of something Isaac… “Is there something going on between the two of you that you’d like to share?” More laughter at my expense.
Shit.
I’m drawing a blank. I never draw a blank.
Okay, laugh along a little bit.
Sip my beer.
Buy some time.
“As if!” Brilliant. Thank God for Naomi’s array of standard, unoriginal responses. Being the ultra-creative guy just gets so hard sometimes. Now Isaac, turn the situation back into having you in control.
“Please woman, if I wanted you to strip down to nothing but your freshly washed birthday suit and, if I may quote Shakespeare, “make the beast with two backs”, right here in front of everybody, you wouldn’t hesitate to rawk my world.” Mission accomplished.
“What makes you think we’d all want to see that?” Karl says, interjecting his rare opinion in the same manner that he always does.
“Well technically I never said you did want to all see that. All I said was that this nasty little street-worker would be willing to oblige me. But now that you mention it, I’m forced to state what is all on your mind by saying that you would in fact want to see that because you know that it’d be more exciting to watch than the final battle in Lord of the Rings.” Sometimes I forget to breathe when I’m on the verbal-rampage around my friends. This was one of those times as I now take a pretty decent intake of oxygen into my lungs before sipping more of my beer.
“I guess you don’t really know what we want to see then Isaac,” Steph pipes in, further trying to contain my ego cloud.
“Oh come on now muffin. I can read people better than they can read themselves. For example, you see that dude over in the corner of the room?” I point to the opposite corner of the section of The Outback nightclub that we sit in. At either end of the room there is a door that leads to the horseshoe-like shaped dance section, but for now we all find ourselves in the more relaxed bar part. In the corner that I’m pointing to, near the bar, a rather shadowed man sits in the darkness. There appears to be no drink in front of him, as he just stares straight ahead.
“What about him?” She asks, after acknowledging that she sees him.
“He’s a faygle.” Karl laughs quite hard, as he’s heard me use that word before. The others smile but don’t quite follow.
“What’s a faygle?” Naomi almost demands an answer.
“A homo. A faggot. A queerbo. You know… an ass-jockey like Jimmy here.” I flash a grin as I elbow Jimmy in the side. “He’s been checking out that black dude at the bar for the last hour.” I now point to where a dark-skinned man sits on a stool at the bar, facing away from where we all sit, and near the pool tables.
“He’s hot,” Steph bluntly says, in regards to the man who seems to be Maori although could be mistaken for an African American if the setting in which we met him was different. He’s dressed in a suit jacket with jeans and white shoes, not unlike my own Air Force Ones. The Nike tick is more clearly defined on his than on my own worn down pair though.
“Regardless of how completely useless that piece of information is sweetheart, you’ll have to put your dreams of a white picket fence and kids popping out of your fun-basket on hold for just a little longer because that particular male model appears to be taken by the creepy guy.” I drink to hide my smile. No chink in the armour this time.
“We can still look, can’t we Naomi?” She smiles as Naomi nods. As I send a final glance over my shoulder towards the “creepy guy” that I described earlier is sitting, I hear my name shouted out from further down the table.
“Isaac! Pool!” A few of the guys have found the red pool tables close to where the Maori man is sitting at the bar.
“Be there soon!” I shout back as I knock back the final drops of beer from my bottle. I then spring from my seat and leap over a small wall to arrive at the pool tables quicker than the exact same people who suggested we play. Sneaking a peek back at the table, I see a few others heading on over to where we stand, including Karl, Steph and Naomi.
“Ooh, slot machines!” I hear Naomi say, as the attention of the group I await is turned towards a side room where sure enough, there are numerous slot machines awaiting. And now I find myself standing alone at the tables. Not cool. I guess I should join them…
“Stay put senorita,” I hear, just as I move to join my friends. Turning my head, I see the Maori man from the bar reaching for two pool cues. Sending one into the air, I barely have time to think before it lands in my hand. “You’re playing and I’m paying.”
“Umm… okay.” He’s already put money into the table to access the balls before I even agree to his suggestion. “I ain’t very good though.” I say, humbling myself to avoid looking like a fool. When it comes to pool I’m either absolutely incredible, or barely acceptable. There is no middle ground.
“Doesn’t matter. If you’re terrible just blame it on the alcohol. That’s what I intend on doing.” I chuckle as he sets the balls up. “You wanna break?”
“Nah, you paid so you can,” I say dismissingly. I look over to where my friends now congregate. Half of them shouldn’t even be in this place, just like me. It’s amazing how easy it is to get fake IDs though. Smiles, laughter… the typical sort of thing you’d expect from a group of pretty much kids. My thought train is derailed as I hear the sound of balls scattering on the table.
“You’re smalls,” I hear the man say as I turn and see the eleven ball fall into a hole. I guess he won’t need to blame the alcohol for anything. He sets up to take another shot, his reward for sinking a ball. “So what’s your name anyway junior?”
“Isaac,” I say as the thirteen ball rolls into the side pocket. The guy stands up tall as he walks around the table. I could stare him directly in the eye as he’s about my height, yet a bit better built than I am. Maybe it’s just the tailor-made clothing though that causes that image. Either way, something seems vaguely familiar about him. “Yours?”
“Lee,” he answers, as he lines up for another shot. And now the fifteen ball falls into the corner. Wow… I’m not very optimistic about my chances in this game as I lean against the bar, keeping one eye on this Lee character, and the other on the growing number of people in the small gambling room. “Those your friends over there?”
“Indeed they are. That’s why I’ve been systematically trying to drive them all away.” I muster a little grin, not really understanding just what the hell is coming out of my mouth.
“Sounds like there’s a fascinating back-story here, and if I was just a tad bit sober I may have tried to feign the slightest interest in what you’re saying in order to make you feel better about yourself.” He says without a hint of a quiver in his lip. A comment like that sounds like it should’ve come out of my mouth, but if I were the speaker I’d be waging war against the urge to smile right now. Not a sign of that battle on Lee’s face though. He’s probably had a lot more experience degrading others than I have. I place his age at somewhere around twenty five years old, but that’s just a rough estimate. The ten ball falls into another corner pocket. “Too bad I’ve been drinking since noon eh?” He doesn’t even look at me as he talks. It’s like he’s having more of a conversation with himself than he is with me.
“Since noon?” I ask, expecting some sort of comment about there being an echo because if I was in his situation, that’s exactly what I’d do. But if he’s the kind of person that I am, then he won’t mind me working my insult technique on him. First comes the set up, then the punch line follows. “In that case you’re hardly one to criticise anybody because from the looks of things you’ve been drinking on your own.”
“Hmph…” he mumbles something to himself, and after sinking the nine ball into a side pocket he stands up straight again and looks right at me, a slight smirk on his face. “Touché ‘Zeek. But there is one major difference between the two of us.”
“Oh? And what would that be?” I try not to come off as too hostile in the way I speak. I’ve been awake since four-thirty this morning and am far too exhausted to try and defend myself if the situation escalated. Lee’s smile just grows though as he sets up the fourteen ball and sinks it.
“I don’t pretend to be something I’m not.” Now what the hell does that mean? “I’m fully aware that I’m wasting my life away today, however I have a legitimate reason. There was an incident last week that has now prevented me from being where I should be tonight, for legal reasons.”
“And where do you think I should be tonight?” I ask him, amused at the direction this conversation has taken. The twelve ball falls into a corner pocket.
“Over there with that cheeky piece of jailbait that the largest piece of your degradation pie is delivered to.” He laughs as he stares at the table in front of us. He sees what I see. All that remains for him to sink is the eight ball.
“Seems like I’m not the only one with an attraction of sorts in this building though,” I offer, as a way to shift the path of the conversation that now has me feeling awkward and out of place. “You’ve got an admirer,” I motion with my head towards the corner where the guy I labelled as creepy still watches Lee and as a result now watches me.
“But the difference there is that it’s not me with the case of vulnerability-phobia, it’s him. Just like it’s you. And that’s just another thing that separates me and you buddy.” He crouches down to line up the eight ball. “Because when I have the opportunity to make something perfect… to sink the ball when I absolutely have to… I always do it.”
He winks at me.
He draws back the pool cue and hits the white ball.
He drops the pool cue without even looking at the result of his shot.
He walks away.
But the ball doesn’t go in.
Sunday, 22 October, 2006 – Cambridge, New Zealand
The timing on the camera switches on just as I find myself finding comfort in the armchair that I’ve parked myself in. Today’s business is the same business that will last for the week that follows, and all the way up to Anarchy the following week, on the second of November. The build up to Mayhem is what we now walk into. Then the Mayhem ensues. And afterwards: the aftermath. I have a goal for that aftermath. I have one thing that I want to have accomplished. But in order for that to happen, the build up… the match… it all needs to fit into place.
“First to swing? Okay, I’m cool with that. The rest of you clowns can sit tight right now because Lee Stone is stepping up to swing. Watch and learn.
First of all, there’s a couple of people in this match who need to know something. Those people are Arson and Zach Rizza and what they need to know, is that I am Lee Stone. I know what you’re thinking, everybody knows that already. I’m the poster boy for this damn company. My name is the first thing that goes up on the marquee. I step into that ring and the first sensation that runs through your body is insecurity. A tingle shoots up your spine. When you are standing across from me, the only thing that you can guarantee is that this will be the most glorious loss you’ve had to date. Because facts are facts children, and the facts state that when your name is opposite mine, your outlook is cloudy.
I’ve heard people running their mouths forever now. I’ve heard everybody say the same damn thing. Everybody seems to think that I’m not really as good as I claim to be. But here’s the thing guys… it’s not me claiming to be a “God”. I don’t walk around thinking I have supernatural powers. That’s not how I roll. All I do, is I tell you exactly what I’m going to do to you… and then I do it. Every statement I make, I back it up. I’m no God. I’m no Immortal. I know this more than anybody else. I know every single one of my flaws. And that right there is what allows me to walk around like the king of the jungle. Because I do what it takes to make sure my flaws don’t cost me anything.
With that in mind, allow me to now systematically begin to break each of you down into tiny little pieces of shit, and ground you into the dirt where you belong. Starting with one of the men I just addressed… Zach Rizza. Now look homie, I’ve known of you for a long time now. You’ve always been a few matches down the card from me and while I did my little warm-up and drank my pre-match Coca Cola, I’d sit and watch you wrestle every now and then. But this week is your lucky week Zachary. This week, thanks mostly due to your leeching off those better-off than you, you’ve been given the opportunity of a life time. You’re in the main event now. You’re in the World Title contention. You’re in the ring with some of the greats. But do I see a guy who can look threatening if need be? Do I see a guy with the potential to become one of the very greats he’s been given a chance against? No… I don’t.
When I look at you Zach, I see confusion. I see lost direction. I see what little talent you have to begin with being wasted. Zach Rizza, I officially dub you a moron. I mean, let’s just look at what you’ve said about me. What was it you called me? Past my prime? You know for somebody who has never been to the level that I compete at every time I’m in that ring, it’s amazing how much you think you know. Zach… what is it that makes me past my prime? Is it the fact that I haven’t even had a birthday since I was on top of the metaphorical XWF mountain? Is it the fact that still nobody has been able to beat me? Perhaps it’s the fact that I knocked the leader of your little group the fuck out? Please Zach, help me figure this one out. Help me and I’ll help you. I’ll help you figure out why nobody is picking you to make any sort of impact in this match. I’ll help you to figure out why nobody takes you seriously. Just tell me what makes me past my prime and it will all come to you, because until then player, all you are is a fish out of water. Up until now I’ve had no personal problem with you, but if you keep treading the path you’re treading, I’ll metamorphasize into the hungry seagull that plucks at your little fish eyes until you suffer a horribly painful death. And we don’t want that to happen now do we?
Now since we’re on the subject of little people being thrust into the limelight, the obvious person to link over to from here would be Arson. The two time XWC TV champion! Congratu-freaking-lations there champ, you want a cookie? How about a sticker? Or maybe I can give you a fist shaped stamp right between your damn eyes? I personally like that option, but it’s up to you.
You’re a strange character Arson. You come out of nowhere and all of a sudden people have this respect for you? It’s not because of your talent though Arson, so keep that ego in check. You are the XWF’s Paris Hilton. Famous for doing nothing. Because let’s be honest here, you have done nothing note-worthy. You’re a Blood Hound, and all of a sudden that’s supposed to earn you some sort of reputation. To the lesser-minded individuals in this company – and there are a lot of them – people hear the name “Blood Hounds” and immediately begin acting sketchy. It’s the same effect that Zach Rizza described about me. But the question I ask, is that while the Lee Stone effect has been created through sheer dominance inside the ring, what has caused the Blood Hound effect?
It’s curve-ball time folks.
The way I see it, the same thing has caused the Blood Hound effect. But not from you Arson. Just like Rizza, you’re a leach. T Money was dominant. Kid Money was dominant. Sewaside was dominant. That’s why those three are way up there on my list of preferred opponents. They can make me work. They have reputations that have been carved out through their own doings. You Arson, are a joke. The Hounds of old would not accept the failure that you have become. Dynamic Dynamite could make the passing grade. While his losses do occur, they’re not to the same extent as yours. Shady methods aside, Dynamite beats and loses to quality opponents. But Arson, if you can come up with one impressive thing that you’ve done, I will punch myself in the face so hard I knock myself off the chair that I sit on. And my word is my bond. Show me something that makes me stand up and take notice of you. Because Arson… you could use the respect points.
For two years in a row now, one person has made a name for themselves as consistently fighting above their weight class so to speak. That person is none other than Juggalo. If Zach and Arson want to be in the main event of next years Autumn in Hell, all they need to do is take a few lessons from this dude. The ultimate leach! The grand-daddy of the leaches! The guy who is supposedly the answer to the problems the Hounds have had recently. Bitch please… Jugs, you’ve always been looked at as the weak link in the Hounds. What the fuck makes you think anything different will happen this time?
Wait, I got it! It’s because you’re the X-Treme Champion right? It’s got to be. I mean, what other possible explanation could there be for you being thought of as “good”? You are pathetic buddy. Hell, last time I saw you, there was a huge meat hook penetrating through your back. Now that I think about it, it was like your meat… was being penetrated…
…
…
…
I think I’m going to be physically ill.
Moving on! Juggalo, I’m sure you’ll try to have some sort of witty comeback to what I’m saying and so I beg of you, please feel free to say whatever you want. You did after all say the now infamous “even I’m blacker than Lee Stone” quote which I’m sure you still laugh about to this day. But now that your partners are all white boys and the relevance of dark skin is completely non-existent, I wonder what you’ll say. “Even I’m whiter than Lee Stone”? I wouldn’t be surprised.
Do you want to know why, one year ago, The Blood Hounds lost to The Vigilantes in the Helldome? It wasn’t because that night Christian Connolly was finally better than Kid Money, even though he was. It wasn’t because Lee Stone began to assert his dominance over T Money, even though I did. It wasn’t even because Alex Cutwright eliminated T from the equation, even though he did. It was because while T and I reached the top first, while Kid and Christian waged war against each other as they would so often do… you were left with the task of taking care of Trent Gein. And Juggalo… you failed. You weren’t up to the task of beating Trent Gein. And even now, after Trent’s recent run-ins with Aidan Collins, and all of us beginning to question if he still has it in him… you still wouldn’t be up to the task of beating Trent Gein. And just like Trent, you can’t beat me. You can’t beat Steve Jason or Alex Cutwright. You can’t beat BoonDock Saint or Christian Connolly. Going into this match, the odds are stacked firmly against the Blood Hounds. And it’s because of people like you Juggalo. You are not an impact player. You barely even make the cut as a player.
With three opponents down, there are only three more to go. And this is where we get into the business end of it all. Starting with a man I know better than anybody else in this industry… Christian Connolly. I’ve got to say man, the chance to step into the ring against you once more is more than enough incentive for me to want to be in this match. But the difference between you and the rest of the idiots I’ll be manhandling, is that I don’t have complete and utter contempt for you. And that makes this whole situation a little more interesting.
You know where I stand Christian, just as I know where you stand. I’m more than aware that when it comes to you, I don’t need to ridicule everything you say. I know that I don’t need to change your opinion of me. I know, that you know, that when I call myself the World’s Greatest, I have a legitimate claim. And it’s the same for you. You know, that I know you’re not some guy who once was great but is now nothing but a shell of their former self. I know you’re good. I know what it takes to beat you. All I want to tell you Christian, is to bring that guy to the ring on Sunday.
For weeks now I’ve been trying to talk some sense into you. I’ve been trying to tell you the error of your ways. I’ve been trying to show you those errors. I hope that you’ve been listening Christian. I hope that you’ve been watching. Because while I know you well enough to not count you down and out, others won’t be so accommodating. Already the whispers have begun. Already people are saying the Christian Connolly isn’t going to be the champion again. I ask you to bring the Christian I know to the ring, because for your sake, I want you to show everybody that they’re wrong. But most of all Christian, I want you to show yourself something.
Christian, I want you to show yourself that you are better than BoonDock Saint. I want to see the look on BoonDock’s face when he sees you going toe to toe with the same people who have been such a thorn in his side. Truth be told Christian, I’d feel much safer having you on my side in this match, but if I have to knock you down in order to see you get back up, then by God I’ll be happy to do it. You are one of the best wrestler’s on this planet. It’s the mental game that’s getting to you though. Take it in stride. Make those strides huge. Sprint past BoonDock Saint. Leave Zach Rizza behind at the starting blocks. The Legacy is your moniker… and I’m going to make sure you take it back.
And then there were two. Dynamic Dynamite and BoonDock Saint. I’d like to say that between the three of us we hold the future of Anarchy in the palm of our hands, but that would be a lie. There are three people who will be responsible for changing the face of Anarchy, but neither of you two gain mention. You’re leaders who don’t know how to lead. I’m not even boosting my ego here, because I’m only an honorary member of the White Order and have no intentions to try and lead it. But you two… you’re just not that good.
I’ll begin the end with Dynamic Dynamite. Now playa, I’ll give credit where credit is due. You are the only person in the history of the Blood Hounds to hold a victory over me. T Money couldn’t do it. Neither Kid nor Juggalo succeeded in the Helldome. Psyko Stevo and Christian Connolly have fallen before me multiple times, but you… you’re one of the select few who can claim to beating Lee Stone more times than Lee Stone has beaten you. That’s a great honour to have Tony. Regardless of Rick Lacey’s involvement in my last loss… the man who had his hand raised was you. And while an ordinary man could find it daunting to stand face to face with the man who has been his downfall before… I am no ordinary man.
If all else fails in this match; if my pure ability alone isn’t enough; if my stubbornness about giving in somehow fails to force me back to my feet… all I will need to do is think of you Tony. You can make a claim that so few others can, and I don’t like that. Especially to somebody who doesn’t deserve that accolade. Should Steve Jason be able to hold that above my head, I would go absolutely insane but subconsciously I’d actually be pretty calm about it. He would deserve it. Hell, T Money would deserve to be called better than me. But you… you Dynamic Dynamite are one of the most overrated pieces of trash to ever step into the XWF ring.
At the time of our last battle, you were the better man. I have no problem admitting that, but today… tomorrow… this Sunday… I am king. To borrow a phrase from my partner in this little shindig, that is undeniable. But try Dynamite, try to deny it. Let me hear what you’ve got. Let me hear about how good you are compared to me. Let me hear about how you got caught cheating against BoonDock Saint and paid the price for it. I beat Boony so bad that he lost consciousness. I’ve caused more memory loss in that dude’s life than alcohol has. You couldn’t do that. You didn’t have what it took. You don’t have what it takes.
I can’t wait to hear you open your mouth buddy. I can’t wait to hear you talk about how great you are, because all I’m working off here is just my opinion of you. The moment you speak about me you will be eating those words faster than you can say “my name is Dynamic Dynamite and I suck balls”. And I will enjoy it. Because try as you might to convince everybody that you don’t think this way… but you are nervous about facing me. Forget the thought of Lee Stone and Steve Jason actually working on the same side of a match for the first time in history… forget how I can motivate Alex Cutwright better than any other can… if the card read Dynamic Dynamite vs. Lee Stone, you would be unsure of whether or not you could win. I did what you couldn’t do over and over again. I beat T Money. I destroyed the Blood Hounds. And that has you sketching out.
It’s funny how you denied that the Hounds were becoming weak when I called you on that, and now I find you agreeing with what I said by booting out Sabrina Wilson. Coincidence? I think not. I know what to expect from you. I know that if we were to square off in that hypothetical one-on-one situation, where nobody interfered, and I beat you… you’d call it a fluke. Hell, you pretty much did that when Aidan Collins beat you. But kid… you’re not convincing anybody. The Blood Hounds are still weak. Dynamic Dynamite is still not a champion. And don’t even try to raise that Blood Hound title up to try and contradict me. In fact, while we’re on the subject of that belt… here’s something I prepared earlier…”
I reach down off camera and grasp a leather strap in my hand. Pulling it into the frame of the camera, I show off a golden title belt, complete with glimmering diamonds and my name embedded into the plate on the front. The belt also reads “The World’s Greatest Champion”.
“If you’re going to claim to be a champion, then so will I! After all, I beat BoonDock Saint no questions asked. Shouldn’t that make me the best Anarchy has to offer? Apparently not. Apparently when you knock the champ out you get removed from contendership for that title. Now I have no interest in becoming XWC Champion, it would just be an added bonus to my overall mission for this match, but the principle of it all remains the same. Just as the principle of me now being the World’s Greatest Champion remains the same. You became the Blood Hound Entertainment Champion by beating BoonDock Saint, and not only did I do the same, but I never lost the XWF Universal Title when I had it! So therefore, I’m a champ, cool?
Of course it’s not cool. You’ll probably have a good cry real soon, but unless you come to your own senses… I will refer to myself as a champ. And try as you might, there ain’t a damn thing you can do about it.
From one champ – me – to another, BoonDock Saint… we meet again. I hope your head has cleared up. Hope you’re not still seeing stars. You managed to squeak out a win over Double D and Arson last week, so everything seems okay with you, but the question must now be asked… how long will that last?
As is the reoccurring trend in this match… you have a huge opportunity here Dan. The White Order team walks into this match without a title to put on the line, but what we carry has so much more value. We are the team to beat. We are the team, that you personally Dan, wants to beat. Alex Cutwright… the guy who rose side-by-side with you to stardom. Steve Jason… the legend you’ve craved a match against forever. And last but definitely not least, Lee Stone… your bane. The itch you can’t scratch. The man you can’t beat.
How does it feel going into a match, expecting to lose your title? I haven’t felt that before, so I wouldn’t know. Does it make you sick? Does it taste bitter? Unsavoury? Does it make you wanna just break down and cry like the little pussy that you truly are? For fuck’s sake Dan, stand up straight. Look right into my eyes. You see what lies there? Do you see the passion? Do you see the desire? Do you see the fire? I’m coming to burn you Dan. I hate to sound clichéd… but I’m coming for your soul.
I’ve said time and time again that I have no interest in becoming XWC Champion, after all… wouldn’t being the World’s Greatest Champion be enough for me? The XWC Title isn’t my kind of victory. My kind of victory will be to see you back to who you were. Who you should be. That’s one thing that Stevie J and I agree on. Dan Malcolm must fall. Unfortunately I’ve come to the realization that beating you senseless accomplishes nothing. So now I have a new purpose. A purpose that walks hand in hand with my disdain for the Blood Hounds. You will be saved BoonDock… and I will take you through Hell to do it.
I have walked through the valley of the shadow of death. I have skipped through the valley of the shadow of death. I have crawled, ran, moonwalked through the valley of the shadow of death without a guide, and I still fear no evil. Because I am evil. I will show you evil. And when the only light you see is that reflected off your belt… I will take that from you. I can relate to casting faith away like you have, but we replaced that faith with different things. You replaced it with the XWC Title. You replaced it with greed. And what the Lord giveth… the Lord taketh. I hate to sound Cyren-like, but you will come to know me as the Lord. And when all the lights go out… I only hope that you’ll be born anew. Either way though… your blood will be on my hands. And the most disturbing thing about the way I’m approaching this match… is that I’m perfectly fine with that.
Until next time kids… have a bad day.”
I reach forward and turn the camera off, finishing my piece.