When one looks back on the experiences in their lifetime, everything is captured in photo-like still frames. Words can be attached to them. Accents, actions, noises, all of it is stored, but they play the role of what would otherwise be a caption to the photograph. It describes it, but to look back on our lives very much resembles flipping through the pages of a photo album. It’s all about those small moments – chapters in our lives summed up by one thought. It’s actually rather remarkable. The human mind is an amazing thing. These moments in time, attached so heavily to the most extreme extents of emotion that you’ve ever felt, are landmarks for you. Milestones, if you will. They serve as beacons for you to guide your life by. They form your morals and values, and along with the environment you grow up in, serve to greatly construct your entire personality. You want to steer towards those memorial landmarks that you’ve attached some sort of positive emotion to. Likewise, when you look through that book and notice that you’ve written “BAD” underneath a shot, in big, bold, capital letters, you’re going to want to do everything in your power to avoid revisiting that landmark. This is how fears are created. You find yourself in an awkward, uncomfortable, or even downright distressing situation, and the natural survival instincts that we as a species have managed to cling onto despite our rapidly developing civilisations removing any need for any form of natural selection to occur amongst us, somehow manage to kick in and subconsciously encode any similar situation with that “BAD” label. Oddly enough, as youngsters, this is how we learn pretty much everything that will assist us to live. A fear such as that of heights could be brought about by being on an exposed peak, most likely with wind blowing into your entire body and giving you the thought that you are going to fall. Social actions even take a similar course to this, as if you are shunned by your peers and whatever authoritative figures you have adopted as moral exemplifiers, then your natural instinct to work in a community for the greater survival benefit, will tell you to cut that shit out. Oddly enough, this is also the manner in which sexual fetishes tend to form, but I would really rather not go into details on that subject. It could get icky. Yes, I just said “icky”. But there’s another side to this coin, a side less talked about although it comes into effect and plays on pretty much every thought we have about our lives. This isn’t to do with the past however. This one focuses on the future. Society, especially Western cultures, place great emphasis on reaching certain milestones in your life, and celebrating accordingly. Societies that are ingrained in other cultures, such as many Asian countries, Africa and South America, have their own ceremonies to celebrate these landmarks in life. The crazy rites of passage that boys must go through in many of these places to be recognised as men seem ludicrous to us, but to those very people, the idea of going out and getting absolutely fucking hammered on your twenty-first birthday may seem ludicrous. It’s all about perspective. I cannot speak for people living elsewhere in the world. All I can do… all any of us can do, is speak from our own experiences. Where I come from, there are quite a few landmark situations, all centred around physical age rather than any sign of maturity or bravery as the supposedly barbaric communities of the past and present have given examples of. You have your Sweet Sixteen, your eighteenth, twenty-first, then all the way up to your thirtieth, fortieth, fiftieth, and so on. The first are often attributed with some new legal responsibility that is to be embraced, but the others are just excuses to get drunk really. We celebrate being fifty while some people don’t even live that long. It’s a bit of a dick move to be honest. But that won’t stop me from celebrating mine when it eventually rolls around. It’ll be a while still though. The thing about these milestones is that they really don’t mean anything. What we look back on, in no way joins up to what we’re looking forward to, unless it’s something like a wedding. We look back on the important things, we look forwards to the non-important. I guess that’s a healthy way to live, after all, our culture is based around it. It would decrease stress levels, as you don’t need to watch out for what could be a hazardous situation looming on the horizon of your life. But by not attaching emotional significance to what we’re about to deal with, we find many cases of people becoming disjointed with life. One will sit and focus on the crap that they’ve had to deal with, and not find any kind of encouragement to search out a new, healthier relationship, or whatever that “crap” was. It leads to a policy of inaction. It’s a lose-lose situation. I think it’s all about trying to find the middle ground. I’m disjointed with life. I can admit that. Maybe that’s the key. Embrace the stressless option, but then when something does push you over the edge and give you a fucking migraine that keeps you up at night, deal with it. Deal with that fucking issue. I’m hardly in a position to preach this to anybody considering I don’t deal with any of my issues. Ever. But I at least know that I have those issues. Some people are so bloody content with being an arrogant prick because that’s all they know how to be. Some people get so wrapped up in their work, because that way they don’t have to face the issue of dealing with human relationships. It’s hard work, ain’t nobody denying that. But personally, when I look back on my life, when I flick back through the pages of my story, all I’m going to see is misery. If I don’t do something soon, that’s a path that will continue to unwind in front of me, and around every corner it’ll just get worse and worse. If that’s not motivation enough for me to get my ass up and do something, then nothing is. I guess I know what I’ve got to do now. Saturday, 21 July, 2007 – Springfield, Ohio I watch through the darkness. No sign of light save for the tiny, red flashing light on the in-car stereo to the right in front of me, a little below my chest level. It’s completely inconspicuous. I’m completely hidden. The glossy black coating on my bullet-proof Hummer, shines under the moonlight, across the road from my intended target. I wait. Aviator sunglasses cover my eyes and there is no smile on my face. No sign of brightness anywhere. A black jacket covers my white singlet, keeping that well hidden as well. The standard white Air Force Ones I’m never seen without, stay lurking underneath the visual eye line that the window to the vehicle imprisons me in. Only what I want to be seen is visible. For a brief moment I consider the possibility of someone noticing a suspicious and unusual vehicle parked on the road in the middle of the night, but then I realize just what kind of neighbourhood I’m lurking in. Nobody cares about what goes on over that green, neatly trimmed hedge that divides the property boundaries between houses. That’s why I bought a house here. Well… that, and the fact that I wanted to live in a town called Springfield because The Simpson’s are just so freaking awesome. This place is secure. This place is selfish. This place is secluded. This place is the perfect place for Lee Stone, both past, present and future. Presently, I hunt. Like an animal, I hunt. Make no mistake, this is not a compulsive decision. This is deliberate in every aspect. The vehicle is not mine, it’s a rental. I didn’t rent it either. The number plate has also been changed. It’s good to have a team of workers willing to do these sorts of things for you. Money may not be able to buy you happiness, but it can buy you everything else. This will not be traced back to me. I wait. There he is now, taking out the garbage like a good little bitch. He walks across the lawn, my lawn. I can almost see the grass dying underneath his feet. My grass. He’s cancerous to it. He’s a fucking plague. A virus. I’m the cure. Lifting up the trashcan lid, I watch as he throws the black bag into it. It would be so much easier if he just got on in there himself and waited for the truck to come and get him. I wouldn’t have to take any action, had he done that. Why couldn’t he just fucking listen to my warning? Why couldn’t he just pack his shit up and get the fuck out of my house? I could take this through the legal systems. I could have him done for possession and trespassing. That would remove him for a good deal of time, but honestly, I don’t think it’d set him on the right course. I’m doing him a favour here. I’m going to have him on the straight and narrow. This is some straight up community service shit. I’m a hero. He turns now. He’s heading back to my door. He’s heading back to Her, no doubt. She’s nearby. I can feel Her. Now’s the time to move. I open the door, and the white lights on my feet glow in the dark. I’m walking on the Universal symbol for purity. It’s guiding me. It is my path. He nears the door. I move faster. I stick to the path though, not wanting to harm my grass. That would be stooping to his level. Still, even with my longer route, I gain on him quickly. He has no idea what’s about to happen. He has no idea what’s stalking him. Who is stalking him. For once in my life, I’m looking forward to a moment that isn’t a simple birthday. I’ve planned this. I’ve already written out the caption for this photograph. It’s time now to take it. It’s time now to immortalise this moment for all of eternity. I dive. My shoulder drives straight through the notch right above his hip, and to the ground. Picture perfect. Rugby is such a beautiful sport. He knows that now. Carlos Ferrera knows it. I’ve done a background check on this guy. The asshole spent three months in jail in San Jose for some pretty serious drug-related offences. He got out on good behaviour, and by being lucky enough to share his cell with an inmate deemed a more serious threat than he. I wonder if She was told about all this. I hear the wind get driven out of his body. The sound is very pleasing. Taking a small moment to apologise to my grass for sending this dirtbags body in their direction, I move again. Leaping to a mounted position, I roll him over so he can see my face. The sunglasses fell off in the tackle, and now he can see my eyes. He can see my hate. He’s vermin. He doesn’t even deserve to live. He tries to choke out some words. I don’t want to hear him, so I shift my knee so it is positioned across his throat. Not enough to fully suffocate him, but he’s not going to be speaking, that’s for sure. Every bit of oxygen he can get will be devoted to preserving his worthless fucking life, if you can call it that. He’s an animal to me, and I ain’t a faggot from PETA. I punch him. Hard. Right in his cheek, one knuckle crashing into the side of his nostril. Blood splatters. I smile. I told him to fucking leave. I told him to get the hell out. I told him! He brought this on his fucking self. I hit him again. This time in the other cheek. The nose is crushed a little bit more as I try to cross over it. I hear an unnatural kind of sound. Not just the thumping of my fist, but something like a break. I’m not sure if it’s his nose or one of my knuckles. I don’t care. I hit him again. He’s quite bloody now, but I’m not done yet. Jem says that the key to having everything you want, is to be willing to do the hard work. I’m willing. I grab him by his greasy hair, and pull his head up towards mine, removing my knee from his throat in the process. I hold his face only inches away as I prepare another shot. His eyes are glossy, but he sees me. I know he sees me. Soon Shelly will find him, bloodied and beaten, and She’ll be sad, but only momentarily. When She finds him like this, broken… disgusting… She’ll see that this is how he has always been. He’s unfixable. The fact that his heart still pumps is a sign of me showing mercy on him. I swing. But I stop myself. Less than an inch from his face, I stop myself. The small, delicate hairs that are only barely visible on my fingers, brush against him. That’s how close I was to delivering that one more hit. But then I remember. I’m not stooping to his level. I don’t destroy lives. I save them. I push him downwards, back into my grass. The blades coil away from him. Had he not been cutting my grass, it’d be long enough to wrap him up and choke the rest of the life out of him. That ain’t gonna happen though. It’s okay. I think my message has been sent. I stand over him, shaking my right wrist. It was my knuckle that cracked. I feel it now. But it was worthwhile. Oh God it was worthwhile. I turn now. Not speaking. No words. I hear him mutter something though. It sounds like “thank you”. More than likely, it’s “fuck you”. I’d like to think it’s the first option though. I’d like to think he’s going to change. But people don’t change. Regardless, this moment will stand in my memory. Just as I’m sure it’ll stand in his. It’s a landmark. It defines us. Sunday, 22 July, 2007 – San Antonio, Texas “I did not happen to realize it last time, but when it all is said and done at the end of Massacre, I’m going to have joined a very select group of individuals.
Bitches and gentlefucks, at the end of Massacre, I’m going to have a half-century of wins under my belt in the XWF.
So Psyko Stevo, congratulations, you’re going to be immortalized in XWF history after all. You’re going to be known as the man responsible for giving Lee Stone his win number fifty.
It’s so strange to think of everything that’s happened from now to when I first jumped into the ring here against a man named Rockstar, and disposed of him in just a matter of seconds. I’ve grown, changed, and developed into something entirely different than what I ever expected to. I’m unique.
For so long in my career, I spent my time watching the “greats” and the “not-so greats”. I’d religiously sit in front of a television screen and watch tape after tape. This stems right back to a eight year long career. I was brought in by a man named Hellhole back in Auckland, New Zealand. He got me to the American market where I met Eric “Xtreme” Bruce. I’d watch guys that many in the XWF have never even heard of: Luscious Larry, John Calvin Payne, Rik “The Dragon” Kendall, Justin Sane, Bob, Mr. Charisma… the list can keep going. To be fair though, this isn’t just a random side thought, completely irrelevant to the XWF. Both Hellhole and Xtreme made appearances in the Lord of the Ring Battle Royal in 2003, to various degrees. And then the trend of learning kept going here. Steve Jason, Jem Williams, Christian Connolly, Dynamic Dynamite, Jon Page, even the likes of KoRe, T Money and Judas Iscariot to lesser effect. These are the guys I watched. These are the guys that I picked apart to find what made them work. These are the guys responsible for the birth of Lee Stone. These guys…
And Psyko Stevo.
I’ve mentioned Xtreme and Hellhole in special categories, just as I mention you in one Stevo. Where Page always seemed indifferent towards me, your investment proved to be the biggest stroke of “marketing genius” you may have ever had, outside of yourself. But it’s not just the interest you showed in me back in the Fully Loaded days that has you placed in such an integral position in my career.
Stevo, after everything I’ve done here, after all the mountains I’ve climbed, you’ve shown me that the road ain’t over. I may have learnt so much, but with every answer that I receive, I wind up with another question. And this realization comes straight from you.
Thanks to you Stevo, I realize that it doesn’t matter how many wins I’ve had. Sure it’ll be nice to say that I’ve got fifty under my belt. Sure it’d be nice if I could say one hundred. All that would be though, is entertainment. People look at me as some sort of egotistical fuck, anytime I mention that I’ve beaten somebody else. Apparently Lee Stone can’t talk about that. When I do though, all I’m doing is having fun. I know that it doesn’t matter now.
What matters is, when I go into that match this week, largely uncaring about whatever is going on in your life. Holding no overwhelming “beef” directed towards you, this is no grudge match. So now I find myself thinking that not only is this my first match against you Stevo, it’s my first match here in the XWF, period.
Every match is my first match.
Every match I have something to prove in. That’s how I survive. That’s how I keep going. That’s the mentality of Lee Stone when he held the Universal Champion. I couldn’t afford to lose any matches. I had everyone breathing down my neck, waiting for me to slip up, and I refused to let them get that level of satisfaction. Thanks to you Stevo, I’m heading straight back to that place. Thanks to you I’m heading back to the world of the supposedly unbeatable. I’m heading back home.
I’m heading back to the Universal Title.
I don’t know what I have to do to get back there. I don’t know what action will capture everybody’s attention to such a level that it would be impossible to not give me a title shot without instigating a fucking riot with all my loyal followers. But you can bet your fucking ass that I’m going to get there. The only way I can think of now is to just keep winning.
So that’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna keep winning. I’m gonna get to sixty wins. I’m gonna get to seventy. I’ll get to one hundred and eighty three billion if I have to. Every match will be the same. Every match I’ll be fired up. Every match I’ll be treating as my one and only chance to shine.
Starting this week.
I’m a Legend, and I’m still learning. I’m still adapting. Are you?
Can you figure out how to beat me? Can you figure out how to stop me?
I’ve always found it funny that the only person who could ever fully understand how to beat me, was me. I don’t know what it’s like for other people, maybe the same applies for how to beat Jem, but when I get rolling and people start throwing around that “unbeatable” word, I laugh because I know it’s not true.
You just have to figure it out.
I’m not certain you can do that though Stevo. I’m not certain you can stop me from winning my first match here.
We’ll see though.
Have a bad day.”
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