CONTENT

Title: Results
Featuring: Eric Dane
Date: 01.07.06
Location: Top of the Heap
Show: Victory XLIV

Who in fuck’s name are you talking to?

For the life of me…

No matter which direction I look, no matter how hard I search.

I can’t figure out who you’re popping off at.

Ya see, I know that’s it’s not me you’re talking to, you’re not that stupid.

You can’t be.

I just don’t have it in me to believe that the one person I’ve dropped a match to since I came to the UTA could be stupid enough to spend ten minutes vomiting up that sickening pile of fake-ass inspirational bullshit and think that somehow he was getting to me.

I mean you can’t be serious, right?

Look, kid, let me break it down for you here in plain English. Somebody got to Colton Thorpe and yeah, that’s got my ire up, but you don’t stay on top of this business for as long as I have by getting scared every time somebody close to you gets knocked off.

Getting knocked off, as it were, is part of the job.

Colton knew that when he signed up. But you know what? If it makes it easier for you to sleep at night thinking that I’ll be distracted then great, you’ll be well rested for the beating you’re gonna get at Victory.

Maybe you haven’t been paying attention, but even with Thorpe out of the picture and Szalinski fucked back off underneath whichever rock he was hiding under for the last year I’ve still get the biggest, baddest, most beautiful man on the UTA roster, Bobby Dean, watching my back. And Bobby, well, you know all about Bobby don’t you Will, he’s caved your head in every time he’s come within arms reach of you since he came back from his little vacation.

I don’t get it, Will. You’re supposed to be one of the top dogs around here, but every time I see you’re mangy little face I can’t help but feel like you just ain’t got what it takes to be the man. It’s not about respect, Thrilliam, and it’s not about how much you really really really really want to wear the big gold belt back home to your ten year high school reunion.

It’s about grit.

It’s about fortitude.

It’s about results.

Say what you will about how I go about my business, but I get fucking results. Listen to yourself, you can’t go forty seconds without reminding me that I’m a legend and probably the best thing that ever happened to the UTA, but in the same breath you’re trying to convince yourself that you’d be the first person that ever focused on my knees and how that’s totally gonna get the job done.

You know, because.

Because.

Speaking of results, Billy, let’s take a look at some. A few months ago you fucked around and picked up the biggest win of your career, against me, and what were the results of that huge piece of action and accomplishment?

As I recall it, I dropped you on your head so hard it put you in traction. Past that, it opened the door for Mikey Unlikely to make his name off of putting your dick in the dirt for three months by capitalizing on my rage issues and dropping you on your head a few more times.

Since then you’ve forced a manager to wrestle for you, hit a woman on live TV, and in what was probably the best match you’ll ever be in without me standing opposite of you you barely managed to put Mikey away.

Since then, you’ve… what? Almost lost to Perfection before I gift-wrapped you a Disqualification by wrapping the World Title around your head. Gotten beat up by Bobby Dean. Almost lost to Cayle Murray before I decided to grace the both of you with my presence and offer an entertaining alternative to the snooze-fest of the century. Gotten beat up by Bobby Dean again…

Come to think of it, how did you even fuck around and get this title shot?

Do you even know?

Michael Lorenzo was slumming it in my office after I raped the World Title from La Flama Blanca, looking for a bit of guidance and advice on how to run his show. You see, from the beginning that guy’s been on my jock, how do you think I’ve managed to always be one step ahead of the likes of you and Cayle Murray?

So anyhow, he was trying to come up with a list of challengers, yanno, some people who could go and wouldn’t end up looking like runover dogshit for doing twenty minutes in the ring with me before counting the lights. And that’s when your name came up, Thrill. He wanted to give the shot to Mikey, because you know, Mikey is infinitely more interesting than you are on your best day, but I put the kibosh on that and I suggested you.

That’s right, Billiam, I suggested you.

I can see you over there scratching your head, asking yourself why, but really it’s simple. You’re a decent enough mechanic in the ring that you can probably hang with me for a championship twenty, but you’re young and you’re fiery and you just might make it to a half hour before your body betrays you and you look up at me with those big doe eyes of yours and you beg me not to drop you on your head again.

Right before I do. Because that’s the kind of guy I am, no loose ends.

And that’s the other reason I suggested you, Will. Back when I was trying to convince myself and anyone who would listen that the All New All Different Eric Dane was what the UTA needed, you were the only one who knew better. You took that and you used it against me, hell son you pure outsmarted me that night because you were right.

Eric Dane didn’t need to evolve.

He needed to wake up.

And so I did. And this is where results come back into play. I parlayed that terrifying and humiliating loss to you in the Ring King tournament into the quickest, most vicious ascension to the UTA title in company history.

I pinned over half the field in The Chamber.

I drafted the roster that is the reason why Victory is still on the air and OtherShow isn’t.

I went on to dominate Victory.

And I did what you and Madman and Sean Jackson and Mike Best and everybody else who was in this company when I got here wanted to do; I knocked off that smart-mouthed prick La Flama Blanca and took his belt from him like he owed me money.

And I didn’t do it for the betterment of the UTA, either.

I did it because I’m a fucking Champion.

I’m a winner.

I’m  The Only Star.

Here we stand six months after your epic win over me, I’m the reigning and defending World Champion, and you’re the lucky mope who beat Eric Dane six months ago and has limped his way to a title shot simply because Eric Dane wants to right the wrong that is the single blemish on his record, and take a receipt out of Will Haynes’ ass big enough to cover all of the emotional baggage that comes with losing a match to Will Haynes.

Results, Will.

I’m the Champ, you’re the mope.

And the reasons, fuck Will they’re plentiful.

You’re bitching and moaning about spending the holidays alone and sleeping in a new bed because you’re broke, but you think I’m gonna be distracted by Sean Jackson. I don’t know how many times I have to say this but I’ve been kicking that guy’s teeth in since the late nineties. If Sean Jackson was gonna make a move, he’s have made one by now.

If anybody’s scared in this whole situation, it’s him.

But I digress. You think that somehow Colt being injured and Madman having spontaneously combusted is gonna change how I go about this match. You think that because you’re an idiot, and even though you claim to watch hours on top of hours of tape you somehow missed the fact that none of my boys ever laid a finger on La Flama Blanca.

He superkicked the referee, all I did was supply another one.

None of my guys put their hands on Perfection, either, Will. I took everything that he had just two weeks ago and I put him away right square in the center of the ring, and I did it all by my lonesome. Bobby wasn’t even at ringside, Thrilly-Throb Thorton.

So go ahead, keep planning on my changing things up.

Let me know how that works out for you.

Or better yet, bring me a big heaping helping of that sportsmanship bullshit that you almost want to say that you have. Tell me about earning things and winning the right way…

Ugh.

You sound like Cayle Murray.

Maybe that’s why the two of you keep finding yourselves on the business end of my dragon-skin boots. Keep your morals, fucko, they’re falling on deaf ears. I’m here to tell you that if it takes a handful of tights or a fork in your neck, I’m walking out of Victory exactly the same way as I’m walking into Victory.

The World Champion.

You might be right about one thing, though.

My legacy might just be wrapped up in championship belts. I could lose this thing and come out looking like half a man than before because in under two months I’ve redefined what it means to be a Champion in UTA but I couldn’t put any length behind it.

Or maybe that other thing that you said is true. You know, the part about how I’m a legend and I’ve always been the man and I’ll always be the man, no matter what fifteen pounds of gold I do or don’t have resting on my shoulder at the time.

Goddamn, Will, it’s like you’re playing both sides against the middle.

Moreover, it’s like you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.

Maybe that’s why you’re allergic to the World Title, Thrillex.

Like I said, it’s about more than thinking you’re a smart guy and putting together what a guy named Coleslaw told you was a good game plan. This ain’t the small-time anymore Will, it’s serious business. You can take all the stabs in the dark that you like trying to find that one thing that turns my last nerve and puts me on tilt, but you’re never going to get it.

To be the World Champion, you have to be willing to kill.

Willing to die.

You have to be willing to not only survive the onslaught that is Eric Dane, but you’ve got to have the constitution to retaliate in kind. Can you do that? We all know you can hit a defenseless woman, but can you carve the eyeball out of a conscious man just so he knows that you mean business?

I can.

I can stretch you until your arms and legs are useless, jagged little stumps.

I can drop you on your head until your brains are scrambled and leaking out of your ears.

I can drag you around the arena and wrap every chair in the building around that stupid smirking face of yours. I bet all the underage girls back in Who Gives a Fuck, Georgia absolutely cringe every time I knock another one of your teeth out at Victory…

And who’s gonna stop me, a referee?

A disqualification?

I’ll still be the champion, and you’ll still be a bleeding pile of missed opportunity.

It’s like it doesn’t even matter, Will, because you don’t have the luck to pin my shoulders again and you don’t have the balls to tap me out, and any other way this match goes, Will…

It ends with me, still the Champ, still the man.

And you? Well you’ll be what you’ve been since I got here.

Hell, since you got here.

You’ll be one excuse to the left or right of holding the UTA World Championship.

Eric Dane will smile and kiss babies, sign autographs and endorsement deals.

Will Haynes will do free meet and greets and get stuck in traffic.

You’re a regular bitch, Will.

Always have been.

Always will be.



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