Post by Marcus Welsh on Jan 6, 2020 23:46:19 GMT -5
I
could have retired the OCW Championship.
There
are a lot of ways to frame it-- I could say that if OCW had only closed one show sooner, I’d be staring at my championship belt right now, instead of a truckload of relatively worthless “Undefeated” t-shirts that seems like a poor decision, in hindsight. I
could say that if Mike Zybala hadn’t superkicked his way into the number one position on my personal Most Wanted list, that I’d be just like my best friend Cecilworth-- the Forever Champ. I could even say that if Mack O’Connor hadn’t been primed with the fresh
adrenaline of a real life murder, he might not have had enough in the tank to go the distance. I could say a lot of things… but at the end of the day?
I
just couldn’t get the job done.
I
can make all the excuses that I want, but the greatest undefeated streak in the history of OCW ended not with a bang, but with a whimper. I grew complacent despite my best efforts, I lost the championship,
and that’s on me-- these are
the thoughts that have kept me awake since OCW closed its doors just a scant few weeks later. These are the thoughts that have tortured my every waking fucking moment.
I’d
never have the chance to fix my mistakes.
Of
course, I’d never recapture the streak-- that was over forever, the second that the referee’s hand hit the mat for the third time. I’d perhaps never recapture the mystique, either. Hell, I can’t even say for certain that I would have recaptured the championship--
Mack O’Connor is a legend, and a dangerous one at that. But on the day that I was released from my OCW contract, and they closed their doors seemingly forever, there was one thing I had yet to become. One dream yet unfulfilled. One last step in my ascent to
OCW greatness, that went unachieved.
I
wanted a spot in the OCW Hall of Fame.
Maybe
that’s why I couldn’t answer the phone fast enough, when the call came in. One last match, for all the fucking marbles-- one match to determine who, for all time, would be known as the Face of OCW. There are finite moments in a man’s life that allow him to
shape his own destiny, and this was mine.
There
would be no more second chances. No more matches. No more opportunities. I needed to put my name on the dotted line, I needed to compete, and I needed to win. I needed my resume stacked fat and fucking firm before I made my plea-- my final plea-- to join the
annals of history, and be known as one of the best in the history of Online Championship Wrestling.
Fortunately,
I had a plan.
And
that plan… was GREAT.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
The
Melinda Rhodes Memorial Homeless Shelter
Somewhere
In Key West, Don’t Google It
Watches
Synchronized: 12:00 GMT
“I’m
looking for a man named Jason Kortare.”
It’s
perhaps the first time that such a sentence has ever been uttered, at least outside the confines of an investigation for sexual assault.
Michael
Lee Best stares out into the open space of the converted high school gymnasium, taking in the sights and sounds of the local transient population. It shouldn’t exactly be “Where’s Waldo”-- by last survey, there were less than 150 homeless people in Key West.
“Jason,”
Michael calls out, a little louder this time. “If you’re here, show yourself, buddy. It smells like actual shit in here and I have a job for you.”
The
stink is isn’t just human excrement, but desperation. It was obvious that more “hope” had been lost in this gymnasium than games of basketball.
Michael
checks his watch.
Every
moment counts, and it HAD to be Kortare.
The
plan was near flawless— the Cecilworth M. J. Farthington Disco & Grappling Shindig at Sea was slated to be the highest rated pro wrestling cruise in this acknowledged universe. Cecilworth had fronted the money and spearheaded the project-- it would be his
name on the boat, after all, and he never minded spending money to help his best friend and heterosexual lifemate do a politic.
And
this would be the ultimate
politic.
“C’mon,
Jason.” Michael rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to hurt you. Or your feelings. The fate of the whole world rests on you, and I’m paying cash.”
As
soon as he mentions paying cash, the transient drifters all start to bobble and squawk like the seagulls in Finding Nemo. They’re falling over one another, excited and mentally steeling themselves for whatever number of dicks they have to suck to get some
sweet, sweet booze buying scratch.
But
in the distance, one man does not bobble.
One
man does not squawk.
Jason
Kortare.
For
legal reasons,
we cannot see his face, so you’re going to have to take my word that this is indeed Jason Kortare. Greasy hair matted slick down on his head, with a grizzled sixteen o’clock shadow. Life has been hard for Alleged Jason.
“Jason.”
Michael nods, as he wades through the homeless. “I know we aren’t friends, but I have a job only you can do. A job that pays exactly forty seven dollars.”
Jason
laughs, which quickly turns into a deep cough. He never expected to see Michael Best again, but whatever he was offering a rich man’s bounty like forty seven dollars for must be worth at least listening to.
“We
have a mutual enemy, you and I.” Michael smiles, as he drops to a dad-like knee.
He
leans over the stinking mess of a man that is allegedly Jason Kortare. He smells like confused sexuality and canned green beans.
It
wouldn’t be enough to become the Face of OCW-- though Michael had been preparing for this match the best that he could, just securing the final pinfall alone wouldn’t get him into the OCW Hall of Fame. One man stands in the way— one man who has the final say
in these decisions, and perhaps the one man who would never allow Michael Best the ring he so badly desired.
One
man who has to be eliminated
“Jason
Kortare.” Michael nearly whispers, with authority. “I need you to kill Mike Zybala.”
-----------------------------------------------------------------
HI
EVERYONE IT’S ME GREAT SCOTT, THE GREATEST WRESTLER IN OCW HISTORY EXCEPT MIKE BEST. EVEN THOUGH I GOT SHOT IN THE SPINE SEVEN TIMES BY A MAN WITHOUT A CHIN, OCW WAS WHERE I BECAME A MAN AND I AM SO GLAD IT IS COMING BACK FOR ONE MORE SHOW.
I
WANTED TO WRESTLE ON IT BUT ZYBALA SAID IT ISN’T THAT KIND OF WRESTLING SHOW SO FUCK ZYBALA.
ANYWAY
I AM CURRENTLY DEEP IN THE JUNGLES OF NORTH KOREA BECAUSE MIKE BEST SAID THIS IS WHERE HIS FRIEND LIVES. SINCE I AM RECOVERED FROM MY SUPER EXPENSIVE BACK SURGERY WHERE DOCTORS TOOK A LOT OF BULLETS OUT OF ME, I CAN WALK AGAIN.
MY
MISSION IF I CHOOSE TO ACCEPT IT WHICH I DO IS TO BRING MARCUS TO THE COOL BOAT PARTY WITH BUTTERWORTH FURTHERTON SO THAT THEY CAN GET HIM VERY DRUNK AND CONVINCE HIM TO PUT MIKE INTO THE OCW HALL OF FAME SO THAT IS WHAT I AM HERE TO DO.
ANYWAY
THANK YOU FOR READING THIS I HAVE TO GO NOW IT IS MY TURN AT THE SECURITY CHECKPOINT AND THEY ARE YELLING A LOT IN ANOTHER LANGUAGE THAT SOUNDS LIKE CHINESE OKAY BYE SEE YOU IN A MINUTE.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
The
Hayley Robinson Memorial Security Checkpoint
Somewhere
In “The Jungles” of North Korea, Don’t Google It
Watches
Synchronized: 12:00 GMT
“신분증을
보여줘”
It’s
hard to say whether or not these words are screamed, because the Korean language is maybe the angriest series of hieroglyphics since ancient Egyptians wrote hateful comments on each other's MySphnix walls.
Regardless,
the checkpoint guards do not seem impressed with the majesty of Great Scott, who stands before them a Rambo style headband on and a knife between his teeth.
“HI
I’M SCOTT.” Great Scott proclaims, through gritted knife teeth. “I AM HERE TO PICK UP MY FRIEND, WILL YOU PLEASE LET HIM KNOW I AM HERE?”
“당신의
신분증 또는 DIE를 보여주세요.!” the guard definitely yells this time, pointing a gun into the face of Great Scott. “왜 람보처럼 보이나요?”
Great
Scott does not speak Korean.
He
has no idea that his life has been threatened, should he not show his identification immediately. Also, he is a capitalist pig infidel and they are obviously going to arrest and/or murder him.
“NO,
HIS NAME IS MARCUS WELSH.” Great Scott continues to scream, English-ing very loudly. “MY FRIEND INVITED MARCUS TO A BOAT PARTY SO HE WILL GET DRUNK AND PUT HIM INTO A HALL OF FAME. HE WAS UNDEFEATED FOR A LONG TIME OKAY PLEASE GO GET MARCUS NOW I WILL WAIT.”
Great
Scott takes the knife out of his teeth, because the metal is starting to make his tongue taste weird and feel funny. However, this is immediately perceived as an act of terroristic capitalist aggression to the guards and provokes exactly the response that
one might expect.
Extreme
violence.
The
guards descend on Great Scott, beating him with the butts of their guns as they struggle against his unstoppable girth. It takes many small Asian men, but finally someone stabs him very hard with a tranquilizer dart and puts him the fuck to sleep. Great Scott,
quickly floating away to dreamland, is easily zip-tied and tossed into the back of a truck, where they proceed to drive him off to scary North Korean prison.
Which
is precisely part of the master plan.
I
told you, it’s a GREAT plan.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
I’d
paid Kortare half up front.
He
said that he needed it for food, but I knew in my heart he was going to spend it all on various body oils. Even still, if he got the job done, it was going to be the best forty seven dollars I ever spent.
Zybala
would never put me into the Hall of Fame. I could win a thousand matches against a thousand wrestlers, but it wouldn’t make a fuck of a difference to the man who superkicked me out of the OCW zeitgeist. And since you can’t impeach the owner of a wrestling
company, the next best thing is a good old fashioned hobo murder.
By
my watch, Great Scott would be waking up in North Korean prison any time now— with any luck, they hadn’t shot him on sight. The beloved little Jobber’s Guild graduate had managed to weasel his way out of worse binds than this, and if anyone could rescue Marcus
Welsh from North Korean prison, it was going to be Great Scott.
Marcus
was my ace in the hole.
There
was no margin for failure.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
The
Kitty Petrova Memorial Rehab Center
Somewhere
In Deadhorse, Alaska-- Don’t Google It
Watches
Synchronized: 5:00 GMT
“We
got here really fast.”
Michael
shakes his watch in front of his face, before holding it to his ear to listen to the ticking. It’s also possible that he got there really, really slowly-- he’s always been bad with time zones, and Greenwich Mean Time just sounds like a bunch of bad guy wrestlers
walking around in sweater vests.
It
was no matter-- he wasn’t here to debate the feasibility of traveling across the country in what may or may not be record setting time, he was here to check a good friend out of rehab. That is, after all, what happens when you smoke a bunch of next level crack
cocaine and then find yourself unemployed after the wrestler you manage gets shot in the spine seven times.
Yeah,
motherfucker-- we’re here to pick up Great Bear.
“You
look fucking wonderful.” Michael smiles, as he extends his arms to an old friend. “How they treating you in here man, you off that shit?”
The
sterile lobby of The Kitty Petrova Memorial Rehab Center is an ill-fitting place for such a bombastic reunion, but nonetheless Great Bear smiles. This means that he is happy. Or hungry, since a bear smile looks a lot like an angry, menacing bear face. In either
case, the icon known as Great Bear embraces Michael Best in a great big… well… you know what kind of hug it is.
With
a mighty, meaty paw, Great Bear scratches at his neck-- withdrawals are over, but this addiction will last him his whole life.
“Roar.”
roars Great Bear, as bears tend to do.
He
puts a paw on Mike Best’s shoulder, his eyes filled with remorse for his previous life and gratitude for being sprung free from this God forsaken pit of Jesus and despair. But that's another story for another day.
He’s
ready to leave.
Michael
reaches into his messenger bag, producing two things that his omnivore companion has been missing for a long time-- his passport, and a sweet pair of Beats by Dre headphones.
“I
have a job for you.” Michael pats him on the back, with a smirk. “Hope you remember how to fly.”
-----------------------------------------------------------------
HI
EVERYONE IT’S ME AGAIN GREAT SCOTT JUST CHECKING IN BECAUSE I CAN’T BE PART OF THE MATCH AT THE BIG MYSTERIOUS OCW SHOW BUT I LIKE TO BE A PART OF THINGS. HOW ARE YOU? I’M OKAY, JUST A LITTLE BIT TIRED.
OH
AND ALSO I’M IN JAIL IN NORTH KOREA.
OKAY
SO ANYWAY THEY DRAGGED ME INTO A CELL WITH MARCUS WELSH WHICH IS VERY CONVENIENT ALL THINGS CONSIDERED AND NOW I HAVE TO GO WAKE HIM UP BEFORE MY BUTTHOLE EXPLODES LIKE THE PLANES AT PEARL HARBOR THAT ASIAN PEOPLE ALSO DID BUT MAYBE NOT THESE ASIAN PEOPLE.
OKAY
THANK YOU FOR READING TALK TO YOU IN A MINUTE.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
The
Madman Szalinksi Memorial North Korean Deathcamp
Somewhere
In North Korea-- Don’t Google It
Watches
Synchronized: 8:00 GMT
“HI
MARCUS, IT’S ME SCOTT.”
The
emaciated remains of a man are huddled in the corner of a dark, dank prison cell. Once a titan of industry, several months spent wasting away in North Korea have left Marcus Welsh looking like little more than a skeleton with a long, haggard beard.
His
eyes struggle to open.
“Fucking…”
Marcus barely whispers, amused and perplexed. “Great.. Great Scott? What are you?”
“SHHHHHHHHH!”
Great Scott holds a finger to Marcus’ cracked, splintered dry lips. “SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! SHH. SHHH.”
As
Scott moves his fingers away from Welsh’s mouth, the eyes of the OCW GM squint to adjust to the light.
“Are
you a dre--” Marcus begins, but alas…
“SHHHHHHHH.”
Scott spits, the first liquid Welsh has tasted in days. “NO TIME. WE NEED TO GET YOU OUT OF HERE. YOU HAVE A BOAT PARTY TO GET TO SO YIPPEEKIYAY MOTHERFUCKER.”
Great
Scott goes to the bars of the jail, doing some Scottjitsu to the locking mechanism and causing the door to come completely unhinged like Kitty Petrova losing a match to known internet pervert Logan. He gives it a Great Skarate Kick and the door flies outward,
promptly killing two North Korean guards.
“Oh
my God.” Marcus Welsh whispers, with the last of his strength.
Scott
only nods-- there’s not time for more, as several other Korean guards rush the hallway with guns. They don’t fire them, for some reason, but instead try to stab Great Scott with the bayonettes. He laughs this off, Scottacanrana-ing everyone and leaving a bloody
mess of corpses in the hallway.
“COME
WITH ME IF YOU WANT TO BOAT.” Scott yells, as he murders the last of the guards. ‘WE HAVE A BOAT TO CATCH BUT FIRST A HELICOPTER.”
With
the fireman’s carry to end all fireman’s carries, Scott heaves Marcus Welsh over his back and proceeds to spring down the prison hallway, ignoring all of the innocent Korean prisoners yelling for help because he doesn’t speak Korean.
In
a rush, he kicks open the door to the stairs, and runs straight up to the roof-- he kicks that fucking door open too, and this is all easy because of his bionic spine after the surgery from when he got shot a lot by Skittlez.
Helicopter
sounds whoosh around on the roof as they burst into the morning (or night, fuck timezones) air-- Great Motherfucking Bear is waiting with a helicopter, listening to some sweet EDM music on his Beats by Dre Headphones.
IT
ALL COMES TOGETHER THIS IS WHY MIKE RESCUED GREAT BEAR, SO THAT GREAT BEAR COULD RESCUE GREAT SCOTT, THIS IS A GREAT PLAN.
Reunited,
Great Scott and Great Bear start doing The Great Scott. And then the guards are doing the Great Scott. And then Marcus Welsh finds his strength and he too is doing the Great Scott. And then they all get into the helicopter and go back to the United States
where there is freedom and lots of alcohol on a boat where Marcus Welsh decides to put Mike Best into the Hall of Fame okay thank you for reading, The End.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Marcus
Welsh.
The
one man who believed in me, from day one. The man who gave me the opportunity to compete for the OCW Championship at Block Party. The man who put his reputation on the line, in a company where no one really wanted us in the first place.
We
changed the landscape of the company, for better for worse, and we made OCW a place where competition thrived-- if there was one man on the planet who believed that I deserved to wear an OCW Hall of Fame ring, it was Marcus goddamned Welsh.
I’m
going to pump so much goddamned White Claw into that man that he can’t help but drunkenly put me into the 2019 class.
The
unstoppable champion.
The
unwavering branding consultant.
And
after I conquered nine other men in OCW’s mysterious final match?
The
undeniable Face of OCW.
could have retired the OCW Championship.
There
are a lot of ways to frame it-- I could say that if OCW had only closed one show sooner, I’d be staring at my championship belt right now, instead of a truckload of relatively worthless “Undefeated” t-shirts that seems like a poor decision, in hindsight. I
could say that if Mike Zybala hadn’t superkicked his way into the number one position on my personal Most Wanted list, that I’d be just like my best friend Cecilworth-- the Forever Champ. I could even say that if Mack O’Connor hadn’t been primed with the fresh
adrenaline of a real life murder, he might not have had enough in the tank to go the distance. I could say a lot of things… but at the end of the day?
I
just couldn’t get the job done.
I
can make all the excuses that I want, but the greatest undefeated streak in the history of OCW ended not with a bang, but with a whimper. I grew complacent despite my best efforts, I lost the championship,
and that’s on me-- these are
the thoughts that have kept me awake since OCW closed its doors just a scant few weeks later. These are the thoughts that have tortured my every waking fucking moment.
I’d
never have the chance to fix my mistakes.
Of
course, I’d never recapture the streak-- that was over forever, the second that the referee’s hand hit the mat for the third time. I’d perhaps never recapture the mystique, either. Hell, I can’t even say for certain that I would have recaptured the championship--
Mack O’Connor is a legend, and a dangerous one at that. But on the day that I was released from my OCW contract, and they closed their doors seemingly forever, there was one thing I had yet to become. One dream yet unfulfilled. One last step in my ascent to
OCW greatness, that went unachieved.
I
wanted a spot in the OCW Hall of Fame.
Maybe
that’s why I couldn’t answer the phone fast enough, when the call came in. One last match, for all the fucking marbles-- one match to determine who, for all time, would be known as the Face of OCW. There are finite moments in a man’s life that allow him to
shape his own destiny, and this was mine.
There
would be no more second chances. No more matches. No more opportunities. I needed to put my name on the dotted line, I needed to compete, and I needed to win. I needed my resume stacked fat and fucking firm before I made my plea-- my final plea-- to join the
annals of history, and be known as one of the best in the history of Online Championship Wrestling.
Fortunately,
I had a plan.
And
that plan… was GREAT.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
The
Melinda Rhodes Memorial Homeless Shelter
Somewhere
In Key West, Don’t Google It
Watches
Synchronized: 12:00 GMT
“I’m
looking for a man named Jason Kortare.”
It’s
perhaps the first time that such a sentence has ever been uttered, at least outside the confines of an investigation for sexual assault.
Michael
Lee Best stares out into the open space of the converted high school gymnasium, taking in the sights and sounds of the local transient population. It shouldn’t exactly be “Where’s Waldo”-- by last survey, there were less than 150 homeless people in Key West.
“Jason,”
Michael calls out, a little louder this time. “If you’re here, show yourself, buddy. It smells like actual shit in here and I have a job for you.”
The
stink is isn’t just human excrement, but desperation. It was obvious that more “hope” had been lost in this gymnasium than games of basketball.
Michael
checks his watch.
Every
moment counts, and it HAD to be Kortare.
The
plan was near flawless— the Cecilworth M. J. Farthington Disco & Grappling Shindig at Sea was slated to be the highest rated pro wrestling cruise in this acknowledged universe. Cecilworth had fronted the money and spearheaded the project-- it would be his
name on the boat, after all, and he never minded spending money to help his best friend and heterosexual lifemate do a politic.
And
this would be the ultimate
politic.
“C’mon,
Jason.” Michael rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to hurt you. Or your feelings. The fate of the whole world rests on you, and I’m paying cash.”
As
soon as he mentions paying cash, the transient drifters all start to bobble and squawk like the seagulls in Finding Nemo. They’re falling over one another, excited and mentally steeling themselves for whatever number of dicks they have to suck to get some
sweet, sweet booze buying scratch.
But
in the distance, one man does not bobble.
One
man does not squawk.
Jason
Kortare.
For
legal reasons,
we cannot see his face, so you’re going to have to take my word that this is indeed Jason Kortare. Greasy hair matted slick down on his head, with a grizzled sixteen o’clock shadow. Life has been hard for Alleged Jason.
“Jason.”
Michael nods, as he wades through the homeless. “I know we aren’t friends, but I have a job only you can do. A job that pays exactly forty seven dollars.”
Jason
laughs, which quickly turns into a deep cough. He never expected to see Michael Best again, but whatever he was offering a rich man’s bounty like forty seven dollars for must be worth at least listening to.
“We
have a mutual enemy, you and I.” Michael smiles, as he drops to a dad-like knee.
He
leans over the stinking mess of a man that is allegedly Jason Kortare. He smells like confused sexuality and canned green beans.
It
wouldn’t be enough to become the Face of OCW-- though Michael had been preparing for this match the best that he could, just securing the final pinfall alone wouldn’t get him into the OCW Hall of Fame. One man stands in the way— one man who has the final say
in these decisions, and perhaps the one man who would never allow Michael Best the ring he so badly desired.
One
man who has to be eliminated
“Jason
Kortare.” Michael nearly whispers, with authority. “I need you to kill Mike Zybala.”
-----------------------------------------------------------------
HI
EVERYONE IT’S ME GREAT SCOTT, THE GREATEST WRESTLER IN OCW HISTORY EXCEPT MIKE BEST. EVEN THOUGH I GOT SHOT IN THE SPINE SEVEN TIMES BY A MAN WITHOUT A CHIN, OCW WAS WHERE I BECAME A MAN AND I AM SO GLAD IT IS COMING BACK FOR ONE MORE SHOW.
I
WANTED TO WRESTLE ON IT BUT ZYBALA SAID IT ISN’T THAT KIND OF WRESTLING SHOW SO FUCK ZYBALA.
ANYWAY
I AM CURRENTLY DEEP IN THE JUNGLES OF NORTH KOREA BECAUSE MIKE BEST SAID THIS IS WHERE HIS FRIEND LIVES. SINCE I AM RECOVERED FROM MY SUPER EXPENSIVE BACK SURGERY WHERE DOCTORS TOOK A LOT OF BULLETS OUT OF ME, I CAN WALK AGAIN.
MY
MISSION IF I CHOOSE TO ACCEPT IT WHICH I DO IS TO BRING MARCUS TO THE COOL BOAT PARTY WITH BUTTERWORTH FURTHERTON SO THAT THEY CAN GET HIM VERY DRUNK AND CONVINCE HIM TO PUT MIKE INTO THE OCW HALL OF FAME SO THAT IS WHAT I AM HERE TO DO.
ANYWAY
THANK YOU FOR READING THIS I HAVE TO GO NOW IT IS MY TURN AT THE SECURITY CHECKPOINT AND THEY ARE YELLING A LOT IN ANOTHER LANGUAGE THAT SOUNDS LIKE CHINESE OKAY BYE SEE YOU IN A MINUTE.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
The
Hayley Robinson Memorial Security Checkpoint
Somewhere
In “The Jungles” of North Korea, Don’t Google It
Watches
Synchronized: 12:00 GMT
“신분증을
보여줘”
It’s
hard to say whether or not these words are screamed, because the Korean language is maybe the angriest series of hieroglyphics since ancient Egyptians wrote hateful comments on each other's MySphnix walls.
Regardless,
the checkpoint guards do not seem impressed with the majesty of Great Scott, who stands before them a Rambo style headband on and a knife between his teeth.
“HI
I’M SCOTT.” Great Scott proclaims, through gritted knife teeth. “I AM HERE TO PICK UP MY FRIEND, WILL YOU PLEASE LET HIM KNOW I AM HERE?”
“당신의
신분증 또는 DIE를 보여주세요.!” the guard definitely yells this time, pointing a gun into the face of Great Scott. “왜 람보처럼 보이나요?”
Great
Scott does not speak Korean.
He
has no idea that his life has been threatened, should he not show his identification immediately. Also, he is a capitalist pig infidel and they are obviously going to arrest and/or murder him.
“NO,
HIS NAME IS MARCUS WELSH.” Great Scott continues to scream, English-ing very loudly. “MY FRIEND INVITED MARCUS TO A BOAT PARTY SO HE WILL GET DRUNK AND PUT HIM INTO A HALL OF FAME. HE WAS UNDEFEATED FOR A LONG TIME OKAY PLEASE GO GET MARCUS NOW I WILL WAIT.”
Great
Scott takes the knife out of his teeth, because the metal is starting to make his tongue taste weird and feel funny. However, this is immediately perceived as an act of terroristic capitalist aggression to the guards and provokes exactly the response that
one might expect.
Extreme
violence.
The
guards descend on Great Scott, beating him with the butts of their guns as they struggle against his unstoppable girth. It takes many small Asian men, but finally someone stabs him very hard with a tranquilizer dart and puts him the fuck to sleep. Great Scott,
quickly floating away to dreamland, is easily zip-tied and tossed into the back of a truck, where they proceed to drive him off to scary North Korean prison.
Which
is precisely part of the master plan.
I
told you, it’s a GREAT plan.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
I’d
paid Kortare half up front.
He
said that he needed it for food, but I knew in my heart he was going to spend it all on various body oils. Even still, if he got the job done, it was going to be the best forty seven dollars I ever spent.
Zybala
would never put me into the Hall of Fame. I could win a thousand matches against a thousand wrestlers, but it wouldn’t make a fuck of a difference to the man who superkicked me out of the OCW zeitgeist. And since you can’t impeach the owner of a wrestling
company, the next best thing is a good old fashioned hobo murder.
By
my watch, Great Scott would be waking up in North Korean prison any time now— with any luck, they hadn’t shot him on sight. The beloved little Jobber’s Guild graduate had managed to weasel his way out of worse binds than this, and if anyone could rescue Marcus
Welsh from North Korean prison, it was going to be Great Scott.
Marcus
was my ace in the hole.
There
was no margin for failure.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
The
Kitty Petrova Memorial Rehab Center
Somewhere
In Deadhorse, Alaska-- Don’t Google It
Watches
Synchronized: 5:00 GMT
“We
got here really fast.”
Michael
shakes his watch in front of his face, before holding it to his ear to listen to the ticking. It’s also possible that he got there really, really slowly-- he’s always been bad with time zones, and Greenwich Mean Time just sounds like a bunch of bad guy wrestlers
walking around in sweater vests.
It
was no matter-- he wasn’t here to debate the feasibility of traveling across the country in what may or may not be record setting time, he was here to check a good friend out of rehab. That is, after all, what happens when you smoke a bunch of next level crack
cocaine and then find yourself unemployed after the wrestler you manage gets shot in the spine seven times.
Yeah,
motherfucker-- we’re here to pick up Great Bear.
“You
look fucking wonderful.” Michael smiles, as he extends his arms to an old friend. “How they treating you in here man, you off that shit?”
The
sterile lobby of The Kitty Petrova Memorial Rehab Center is an ill-fitting place for such a bombastic reunion, but nonetheless Great Bear smiles. This means that he is happy. Or hungry, since a bear smile looks a lot like an angry, menacing bear face. In either
case, the icon known as Great Bear embraces Michael Best in a great big… well… you know what kind of hug it is.
With
a mighty, meaty paw, Great Bear scratches at his neck-- withdrawals are over, but this addiction will last him his whole life.
“Roar.”
roars Great Bear, as bears tend to do.
He
puts a paw on Mike Best’s shoulder, his eyes filled with remorse for his previous life and gratitude for being sprung free from this God forsaken pit of Jesus and despair. But that's another story for another day.
He’s
ready to leave.
Michael
reaches into his messenger bag, producing two things that his omnivore companion has been missing for a long time-- his passport, and a sweet pair of Beats by Dre headphones.
“I
have a job for you.” Michael pats him on the back, with a smirk. “Hope you remember how to fly.”
-----------------------------------------------------------------
HI
EVERYONE IT’S ME AGAIN GREAT SCOTT JUST CHECKING IN BECAUSE I CAN’T BE PART OF THE MATCH AT THE BIG MYSTERIOUS OCW SHOW BUT I LIKE TO BE A PART OF THINGS. HOW ARE YOU? I’M OKAY, JUST A LITTLE BIT TIRED.
OH
AND ALSO I’M IN JAIL IN NORTH KOREA.
OKAY
SO ANYWAY THEY DRAGGED ME INTO A CELL WITH MARCUS WELSH WHICH IS VERY CONVENIENT ALL THINGS CONSIDERED AND NOW I HAVE TO GO WAKE HIM UP BEFORE MY BUTTHOLE EXPLODES LIKE THE PLANES AT PEARL HARBOR THAT ASIAN PEOPLE ALSO DID BUT MAYBE NOT THESE ASIAN PEOPLE.
OKAY
THANK YOU FOR READING TALK TO YOU IN A MINUTE.
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The
Madman Szalinksi Memorial North Korean Deathcamp
Somewhere
In North Korea-- Don’t Google It
Watches
Synchronized: 8:00 GMT
“HI
MARCUS, IT’S ME SCOTT.”
The
emaciated remains of a man are huddled in the corner of a dark, dank prison cell. Once a titan of industry, several months spent wasting away in North Korea have left Marcus Welsh looking like little more than a skeleton with a long, haggard beard.
His
eyes struggle to open.
“Fucking…”
Marcus barely whispers, amused and perplexed. “Great.. Great Scott? What are you?”
“SHHHHHHHHH!”
Great Scott holds a finger to Marcus’ cracked, splintered dry lips. “SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! SHH. SHHH.”
As
Scott moves his fingers away from Welsh’s mouth, the eyes of the OCW GM squint to adjust to the light.
“Are
you a dre--” Marcus begins, but alas…
“SHHHHHHHH.”
Scott spits, the first liquid Welsh has tasted in days. “NO TIME. WE NEED TO GET YOU OUT OF HERE. YOU HAVE A BOAT PARTY TO GET TO SO YIPPEEKIYAY MOTHERFUCKER.”
Great
Scott goes to the bars of the jail, doing some Scottjitsu to the locking mechanism and causing the door to come completely unhinged like Kitty Petrova losing a match to known internet pervert Logan. He gives it a Great Skarate Kick and the door flies outward,
promptly killing two North Korean guards.
“Oh
my God.” Marcus Welsh whispers, with the last of his strength.
Scott
only nods-- there’s not time for more, as several other Korean guards rush the hallway with guns. They don’t fire them, for some reason, but instead try to stab Great Scott with the bayonettes. He laughs this off, Scottacanrana-ing everyone and leaving a bloody
mess of corpses in the hallway.
“COME
WITH ME IF YOU WANT TO BOAT.” Scott yells, as he murders the last of the guards. ‘WE HAVE A BOAT TO CATCH BUT FIRST A HELICOPTER.”
With
the fireman’s carry to end all fireman’s carries, Scott heaves Marcus Welsh over his back and proceeds to spring down the prison hallway, ignoring all of the innocent Korean prisoners yelling for help because he doesn’t speak Korean.
In
a rush, he kicks open the door to the stairs, and runs straight up to the roof-- he kicks that fucking door open too, and this is all easy because of his bionic spine after the surgery from when he got shot a lot by Skittlez.
Helicopter
sounds whoosh around on the roof as they burst into the morning (or night, fuck timezones) air-- Great Motherfucking Bear is waiting with a helicopter, listening to some sweet EDM music on his Beats by Dre Headphones.
IT
ALL COMES TOGETHER THIS IS WHY MIKE RESCUED GREAT BEAR, SO THAT GREAT BEAR COULD RESCUE GREAT SCOTT, THIS IS A GREAT PLAN.
Reunited,
Great Scott and Great Bear start doing The Great Scott. And then the guards are doing the Great Scott. And then Marcus Welsh finds his strength and he too is doing the Great Scott. And then they all get into the helicopter and go back to the United States
where there is freedom and lots of alcohol on a boat where Marcus Welsh decides to put Mike Best into the Hall of Fame okay thank you for reading, The End.
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Marcus
Welsh.
The
one man who believed in me, from day one. The man who gave me the opportunity to compete for the OCW Championship at Block Party. The man who put his reputation on the line, in a company where no one really wanted us in the first place.
We
changed the landscape of the company, for better for worse, and we made OCW a place where competition thrived-- if there was one man on the planet who believed that I deserved to wear an OCW Hall of Fame ring, it was Marcus goddamned Welsh.
I’m
going to pump so much goddamned White Claw into that man that he can’t help but drunkenly put me into the 2019 class.
The
unstoppable champion.
The
unwavering branding consultant.
And
after I conquered nine other men in OCW’s mysterious final match?
The
undeniable Face of OCW.