Some guys join up with the armed forces because they believe in the cause. Some for the money. But if you ask a lot of guys why they enlisted, they’ll tell you unblinking that they wanted to kill people. It’s not exactly quaint, but the fact remains that if you kill a man in the streets they’ll cart you off to prison. If you join the military? They’ll loan you the gun and point you at the bad guys.

It’s the same in professional wrestling-- in the eight years I’ve been stepping into the ring, I’ve been the cause of more concussions than high school, college, and professional football combined. I’ve swung chairs at unprotected skulls. I’ve jumped off fifteen foot ladders, teed off on broken ribs, and spilled more blood than the Red Cross could ever hope to recover. I’ve enjoyed it. And even better? They pay me for it. Every time I step into the ring, they cut me a big fat check and pat me on the back. Yep, in the military they’ll hand you the gun, and in my world they’ll stock the steel chairs up so high you need a stepladder to choose your weapon. But in the real world? If you kill a man, you go to jail-- and if you knock a nosy reporter on his ass and break his nose in front of a huge crowd of onlookers?

You go to court.

...and therefore it is the decision of the Court find the defendant, Michael Lee Best, liable for punitive damages in the amount of five hundred thousand dollars and zero cents, to be paid in one immediate sum and in a period of time no later than thirty days from today’s date, November fifteenth, two thousand eleven...

His medical bills were only about a grand-- the rest was “pain and suffering”.

I was served a subpoena for the Greater Civil Court of Chicago, Illinois and told to appear on November 1st, promptly at nine in the morning. Unfortunately for the great city of Chicago, and even more so for myself, I was spending the better part of November first having the meat of my stomach jammed back into my by a team of doctors that seemed more interested in turning me into a Thanksgiving turkey than stitching old Humpty Besty back together again. See, when people watch a man get shanked in the kidney with a sharpened piece of glass on live television, maybe they assume it’s some kind of camera trick. Maybe they think it’s a fake blade. Or maybe they just assume that we’re some kind of superheroes, and that we’re right as rain in the morning. Well let me tell those people something-- when you get stabbed in the stomach on the floor of a filthy prison corridor, you don’t get up the next morning and have a bowl of cereal, maybe watch the news... you go to the hospital.

You get whisked away by panicked looking EMTs on a Mercy Flight, because there’s no way to drive off of an island in the middle of nowhere. You get stuffed onto stretchers and tossed onto gurneys, all the while holding your intestines in place so that they don’t tumble out of your body like a squishy series of Slinkys. And then, when you think it’s finally over, they strap you down onto a table and watch you howl and scream as they disinfect the wound and try desperately to stitch you back up. They don’t fix you, they just patch you up. They try to keep you from dying, if they can help it. Sometimes they succeed, and sometimes they don’t.

I wish they hadn’t.

I got a two week stay of execution before I had to show up in court, my torso still bandaged up like I’d been born half man, half mummy-- it was a Kangaroo Court. They took one look at me, two hundred thirty something pounds and sporting enough cuts and bruises to be an extra in a Rambo movie, and it was over. It was laughable, watching this pissant reporter going on and on about his “pain and suffering” and his “emotional duress”, faking tears and pointing out at the big bad stabbing victim staring back at him. My lawyer assured me that I wouldn’t pay a dime, and instead I had to hand over everything-- all of it. A half of a million dollars in one big fat personal check, my entire life savings. I liquidated my assets. All of it, gone in a puff of smoke. Needless to say, my lawyer has been relieved of his duties.

Oh, and he’s suing me for assault now, too.

The car is gone, it was leased. The penthouse was a rental. Jesus Christ, I didn’t even own my wardrobe. The television, the furniture, the jet-- rentals, rentals, rentals. Why own anything when you spend three hundred plus days a year on the road? None of them were assets-- I couldn’t even sell them. They were just possessions to be seized when I couldn’t make the payments. It was like a bad dream, the kind of shit that makes you wonder why they never formed a lynch mob and crucified the idiot who wrote “It’s A Wonderful Life”. Like some ill-fated housewife in a debt collection commercial, I just sat in the corner in the dark and watched as they took everything that defined me out and loaded it into a moving truck, piece by piece. The flawless leather couch where I destroyed the purity of countless CSU coeds. The comfy leather swivel chair where I destroyed the purity of countless CSU coeds. The spotless marble kitchen table where I destroyed the-- well, you get the idea. What was I supposed to do, bring starstruck college girls back to an unfurnished penthouse?

I’m a Best, and Best’s don’t fuck on the floor.

Actually, that’s a lie. But they shouldn’t HAVE to, is all I’m saying. I know it’s not easy to feel sorry for me, I mean it’s not like the charges were false-- I certainly destroyed that man’s orbital bone. But let’s be serious-- I’m a fucking celebrity. Quentin Tarantino bounces his fists off of reporters for no good reason half of the time, just because it’s Tuesday and that’s what he does on Tuesdays. Chris Brown beat the unholy hell out of Rihanna and what happened to him? He became an Internet legend. For fuck’s sake, Mario Maurako slapped every cunt at a Sara Bareilles concert and didn’t even have to say he was sorry. So why the fuck does Mike Best lose every penny he’s ever saved in this business because he loses his temper one time? Where’s the justice in that?

It’s 2012 and everyone is looking for a fresh start. It’s the new year and everyone is thinking about their goals, their resolutions. Me? I’m just thinking that it would be nice to have a place to live. I’m tired of crashing on couches and doing laundry five times a week to make sure I have clothes on my back. I’m tired of bumming smokes off of my buddies and doing guest spots at indy shows just to make sure I have food in my belly. Everyone thinks I came back at ICONIC because I’m all better now, and that my injuries have healed-- they think I came back to make an impact, and take out Rhys Townsend for what happened to me on Halloween. And I’ll go right on letting them think whatever they want, because it’s embarrassing to admit the truth:

I came back because I needed the money.

I don’t get paid when I don’t wrestle, and it’s not like they offer worker’s compensation for injured pro wrestlers. I don’t even have insurance-- who the fuck would insure someone who takes their life in their hands every single time they go to work? I made decent money to referee that match at ICONIC-- more than I should have, and I’m thankful for it. But with the medical bills piling up, it was gone before Christmas. It was gone before the check ever entered my hands, paid in full to a hospital that didn’t even manage to stitch me up right. I’m not healed-- I’m not even ready to compete. But while half the roster has a resolution to work harder in 2012, mine is a bit more simple... mine is just to work.

I wasn’t booked in the Best Arena in Las Vegas. It was probably for the best considering I’m still not technically medically cleared to wrestle, but I’m still fucking fuming that I never made it onto the card. Half the guys were probably thanking Thor that they had a bye week, but I was just punching numbers into the calculator and figuring out how many weeks I’m going to have to work before I can put a down security and last’s months rent on an apartment. I managed to sneak some ring time onto the show, long enough to say my piece and hopefully get some heat building to a pay-per-view match with Townsend. Let’s face it, I’m a fucking wreck and I can’t guarantee I’ll win the Invitational. But even if I’m not in the main event? If I plant the seeds now then I’m guaranteed a spot on the card with Rhys.

I know what you’re thinking-- you’re thinking “But Uncle Mike, what if Townsend wins the Invitational?” Well I can guarantee that it’s not going to happen. I can guarantee it because just like Christopher America in the 2010 Lee Best Invitational, there is nothing I will stop short of to make SURE that he’s eliminated. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, and right now I’m more worried about the paycheck than the payoff. Do I think that the OMG RETURN OF CARMEN JENNINGS is going to stop me from advancing? Jesus Christ On A Souped Up John Deere No. Am I sweating David Black, the man who has never beaten me, ever, in the history of my HOW career? No, not particularly. Am I worried about William-- well, let’s save him for a few minutes.

I’m worried about Rhys Townsend. The kid is in my head. He’s a younger, better version of me-- there, I said it. He’s more technically talented. He doesn’t have years of injuries and ring trauma weighing him down. And he didn’t need to work for six years just to make it in HOW-- he got in because Lee Best saw a money draw in a kid who’d never worked a professional match. Why the FUCK shouldn’t I be worried about him? Anyone who isn’t is fucking delusional. Wrestler Of The Year 2010 Mike Best could stomp mudholes in Rhys Townsend, and he did-- time and time again, he did. But Mediocre Wrestler of the Year 2011 Mike Best? He doesn’t stand a chance. I can’t put my eggs in one basket. I can’t pretend I’m the best anymore. But I can focus all my time and energy on getting out of the round robin stage of the Invitational, or at least making sure that Townsend doesn’t. Yeah, I can damn sure do that.

I’m writing this in the airport terminal in Vegas. There’s three days before I even need to get to Omaha, the majestic capital of FUCKING NOWHERE. I’m not staying to gamble. I’m not staying to whore around with my father and snort cocaine. Would I love to be doing these things? FUCK YEAH I WOULD. I would love to be brazenly living the life that I was living just a few months ago, but I can’t do that. I can’t go back to that, not yet. First I have to earn myself one more big fat check-- I’m the highest paid wrestler in HOW right now, and I don’t have a fucking penny to my name. But that changes this Monday night, and it’s well known that Lee Best gives his employees incentive to win. It’s not just my salary-- I make the same win or lose-- but it’s about merchandising. It’s about ratings draws. See can step into the ring and win, and I can make my money, and I can go home. Or? I can decimate another human being until I’m the most watched performer on any television show in the history of everything, ever. I can make a hell of a lot more money putting on a slaughter than I can by having a wrestling match, and I almost feel bad for the poor flunky who has to step into the ring with me.

William Bateman drew the unfortunate luck of being seeded against me in my first match back in 2012, and there’s a lot more on the line than pride.

William, I hope you’re reading this. I said we’d come back to you, and as you’ll come to learn, I’m nothing if not a man of the truth. I cheat, Bill. I steal. I will take every advantage I can, but I DO. NOT. LIE. That’s why you should take the words I’m about to say to you into very, very careful consideration before stepping into the ring with me.

You might die on January 30th.

I don’t mean that figuratively, Bill. I don’t mean it exaggeratedly, either. See I’m not the guy who’s going to waste a whole mess of time making fun of your name, or it’s close resemblance to masturbation. I’m not the guy who’s going to try and play mind games and get you to let your guard down. Don’t mistake a single word I’ve said so far as any kind of weakness, Mr. Bateman, There are a lot of things I’m worried about in this year’s ABI, and almost all of them are named Rhys Townsend.

But you?

Oh, child. You’re a plaything. You’re a dough eyed woodland creature taking a sip from a flowing spring in the big bad woods of HOW, and I am a fucking MONSTER, Bill. I am the thing hiding under your fucking bed with a kitchen knife and a blow up doll, and let me tell you right now that YOU DON’T FUCK WITH THAT GUY. No one wants to be the guy I make my return against, William, but there is no one in the world who should be more worried about that than YOU. You, who’s greener than the giant on the can of mushy peas I ate for lunch this morning because I can’t afford to get fucking McDonald’s in the Vegas airport. You, who made your “impressive” splash last week by barely beating a WALKING VAGINAL ABOMINATION, and only because Christopher America wanted to see her embarrassed on HOW television. You, who gets to take the full brunt of my world ending fucking rage over the events that have transpired over the last few months.

I got stabbed, Bill. Literally prison shanked. Have you ever been in prison, Bill? I hope not, because I take one look at that boyish face of yours an I know that some big angry prisoner would fuck your mouth hole until they came Skittles. It’s a domination game, Billy, and you don’t look like the kind of guy who’s winning. But me? I survived two weeks in Alcatraz under conditions that make water boarding look like a leisurely swim in a hotel pool, and then I GOT FUCKING STABBED IN THE MIDSECTION. Do you think that makes me happy, Billy?

I lost everything I ever worked for to a member of the fucking press, all because I lost my temper on a bad fucking day. Do you think I just swallowed that and moved on? Jesus, kid, I lost my bid for Wrestler of the Year because I was sitting in a hospital bed-- I can’t even get a one year contract right now because my father is worried that I’m going to come up hurt again. DO YOU THINK THAT PUTS ME IN A JOVIAL FUCKING MOOD?

I’m not cleared to wrestle, but that doesn’t much matter. Because on Monday, I’m not going to wrestle you. I’m going to fight you. I’m going to punch you in the head until it’s fucking soft, Bill. I’m going to work you like a fucking hand puppet, and then I’m going to stand on your neck until you turn a shade of blue that pleases me. I’m going to rape your faith in God. I’m going to kick you in the fucking colon until you can’t get a fucking hard on without a big toe in your anus.  There’s no metaphor here, kid. It’s just how it’s going to go. You didn’t just draw the much heralded “in-ring return of Mike Best”, Billy--

You drew the return of MIKE FUCKING BEST.

You’re going to be the first witness to a spectacle that is going to get the FCC trying to burn down the Best fucking Arena. In 2012, I’m going to put the ChristPlow abortion clinic to shame. I’m going to make Graystone’s child molestation fan fiction into a shallow grave and then set it on fire. I’m going to let the wheels fall off this bitch, and you’re the first thing it’s going to crash into. So Billy? Dear, sweet, green Billy? Stay home on Monday night. Better yet, run to Canada. I won’t chase you into Canada. Or better yet? Show up. I dare you. I might be broke right now...

...but you’re going to help me fix it.