Title: Ya Got Me
Featuring: Eric Dane
Date: 01.08.16
Location: The Twilight of My Career
Show: Victory XLIV

“I take it all back.”

Today is going to be a good day.

I can feel it in my bones.

“Every last bit of it.”

It’s gonna lead into a good weekend, and that’s going to dump off directly into an excellent Monday Night. That, you see, is when and where I’ll get my hands on that walking inconsistency that we in the UTA all know and love as WIll Thrilliam Haynes.

“Of course you can be that stupid.”

Fade this motherfucker up.

That’s right, scene description. Today I’m going all out. Where before everything was black and mine was but a lone voice in the darkness, the inky black now retreats at the sight of me. As it rightly should, to boot. Between my sparkling personality and the blinding light cast by the UTA World Title belt I can feel myself glowing with an aura of confidence, swelling with pride, and bursting at the seems to say what I’ve got to say in front of a camera.

Behind me is a green screen, that’ll change in post.

Maybe they’ll have me on the Boardwalk in A.C.

Or better yet, inside one of the casinos!

I could be training with some scrubs down in Orlando and taking fourteen minutes to lace up my boots! Because, you know, then people will know that I train super hard for all my matches. Whoever Johnny Legend is can even be photoshopped in.

Anything can happen with today’s green screen technology.

“Alrighty, Will, I give up.”

I raise my hands above my head in as neutral a posture as I possess.

“Ya got me.”

I can’t help it, laughter is the only natural response. A hearty chuckle rises from deep in the cockles and I can’t help but let it loose. This may appear rude, but what’s a guy to do; when a laugh hits, it hits.


“I’m sleepwalkin’ right through the twilight of my career.”

Shaking my head I try to choke back another fit of laughter.

“I walked into the UTA, to see if I still had it in me to compete mind you, and I won the World Title in my ninth match in the company. I can see your point, Will, I’m obviously phoning it in to have only reached such a nominal level of success.”

The camera pans in close as my eyes widen, this shit couldn’t have been better if I’d have written it for him myself. Absently I wonder if the kid knows just how easy he’s made this for me. The thought passes as I continue.

“You know, the World Title.”

“That one trophy that you’ve sniffed once or twice, but never held it in your hands. You know, this thing right here, Will.”

The smile etched across my face widens exponentially as I unstrap the big gaudy belt and hold it up for him to get a good long look at. I want him to pay special attention to the nameplate, you know the one, it doesn’t say WILL HAYNES anywhere on it, and it never will.

“This strap right here, Will, this bauble that you’ll never get your grubby hands on so long as there is breath left in my body... This is your proof that I’m takin’ it easy?”

Staring, I blink several times. I’m trying to process the words but my brain is kicking them back out and asking for medical treatment. It’s like either he’s not trying, or as much as I like to make him the butt of the joke, he really just doesn’t understand.

“Are you fucking retarded?”

It’s a rhetorical question, Will, don’t answer it.

And get rid of those little balls of poop you keep in your pocket, that’s gross.

And stop licking the windows. That’s gross.

“Are you high? I mean, I could maybe forgive some of this if you were high.”

Crickets. He’s not really here to answer my questions. If he was, he’d probably be too busy getting knee’d in the face to have time to answer questions. I can’t help it, I don’t like the dude and I want to punch and kick and elbow and knee him in the mush until he’s an unrecognizable mess of thrillingly thrilling bone and flesh and grey matter.

“Nah, Will, you’re not retarded and you’re not high.”

Wait for it.

“You’re just stupid.”


“And bad at your job.”


“And you dress like a confused teenager.”

Middle Finger. Will Haynes gets the full package.

“But there you stand, rattling off at the mouth about how you’re big enough, bad enough, and doggone it somebody likes you. It’s not true, Will, nobody does. Listen to the crowd. Pay attention to all those Mikey! chants during your matches. Understand that we’re not in Japan anymore and the humanoids aren’t supposed to be quiet while you’re wrestling.”

It’s called heat, Will, get some.

“And do me a favor. Quit telling people that we have some kind of a shared history. The only things  that we share are an incredibly off night that I had where I let my need to be the man that UTA needed me to be take my eyes off the matter at hand, and a Tiger Driver that I gave you through the ring-steps that was the beginning of your shitty last several months.”

“You don’t know me, Will.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

But you’re gonna learn, kid.

“If you knew anything about the way that Eric Dane operates you’d understand that I’m not sleeping on you. I remember just exactly how embarrassing it is to lose to you, and I’ve seen you beat a few other guys who’s names at least sort of matter. Believe me, the last thing I would ever do is sleep on a guy who’s already beaten me in the ring.”

Pausing, I snort and I wait as I know it’ll take a moment to sink in.

“The thing is, though, I’m not stressing over you either. You’re confusing my lack of concern with a lack of knowledge that on any given day anybody, even Thrill The Will Haynes, can pull an upset out of his ass.”

Another shrug.

“When we step into that ring and you’re staring across at me, understand that you will have one-hundred percent of my attention, and I will have put together a plan for not only everything that I know you’ll throw at me, but for a hundred things that even though I don’t think you’re smart enough or skilled enough to execute, I can counter anyway. It’s called preparation Will, and it’s a thing that successful people do.”

Ha, mentioning Will Haynes and success in the same sentence. It just feels grammatically wrong to me for some reason. Like, the context is there, but the syntax is wrong. Whatever. The kid’s trying to show he’s got some balls, and besides he did ask me a question.

I reckon I could answer him.

This ought to be good.

“Let me ask you a question, Thrillson.”

I can feel my lips stretch into the snarkiest of smirks.

“Are you awake?”

And another.

“Are you paying attention?”

And another.

“Have you scrubbed the dried slobber off the side of your face and pulled your whitey-tighties out of the crack of your ass, had your Wheaties, let your mother dress you in those ridiculous clothes and ridden the short bus to school?”

“Are you fucking paying attention?”

You’d better be.

“I don’t have to have out-worked you this year, Will, because I’ve significantly out-performed you. I’ve sold more tickets, more t-shirts, and more Pay-Per-View buys in my half a year than you have in your entire career. Of course I’m the World Champion and you’re not, Will, I’m the type of man who can’t walk ten feet without tripping over a World Championship.”

“You’re the type of man who can’t walk ten feet without tripping over your own feet.

“You can keep telling yourself that taking a beating from me won’t stop you, that it won’t keep you down because you, you smug little cunt, don’t understand how the game works. The two things that you just can’t seem to figure out are that if I wanted you out of wrestling for good, you’d be out of wrestling for good. Ask Samuel Owens. Ask Sanctus. Ask La Flama Blanca…”

I never cease to enjoy rubbing that one in.

“And number two, I don’t need to put you down forever to walk out of Victory with the World Title still mine to do with as I please.”


“All I need is three seconds.”

I shake my head.

“Don’t you get it?”


“The entire crux of our business are those three little seconds.”

He still doesn’t get it.

“You’re gonna learn, Will.”


“Because I’m gonna teach you.”

I smile, I nod. I bathe in the tears of my enemy.

“But before we get to that, just so you don’t have an excuse, I’m gonna teach you a couple of things about Eric Dane right here, and right now.”

And please, pay attention this time!

This is important.

“I’m the one that your mamma warned you about.”


“I’m the man who’s living out your dreams, Will. I’m the guy who ran La Flama Blanca out of the UTA, not you. I beat him, I embarrassed him, and I kicked him in his ass on his way out the door just for good measure. I’ve got the World Title that you drool over every night when you’re reminding yourself that if you touch yourself down there you’ll go blind and grow hair in your palms!”

Fact. Fact. Fact.

“I’m a man of stature and class, Will.”

A leader of men.

A titan of industry.

A champion of sport.

“And you? You’re an insignificant little nit who’s made a career out of almost being in the right place at almost the right time.”

And quit trying to compare your All or Nothing to my Chamber Match. You lost at All or Nothing, get fucking over it.

“Get off my jock, Will. You can still be obsessively jealous of me if that’s how you feel like you’ve gotta roll, but after Victory’s done with i’m gonna need you to do it from at least two-hundred feet away from me at all times.”

It’s called a restraining order.

You’ll figure it out.

“My lawyer will be in touch with your… I dunno, your mom I guess, whoever handles your business.”

Just sign the papers and stay the fuck away from me.

“But before all of that, I’m going to beat you to within an inch of your life.”

My smirk returns, it is accompanied by a wink.

“Or maybe I’ll just kick you in the dick in front of the referee, collect my belt from the time-keeper or whoever wins the straw-poll this week and gets to hold onto it while I work, and I’ll go home to New Orleans to celebrate.”

This is too easy, it’s like I’m cheating already.

“Still the Champion.”

“Still the man.”


Here it comes.

“Better than you.”

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