Post by Your JESUS on Jun 4, 2012 18:40:34 GMT -4
It's five twenty in the morning and sun has begun to lighten the dim sky. The fresh smell of watered grass fills the air as I slow my jog to a halt. Sweat stains my grey hooded sweat shirt custom made just for my style, sleeves cut off with precision shears from possibly a Walmart, who remembers exactly where I buy everything. I slow my heart rate down and flip the hood off my head. In that moment it's like walking out of an oven, my head roasts when I run and in some sick twisted way I enjoy it. I guess in a way it reminds me of the heat from the lights baking my brow as I strived to bring a thrilling show to millions inside the squared circle. Ah, the big show, the main event. I loved when I got to close the show, eh, who am I kidding I loved sucking up every ounce of attention I could get from any aspect I could get it. Dark match willy, mid card jones, shit where ever I was I tried to make a fucking impression that simply slapped you in the face, thats how I did it in my time. It's so weird to say my time or think of my run in past tense. I mean I wake up every morning still the same arrogant, smug son of a bitch that would do anything to make your jaw drop. I'm still the guy that was thee best in the world at getting an entire arena full of people to chant "Fuck you Jesus", and then minutes later have them all screaming and cheering because I would propel my body like a weapon. Once the dust settled, love me or hate me, you will never forget me. For all intensive purposes I was the fucking man, and when I wake up and stare in that mirror I still am shocked by just how much greatness is looking back my direction.
Cooled down now I enter my house in a north west Las Vegas suburb (that's right I moved to the burbs, and I run that bitch...HOA ain't got shit to say to The JESUS) I toss my keys on a table against the wall and flip the light switch.
As always, my over the top trophy case is right there staring me and any one else who decides to enter my home down with an attitude of "look bitch I'm amazing". A smirk comes over me because I can never get enough ego boosting, even when it's self induced. I walk up to the oak and glass structure admiring all my hard work, the fruits of my labor. In this cabinet, displayed with pride are all the APW titles I won in my time, which was all of them, I mean seriously I already said I was the fucking man. I have a Hall of Fame plaque, and numerous APW awards that were handed down to me by Jeff and the people of Action Packed Wrestling. The things in this cabinet represent the hard work, the dedication, and the absolute give all or die attitude I came into the business with. That attitude along with my skill sky rocketed me to the top. Now I am not perfect by any means I stumbled a bit in my greatness, but always managed to be relevant, always managed to turn a profit for myself and those who backed me. The APW made me a rich man, and with the guidance of a finical genius I have nothing to worry about for as long as I live.
Money, it's what a key focus became to me in the end. I needed to be the one with it all, I needed the big toys, the best entrance, the most ridiculous pyro, the most elaborate of everything I touched. That is how I measured success, and I reached it, and with what seems to be an endless bank account you would think that's something I think of when I look back. I mean look where I am, from where I was, why wouldn't I contemplate that? Geez I really have to answer that for you, man I have been out of the game awhile. Listen I'm simply put amazing and no matter what I pursued, greatness was my in my future. Destiny, some people speak of her. The only time I mention her name is when I describe how I fucked that bitch so good she gives me what ever I want. That's right folks Michael Lively lays pipe, when it comes to my greatness I put it down. Anyways I have gone off topic here, and I tend to do that from time to time. When I look back at my career I think of it like a fantastic book you have checked out from the library. You get half way through the story, get involved in the plot, connect with the lead because he is simply The Hottest Shit Going, then find the rest of the pages torn clean the fuck out of the book. That's enough to make me kick a chihuahua across the room and back hand my mother. Those of you who know my bitch, slut, cock addicted whore of mother, won't find it that last part shocking at all. None the less, cut short, robbed, time stolen from me. Kind of fitting an end to the career of Michael Lively in the cruel aspect of Irony. I mean I loved trying to put people out before their time was really up, and made it happen a time or two. I also loved to steal everything I could from others, their place in the rankings, their championships, the spotlight, I mean I was a dirt bag at times. Who am I kidding I was a full blown douche and I stand here with a smug smile on my face because I could back every bit of it up.
I had some walk through matches, a lot of them, I mean when you are a high level talent like myself there aren't too many to challenge you. The air is thin at the top and real rugged men with manly lungs and serious work ethic were the only ones allowed to be at the pinnacle with me. Every once and awhile some small scrotum'd cock knocker would waltz up here to the mountain top where he didn't belong, and tug on my boot laces. Those guys I took true pride in insulting, making a mockery of, in fact I think I'm the only wrestler to have tried to tea bag my opponent during match. Wandering again sorry, so I would send these nancy pants little fags tumbling back down the mountain. It was a special place reserved for real men to have wars. I had my fair share of those too, and when I went to war, win or loses I tried to make statement, make an impact.
Damn what fun, nothing like licking your wounds in the back knowing you left nothing behind. Somedays you were the one who walked out with the winning bonus, and other nights by the slimmest of margins, at least in my cocky mind, I sat back there with another "L" in the column. I never sweated the loses, and most of the time denied them to the public even though thousands were watching live on PPV. Hell the people of the world were living in my realm and there, Lively rules the roost and controlled the win loss column. Hell, if you met me today I would let you know how I am the only undefeated wrestler alive, and I would say it so convincingly that you would be questioning the record books. That's how I roll, I believe even if my hand wasn't raised, I haven't lost and you haven't truly beaten me. Losses please, I laugh at them, well there was the one defeat, that rocked me to my very core. My motorcycle accident.
I woke up with tubes, wires, casts and any other thing they felt like attaching to me while unconscious in that hospital bed. I would come in and out, it was like a never ending nightmare, and I can't even tell you that I remember when I finally realized why I was there. What I could remember is swerving my bike, everything moved so fast. You hear people say things go into slow motion right before tragedy...BULLSHIT! I just closed my eyes as I down shifted, still not sure why I down shifted when flying at a center divider on the freeway, but here we are. Artificial joints, pins, needles and plates.
As I stare at these fucking memento's I think back to those words that impacted me the most...."Michael Lively, I'm sorry to tell you but you can never wrestle again". Now this is the part in most Hollywood movies where the main character freaks out and makes a declaration to himself and the world to prove them all wrong...well there is a reoccurring theme here folks do I really have to say it again...BULLSHIT! I was fucking wrecked. In that moment I was financially stable, I had accomplished every goal I set in my path, and to tell you the truth most men could have rode off in the sunset happy with my list of accolades. It was there in this aura of haze , confussion, and defeat that I realized I loved to do what I do. I didn't do it for the fans, it wasn't about the money, it simply was a great way to feed my massive ego. For about a year those words the doctor spoke rang in my ears as I went to rehabilitation. At physical therapy I would try to push and my body couldn't do what I needed it too, and I tell you what, I believed those words had solid truth layered inside them.
Time moved forward and my body eventually began to work, in some respects I feel it performed better then before. The one thing that never left were those words. I have every bit of championship credit a wrestler could dream of, my name inscribed in the Hall of Fame, matches people will remember for years, promo's that stand out as top notch cinematic gold, and here I sit before my prime...done, a broken wrestler that once held the world in the palm of my hand. I said boo and these fuckers tried to blow the roof off of various arena's. I wanted a reaction and I played the crowd like a musical instrument, and in the ring, like an abstract painter I destroyed the canvas nightly. After all this time, all the struggle, the rehab, I feel better then I ever have, I train harder then I did when I was running the road night after night pissing on people's dreams and shitting on their chests.
With all of those thoughts and memories swirling around in my head like a storm cloud raining on my everyday existence I have made it to the kitchen and plop down at my breakfast bar. My feet take their place on the bar stool's lower frame, and you have basically fallen asleep on me, it's ok I do this for me so fuck off. The point of this journey down memory lane is because some of you, my bad most of you have no clue who I am. It's alright, I know the game, I didn't give two hamster shits about the guys before me either, all I cared about was looking forward, and who I had to make look like a bitch for my betterment. Getting to the point, fuck who knows maybe my point is that it's time to look forward again. Maybe it's time I practice what I preach. I mean you have just gotten a brief history lesson on the one and only JESUS of wrestling, I took you for a short ride into my mindset during and post accident, and for what? I mean it could be because I'm an ego maniac and just felt like absorbing some of your attention, or it could be because I have a motive, and by a motive I mean my ego needs to be fed, that's right it always comes back to me and my ego!! Seriously why else would I have subjected myself to pain, torture, and agony, because lets be honest entering the ring against some of my past opponents was simply cruel punishment, they had no business being inside the ring. I'm being deadly truthful right now, some of these fuck-tards weren't qualified to mop jizz off the floor at the local jack shack. I mean was a simple job interview for some of these guys even possible before joining the APW? "Hello, I'm Jeff, let me ask you a question, what was the last job you held? No shit you handed out porn cards on the street in Las Vegas, pretty skillful, well sign right here and we will throw you in the ring opposite some great superstar like Michael Lively".
If you cant tell I'm disgusted and shaking my head. Anyways I have done it again flew off on a tangent, you either get used to it or ignore it, that's usually what tends to happen when I start to ramble on about my greatness people tend to shut down like an autistic child in a loud room, they simply yell and hide in the corner. Ouch that might upset some people who have autistic children, and for that I make no apologies. I mean suck it the fuck up, I have a small dick and you don't see me getting all uppity when people throw that in my face, you know why because I have huge fucking balls that sit right below my thumb like male member. I'm talking monster size softballs, and every once in awhile they weigh me down, but at the end of the my testicle size empowers me. That's right this Michael Lively narration has taking the hard left turn and we are talking once again about my nutsack. Why you ask, because it takes balls like mine to step the fuck up despite all I have endured to make phone call I am about to make. So I dial up a number that I haven't typed into my phone for quite some time. With the phone pressed to my ear I wait for an answer.
"Jeff...it's Lively. I'm good man, feel great, like I could still whip your ass. Ha-you know you miss me. Listen bro we need to talk, no I think it should be in person. Nice, well I'll snag a plane ticket, and see you then"
With that brief exchange of of few words, History is all I can think of. History with Jeff and myself that gives us an unspoken respect for one another's contribution to wrestling. History that I made inside the sport, and the history I tend to continue as I hang up the phone with a holy hellish smirk plastered on my rugged face. No matter how simple and brief all that just seemed, it was symbolic to a snoow ball rolling down the hill. I Michael Lively have battled against my circumstances to return to what I do best, and with that a small bit of snow will soon turn into a massive avalanche!!!
Cooled down now I enter my house in a north west Las Vegas suburb (that's right I moved to the burbs, and I run that bitch...HOA ain't got shit to say to The JESUS) I toss my keys on a table against the wall and flip the light switch.
As always, my over the top trophy case is right there staring me and any one else who decides to enter my home down with an attitude of "look bitch I'm amazing". A smirk comes over me because I can never get enough ego boosting, even when it's self induced. I walk up to the oak and glass structure admiring all my hard work, the fruits of my labor. In this cabinet, displayed with pride are all the APW titles I won in my time, which was all of them, I mean seriously I already said I was the fucking man. I have a Hall of Fame plaque, and numerous APW awards that were handed down to me by Jeff and the people of Action Packed Wrestling. The things in this cabinet represent the hard work, the dedication, and the absolute give all or die attitude I came into the business with. That attitude along with my skill sky rocketed me to the top. Now I am not perfect by any means I stumbled a bit in my greatness, but always managed to be relevant, always managed to turn a profit for myself and those who backed me. The APW made me a rich man, and with the guidance of a finical genius I have nothing to worry about for as long as I live.
Money, it's what a key focus became to me in the end. I needed to be the one with it all, I needed the big toys, the best entrance, the most ridiculous pyro, the most elaborate of everything I touched. That is how I measured success, and I reached it, and with what seems to be an endless bank account you would think that's something I think of when I look back. I mean look where I am, from where I was, why wouldn't I contemplate that? Geez I really have to answer that for you, man I have been out of the game awhile. Listen I'm simply put amazing and no matter what I pursued, greatness was my in my future. Destiny, some people speak of her. The only time I mention her name is when I describe how I fucked that bitch so good she gives me what ever I want. That's right folks Michael Lively lays pipe, when it comes to my greatness I put it down. Anyways I have gone off topic here, and I tend to do that from time to time. When I look back at my career I think of it like a fantastic book you have checked out from the library. You get half way through the story, get involved in the plot, connect with the lead because he is simply The Hottest Shit Going, then find the rest of the pages torn clean the fuck out of the book. That's enough to make me kick a chihuahua across the room and back hand my mother. Those of you who know my bitch, slut, cock addicted whore of mother, won't find it that last part shocking at all. None the less, cut short, robbed, time stolen from me. Kind of fitting an end to the career of Michael Lively in the cruel aspect of Irony. I mean I loved trying to put people out before their time was really up, and made it happen a time or two. I also loved to steal everything I could from others, their place in the rankings, their championships, the spotlight, I mean I was a dirt bag at times. Who am I kidding I was a full blown douche and I stand here with a smug smile on my face because I could back every bit of it up.
I had some walk through matches, a lot of them, I mean when you are a high level talent like myself there aren't too many to challenge you. The air is thin at the top and real rugged men with manly lungs and serious work ethic were the only ones allowed to be at the pinnacle with me. Every once and awhile some small scrotum'd cock knocker would waltz up here to the mountain top where he didn't belong, and tug on my boot laces. Those guys I took true pride in insulting, making a mockery of, in fact I think I'm the only wrestler to have tried to tea bag my opponent during match. Wandering again sorry, so I would send these nancy pants little fags tumbling back down the mountain. It was a special place reserved for real men to have wars. I had my fair share of those too, and when I went to war, win or loses I tried to make statement, make an impact.
Damn what fun, nothing like licking your wounds in the back knowing you left nothing behind. Somedays you were the one who walked out with the winning bonus, and other nights by the slimmest of margins, at least in my cocky mind, I sat back there with another "L" in the column. I never sweated the loses, and most of the time denied them to the public even though thousands were watching live on PPV. Hell the people of the world were living in my realm and there, Lively rules the roost and controlled the win loss column. Hell, if you met me today I would let you know how I am the only undefeated wrestler alive, and I would say it so convincingly that you would be questioning the record books. That's how I roll, I believe even if my hand wasn't raised, I haven't lost and you haven't truly beaten me. Losses please, I laugh at them, well there was the one defeat, that rocked me to my very core. My motorcycle accident.
I woke up with tubes, wires, casts and any other thing they felt like attaching to me while unconscious in that hospital bed. I would come in and out, it was like a never ending nightmare, and I can't even tell you that I remember when I finally realized why I was there. What I could remember is swerving my bike, everything moved so fast. You hear people say things go into slow motion right before tragedy...BULLSHIT! I just closed my eyes as I down shifted, still not sure why I down shifted when flying at a center divider on the freeway, but here we are. Artificial joints, pins, needles and plates.
As I stare at these fucking memento's I think back to those words that impacted me the most...."Michael Lively, I'm sorry to tell you but you can never wrestle again". Now this is the part in most Hollywood movies where the main character freaks out and makes a declaration to himself and the world to prove them all wrong...well there is a reoccurring theme here folks do I really have to say it again...BULLSHIT! I was fucking wrecked. In that moment I was financially stable, I had accomplished every goal I set in my path, and to tell you the truth most men could have rode off in the sunset happy with my list of accolades. It was there in this aura of haze , confussion, and defeat that I realized I loved to do what I do. I didn't do it for the fans, it wasn't about the money, it simply was a great way to feed my massive ego. For about a year those words the doctor spoke rang in my ears as I went to rehabilitation. At physical therapy I would try to push and my body couldn't do what I needed it too, and I tell you what, I believed those words had solid truth layered inside them.
Time moved forward and my body eventually began to work, in some respects I feel it performed better then before. The one thing that never left were those words. I have every bit of championship credit a wrestler could dream of, my name inscribed in the Hall of Fame, matches people will remember for years, promo's that stand out as top notch cinematic gold, and here I sit before my prime...done, a broken wrestler that once held the world in the palm of my hand. I said boo and these fuckers tried to blow the roof off of various arena's. I wanted a reaction and I played the crowd like a musical instrument, and in the ring, like an abstract painter I destroyed the canvas nightly. After all this time, all the struggle, the rehab, I feel better then I ever have, I train harder then I did when I was running the road night after night pissing on people's dreams and shitting on their chests.
With all of those thoughts and memories swirling around in my head like a storm cloud raining on my everyday existence I have made it to the kitchen and plop down at my breakfast bar. My feet take their place on the bar stool's lower frame, and you have basically fallen asleep on me, it's ok I do this for me so fuck off. The point of this journey down memory lane is because some of you, my bad most of you have no clue who I am. It's alright, I know the game, I didn't give two hamster shits about the guys before me either, all I cared about was looking forward, and who I had to make look like a bitch for my betterment. Getting to the point, fuck who knows maybe my point is that it's time to look forward again. Maybe it's time I practice what I preach. I mean you have just gotten a brief history lesson on the one and only JESUS of wrestling, I took you for a short ride into my mindset during and post accident, and for what? I mean it could be because I'm an ego maniac and just felt like absorbing some of your attention, or it could be because I have a motive, and by a motive I mean my ego needs to be fed, that's right it always comes back to me and my ego!! Seriously why else would I have subjected myself to pain, torture, and agony, because lets be honest entering the ring against some of my past opponents was simply cruel punishment, they had no business being inside the ring. I'm being deadly truthful right now, some of these fuck-tards weren't qualified to mop jizz off the floor at the local jack shack. I mean was a simple job interview for some of these guys even possible before joining the APW? "Hello, I'm Jeff, let me ask you a question, what was the last job you held? No shit you handed out porn cards on the street in Las Vegas, pretty skillful, well sign right here and we will throw you in the ring opposite some great superstar like Michael Lively".
If you cant tell I'm disgusted and shaking my head. Anyways I have done it again flew off on a tangent, you either get used to it or ignore it, that's usually what tends to happen when I start to ramble on about my greatness people tend to shut down like an autistic child in a loud room, they simply yell and hide in the corner. Ouch that might upset some people who have autistic children, and for that I make no apologies. I mean suck it the fuck up, I have a small dick and you don't see me getting all uppity when people throw that in my face, you know why because I have huge fucking balls that sit right below my thumb like male member. I'm talking monster size softballs, and every once in awhile they weigh me down, but at the end of the my testicle size empowers me. That's right this Michael Lively narration has taking the hard left turn and we are talking once again about my nutsack. Why you ask, because it takes balls like mine to step the fuck up despite all I have endured to make phone call I am about to make. So I dial up a number that I haven't typed into my phone for quite some time. With the phone pressed to my ear I wait for an answer.
"Jeff...it's Lively. I'm good man, feel great, like I could still whip your ass. Ha-you know you miss me. Listen bro we need to talk, no I think it should be in person. Nice, well I'll snag a plane ticket, and see you then"
With that brief exchange of of few words, History is all I can think of. History with Jeff and myself that gives us an unspoken respect for one another's contribution to wrestling. History that I made inside the sport, and the history I tend to continue as I hang up the phone with a holy hellish smirk plastered on my rugged face. No matter how simple and brief all that just seemed, it was symbolic to a snoow ball rolling down the hill. I Michael Lively have battled against my circumstances to return to what I do best, and with that a small bit of snow will soon turn into a massive avalanche!!!
