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Tula Kealiʻi · (06-27-2020)

“One dollar per meat tube? What a deal blin!”

When I saw Boris was the “assigned XWF representative” to pick me up from the hospital and take me to the next venue, I figured this was going to be the worst trip of my life. Boris and I have absolutely nothing in common. He’s a loud, weird, drunk Russian whose face has never been seen and is somehow able to consume food through a mask.

And yet, throughout the course of this ride…I’ve grown a bit of a kindship with the man. Surprisingly, we both have similar views on the world, even though mine are formed from a general nihilistic view of the planet and his is formed from sleeping on too many floors of questionable bars. We have both turned to fighting as a means of survival. We are both veterans of war – at least, I think he is. He claims he once shot somebody in the course of a battle, and I didn’t want to question him any further.

I guess the point is, the next person you’re going to connect with may be somebody you would never expect. You can spend all of your life hanging out with people who look like you, act like you, and talk like you, but your next best friend, your lover, or your mentor might belong to a group of people you never expected.

We are stopped at a Pilot Flying J somewhere outside of Topeka. After filling up the car, we decided to stop in and get some food for the road. Boris can’t get over the rotating hot food section – hot dogs (which he calls “meat tubes), sausage, taquitos – normal gas station food for us, but a buffet of wonder for Boris. He starts grabbing some buns and stacking hot dogs into them.

“I wouldn’t eat too many of those.”

“You joking? They give you bun for free! American capitalism does have its perks blin.”

“I’m pretty sure those aren’t made with real meat. I think they just ground up some garbage in the back and shoved it into a casing.”

“Blyat, do not be funny. Meat tubs may not be the, eh…most healthy meal in the world, but Boris has had worse. Try living in apartment with Cousin Antoli with only 5 Euros left, and it three days until End of Month. Meat tubs are luxury then.”

I just shrug my shoulders. At this point, if nothing else has killed him yet, I doubt a dozen gas station hot dogs are going to do him in.

We have several hundred miles to go on our trip before we get to Nevada for Thursday Night Anarchy – a show he isn’t even booked on, so why he’s decided to go is anyone’s guest – and I can only imagine the stuff about his life I’m going to find out. Here’s what I do no, though – no matter how weird my life has gone, no matter how many twists and turns my life takes me, and no matter how many mistakes I may make…

…I will never be as batshit crazy as this guy. And, to be honest…that makes me a little sad.

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I don’t consider myself to be a hero.

I know some people like to call me that. They think my service somehow means I’m some sort of role model, but that’s not true. I performed a job. Just like I’m doing right now. I am helping Ruby take down B.O.B, not because I consider myself to be a hero, but because I’m performing a job.

Sure, it’s one I chose for myself. It’s one I chose because no one else would. But to think I’m some wonderful person for throwing myself in the middle of this fight…I’m not that naïve. In the end, it’s just professional wrestling. Thinking I’m somehow important because I’m in the middle of this fight is just as crazy as someone thinking they are important for starting the fight in the first place.

That’s where you come in, Mr. Graves. I may not know a lot, but I do know that you like to think of yourself as some sort of massive figure in this industry. You’ve been around for a long time, and therefor you think that means you have clout and respect.

But you don’t. I asked around, and there are very few people who think you’re any good. No one likes you. Centurion even called you “overhyped trash”. And to be honest, that’s what I feel about your entire little group. Your Band of Baddies, if you will.

None of you – and I mean NONE of you – actually have the skills it takes to take this industry by storm. None of you can beat Ruby straight up – especially you, Michael. If you were to somehow be granted a one on one match, she’s bury her feet so deep into your chest, her shoe laces will be lodged into your heart. And you know this – that’s why you have to sneak attack and use a numbers advantage in every encounter you are in. Because separately, you’re all a bunch of weak pansies.

You won’t be out there alone, Michael. I’m not an idiot. You’re going to have all of your goons try to jump me. That’s fine – let them come. I may end up losing this match just by shear numbers alone, but trust me – at the end of this war, I will still be standing, and you will be back begging for title shots from wrestlers who don’t give a fuck about you. One by one, your little stable will fall, and eventually you won’t have your friends with you anymore. And when that moment happens, I’m going to expose you for the talentless fraud that you are. And that will be a cause for celebration.

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