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Tula Kealiʻi · (08-26-2020)

It’s not like I’m not used to failure. Hell, my entire life has been considered a failure. I could a thesis on the “Art Of Failure” and probably be called “Dr. Tula Keali’i” by year’s end. That’s not what bothers me.

What bothers me is letting down so many people. By talking as much shit as I did, I gave promise to every XWF fan who despises the B.O.B, a promise I could not fulfill. I let them down, I let Boris down, and I let Ruby down.

I’m so depressed right now, all I want to do is bury myself in a mountain of alcoholic drinks and pass out in the middle of the road. Boris and I found this shitty dive bar in the middle of Absolutely Nowhere, Indiana. To say Boris, a large Slav man in a bright yellow tracksuit, and I, a loudmouth Hawaiian, are a bit out of the ordinary in this place would be a complete understatement. That’s good, though. It’s what I want. I want one of these lowlife hicks to say something to me. I want a fight. And if I leave this bar with a broken nose and a piece of glass in my arm, then that would just be the icing on the cake.

So far, though, there haven’t been any takers. I’ve gotten stares. And even whispers. But no one has been dumb enough to actually say anything to me. And I’m already four drinks in. If I’m going to engage in a battle, I’m going to need to do so quickly before I can no longer stand on my own two feet.

I look at my beer bottle, which is empty, and I look over at Boris, who has a glass in front of him. He seems completely oblivious to the world around him. He is taking this loss a lot easier than I am, which is to be expected. It is Boris. But it still irritates me. And yet, in that moment, a plan has been hatched in my mind.

I listen to the music playing in the bar. It’s country – of course – and not even the good kind of country, but the “Bro Country” you hear from folks like Florida Georgia Line who so desperately want to be mainstream cool but know they can make hand over fist by placating to the dumbest demographic in the world. I nudge Boris with my elbow and lean in to talk to him.

“You know, that music, it’s controlled by an app on your phone. You can play whatever music you want. Here.”

I pull out my phone and open the TouchTunes ap. Boris’ eyes light up with excitement as he sees the possibilities in front of him. After a few seconds of scrolling and clicking, the loud, obnoxious “country” music stops playing, and the beautiful sounds of hard bass begins.

That did it. All these jeans and white t-shirt wearing “tough bros” all immediately get a sour look on their faces. One guy at the bar, the youngest and drunkest of the group, yells as loud as he can.

“Who put this shit on?!”

“Me! You got a fucking problem with it?!”

I stand up and get ready for the fun. (To be continued...)

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Good work, B.O.B. You got one over on me and Boris. I must say, I underestimated you all. I saw your group falling apart and getting further away from your goal, and I assumed that means you were completely talentless. But no, there’s still some skills in there.

Still, if you think one loss, or even a hundred losses, is going to stop me from continuing to do what I think is right, you have another thing coming.

Really, the person I should apologize to is Miss Fury. I did not give you enough credit in our last encounter. You’re good. You’re almost too good for the crew you hang out with. Someone with your skills I would expect to see hanging out with a...shall I saw, much more talented crowd? But hey, someone has to be a leader, and that’s a role you fill out easily.

The insults on your end are easy. You’ve already beaten me. It literally just happened. How can this week be any different than last week? Well, the answer to that is simple.

I have Ruby...and you have Michael Graves.

No offense to Boris, but he isn’t exactly a technical wrestling master. The dude has won nine matches, and almost all of them have been on accident. Love my traveling partner to death, but...he isn’t Ruby. He isn’t the most dominate wrestler in Anarchy history. He isn’t the one that made an entire group of afterthoughts join together in order to try and stop him. That was all Ruby.

Oh, and Money Oswalt is a thousand times the wrestler Michael Graves is.

Michael Graves exists to be a troll. He isn’t any damn good, and he knows it. Still, he walks around backstage, shows up on almost every show, and demands title matches. He knows he hasn’t come close to earning a title shot, and so the champion – regardless of who it is – is just going to shrug him off and reject the match. That allows Michael to say “oh, they’re scared of me! They don’t want to fight me!”

No, no one is scared of you, Michael. No one things you’re worthy of being in the ring with them.

I know what it’s like to let people down, Michael. I’ve done it quite a few times in my short career in the XWF. Do you know the feeling, Michael? Because in your corner, you have Miss Fury, who is hoping with all her might that she’s finally able to get one over on Ruby. All she needs is a halfway competent partner to stay out of her way.

Unfortinately...she has you. I hope your skills at apologies are better than your skills in the ring.

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