Whatuka....

["The Hottest Shit Going"]

We run our bodies ragged. We take and take from them. Many people try to give back to their bodies by spending time in the gym. Attempting to sculpt themselves into a new. Others only chose to treat their body as if it were a temple by indulging in organic foods, and digesting only the purest of health. How does an athlete pay it's body back. How can a man that spends most of his time training to go the distance inside a ring night in a night out, then doing so in a grueling way simply give back to the carrier of his soul.

Some people think rest is the key, maybe this is the answer. There are knowledgable men who would argue that point with the response that sleep is the cousin of death. I however at this very moment wouldn't mind embracing death. If not death, get as close to it as possible. What better way then through a cousin. After a long over seas tour, the body of an ahtlete who's only mission is to go, and go, and go so that the midless idiots that follow them around like puppy dogs can have a taste of what it is like to truly be superior, may need some down time. We are like gods, the people look up to us. Some of the gods are feared, while others are cherished. Many are hated, but all are envied in a very special way. Just like god we have no off season, just short intervals of peace that seem to vanish in seconds. For like a true god a wrestlers work is never finished. These people are so fucking needy. They always look to us for the cure to their misery. We must go out there night in and night out so they can escape.

Well at this very moment I need to escape, just for a few hours. There aren't many occassions when I get to see my house. My eyes look upon it every time I step through the door as if it were brand new, and just how I pictured it in a dream. Home sweet home, more like give me the bed so I can catch up on some sleep. This evening there will not be a matress too soft, or pillows to stiff. The stench of hotel carpet doesn't polute my nostrils. For on this evening the comforts of home are once again mine. Rest is surely coming my way, relaxation is about to be my drug of choice, and sleep is my much needed vice.


Sweet Dreams


The ear piercing sound of a door bell in the morning can really fuck with your brain. It can have you reaching for the alarm clock, or answering the phone. Ussually if these are your responses to a visitor after a nights rest you must have gotten your fair share. I jump from my bed as the visions of reality set in. That disgusting taste of morning breath seems to be chaffing the insides of my mouth. No time to brush, it seems that someone is here and it must be urgent. As I come around the corner from my bedroon the persistant son of a bitch ringing my door bell decides one more is what I needed as I approach the door. To my suprise, I find a deleivery boy tapping his foot as if I am distrubing him.

"Uhh, you Michael Lively" this young little smug bastard asks me.

"Uhhh, yeah you smart ass" is exactly how I respond. This little shithead rolls his eyes as he hands over an envelope.

"You know I have a mail box down stairs in the lobby."

"Yeah, well the instructions were for this letter to be deleivered into your hands."

This kid has gotten on my nerves, and he is so lucky there isn't a camera around because I would smash him right to the surface if it meant the retarded fans of APW could have another reason to hate me. I sign his little log sheet, and slam the door right in his face.

"Fucking Jerk" I can here from the other side of the door. A simple smile of joy apears on my face as I toss the envelope on the couch. I have started my day off perfect. Awake to the world, and have shit in someones cereal first thing. Now to brush my teeth. Nothing worse then having yuck mouth. As I do my brain begins to wonder about that letter. Maybe it's another court case, someone else trying to sue the JESUS for bringing them first hand into the action of APW. That can't be the case or else that little puke would have told me I have been served. I know full well what it's like to be served and that was not it. So then what, what could be in that envelope. What must be so important that it needed to be hand deleviered? Maybe it's from APW? Why would APW send me something, unless I'm no longer needed, or suspended. I could have killed Jason Royce, but instead I went easy. I saved some jobber for others to beat on. They can't possibly be mad at me over that. Better yet, it could be that BDC has passed away from old age, and I have been named the excecutor of his estate. He knows I fucking owned his ass, and that he can no longer keep up with the charade, so in his final actions on this earth he righted his fraudlant ways by giving ME all that he has earned through out the years.


Enough of the mind fuck, I must read this letter. My hand turns off the water and I towel off my face. The suspense is killing me, so I head out there and have a seat. The thumping in my chest is unbareable as I slide my finger inside the envelope ripping it open. I pull out the letter that has stirred up plenty of contreverssary for me in the past few moments, unfolding it so that my eyes can begin to scan. Is it bad news or good news.


Michael,

First I must say you have definately made a name for yourself, it seems that your dreams have come true. I can honestly say that I am happy and proud of you. Now where to begin, this isn't easy for me. Quite frankly I'm kind of embarrassed. I know I haven't been...the type of man...

Michael what I am trying to say is sorry, simply put I am sorry. I have a lot of things to be sorry for. I would love to appologize in person. Michael if there is any way, maybe you could meet with me, please let me know.

Sincerley,

Your father Steven Lively


I'm not sure where to go from here. My heart almost stops beating, and silence seems to overtake my entire soul. The paper falls from my hands, as a I lean forward not sure how to react. I have a lot of hatred inside built up for this man. I have never had a desire to see him. Yet with these few words scribbled on paper I seem to be shocked, floored to be correct. I lean over grabbing the cordless phone. I hit the button as the dial tone simply just hums. My ears listen to the sound as my brain seems to get lost. This is truly unexpected. The last thing I thought would happen is to be contacted by a man I last thought was in prision. I dial a number, and the ringing begins. My breaths short as I seem very nervous.

"Hello"

"Mom..."

"Michael, uhhh, are you OK"

"Listen I just got a letter, and it's from him."

The silence on the other end of the phone can surely describe how akward this entire situation is.

"Listen, I thought he was still locked up..."

"No, darling...he was released last year."

"Nice, thanks for telling me. Listen this fucker wants to meet with me, he claims he's sorry, and would like to appologize in person."

"(Sigh) Well Michael, first you wanted nothing to do with him, and either do I. I heard about his release from his mother, but your stance is why I never said anything. I also didn't realize he would call you so I am just as shocked as you. Anyways Michael...it's your deal if you do not wish to see him then so be it, you make the call and that should be it. He is your father, the least he can do is respect your wishes. I am just sorry for the pain we both caused you as a child. No child should have to go through the circustnaces that you did. I applogize Michael."

Again the silence was akward, and I simply just hung up the phone usure of what else to say. With that I folded up the letter, and headed to the kitchen. Second to sleep I hear breakfast is pretty important as well and I sure could go for some of that.









Some Inner Thoughts

Now wrestling fans are crazy about their sports entertainment. They go to great lengths to watch the matches, and see some action. These fucking monekys also love themselves a good promo shoot as well. I try to give that to them even though it is I they despise. That hatred goes both ways. Through it all I know these senseless tards all love me inside. They can't wait for the moment I drop a promo, shoot a segment, or cut loose on camera. Thats what these fucks tune in to witness, some witty bullshit from the JESUS. Well these past weeks have been challenging. Fresh off our tour of Japan, then last week having to humiliate Jason Royce for the hundreth time. Toss in the fact that I have put in some serious effort to create masterful gems that air on APW television each week, I'm plummed drained. I did mention earlier that gods don't get much of a break, and the old saying is no rest for the weary, so you know I'm bringing something to the table.

The promo is the key that lets you in the door. It's a very improtant tool in our business. First comes the news of who your opponent is. That in it's self comes with a lot of emotion. Your mind begins thinking about the match, how you pair up with said oppnent. Then you begin thinking of how to beat that opponent. What your strengths are compared to their weekness. Then comes the time for your promo. This is your chance to get inside your oponents head. A chance you point out his weekness or his flaws. A chance to crawl underneath his skin, and start digging at his bones. You have to hit hard, hard enough that you penetrate their defensive wall. Once you find the chink in that armour the rest is history. The doubts you plant like seeds will begin to expose themselves in the match. They will sprout flowers giving you a sign that your hard work has paid off. I love to rip those flowers from the stem, and tear the root from the surface, hopefully scarring the person for life. It sounds cruel but in the end hopefully they learn. Hopefully they can walk away from the match a better person. One with a thicker skin, someone who won't expose so many weakness. A match with me in it's self is challenging, but survive a tongue lashing prior to it, and you have to be something trully special.

That brings me to this week. I once again find myself in a main event on Ovderdrive. I am no stranger to this, and in fact I am no stranger to my opponent either. Level One, the APW heavy weight champion. The name alone scares certain people, but not me. I have faced many people that seem to strike fear in the hearts of men. This fucker bleeds like I do, breathes like I do, and can fall just like I have. It wil be a challenge to take a man that has simply no losses in singles competition in APW down for the three count. I know because I once had the pleasure of trying that task. On camera you will never here these words leave my mouth, but it was a true bitch trying to defeat Level One. Something more fitting for Michael Lively to utter is possibly "Fuck Level One, he didn't beat me, I let him win, I had bigger fish to fry."

That wasn't the case by any means. You see he got me before we even stepped into that ring. That fucker found my chink, and ripped my chain link armour to bits prior to the bell leaving me fully expossed to the world. His promo was nasty, brutal, and mostly true. That was then, this is now. I know you are probally wondering what is different. what has changed. Michael Lively you are still the foul mouthed arrogant bastard you were then. Well little sheep, the thing that your savior has realized is the error in his ways. I was my own enemy back then, and sometimes to this very day I can cause myself more harm then good. Some reason though, I must have pleased someone because I'm feeling oh so lucky coming into this match. With that being said let us see if I can once again pull a rabbit out of my preverbial hat.


B-Roll

Inside a production studio, a monitor is set up. The sound engineer seems to be getting some levels right as he tweaks on his elaborate board setting in front of him like the console of a space ship. Something that is sure to bring anyones day down to zero hapens as Michael Lively enters the room. Luckily for this gentleman he has had to to prepare for this sure to be Lively encounter.

Engineer: Welcome Mr. Lively...welcome.

Lively: Just call me Michael.

Engineer: Well I have a pitcher of water over there in case you need to keep the throat wet. In that booth is a pair of headphones, and a monitor set up ready to roll.

Lively: This whole thing is kind of new to me. I know we shot a ton of footage, and from what I heard some of it turned out super sweet.

Engineer: Listen, just relax, get loose. We are going to play the video in certain spots while you narrarate what is happening via the script we have already written for you.

Lively: I hope this works, it seems like a different idea for a promo.

Engineer: Nice try, actually it's been done a few times already, I know for sure Matt Metal has cut a promo while a video montage plays...anyways Michael...I'm sure yours will be the best by far, now if you would we have a lot of ground to cover.

Michael Lively smiles at the man who seemed to know just how to deal with egomaniacs. Lively makes himself comfortable on a high top bar stool. He grabs the headphones, and like JESUS accepts his crown. The man then grabs the microhpne bringing it close to his face.

Engineer: Alright Michael Lively, this is it. Only the best in the business narrarate their own story. Only the highest of arrogant bastards speak on their own behalf. Only the creme de la creme can paint you a picture with fancy words, so lets show the world just how great you are. Show me no one is on your Level.

Another child like smile from the JESUS as he looks down at the monitor. An image softly fades showing the newly designed APW logo.

Engineer: Alright go Michael...

Lively: Rasstlemania, the super bowl of our sport. The grandest stage that has ever been set. On 5 different occassions this monumentous event has graced you fans with it's pressance, and the last one that aired put the rest to shame.

The monitor then explodes into action showing highlights from that great evening.

Lively: Every sport has it's domminant stand outs. Frazier and Ali, Manning and Brady, Busch and Sterwart, Jordan and Bird. There always comes a time when these two standouts must meet head on.

The monitor then fades to a shot of Level One.

Lively: A name known across the world of proffessional wrestling. Not since Hulk Hogan has a name like Level One transcended into main stream. His reputation followed him all the way into Rasstlemania. Like a huge shot of nitro, all those that have fallen before him rocket this man toward one goal...one mission...

The monitor then gives a glimpse of the APW title, as it fades back you see the belt hanging between the legs of Michael Lively as he poses with his arms outstretched.

Lively: The champion, the best there is in the business. To be the best you must beat the best. So it is only natural for a match up this huge, a battle this important to take place at the years biggest event Rasstlemaina 5.

The monitor then begins to play through different clips in the match. Level One gets the upperhand on Lively a few times.

Lively: Really, we have to watch this.

The tape stops, and the Engineer shakes his head.

Engineer: Whats the matter?

Lively: I already lived through this. There is no need for me to view this material once more. Not to mention I don't rememebr talking about this being in the video. Why would I want the highlights from that match in this promo going into the a rematch.

Engineer: Listen Michael, it's hype we have to build the hype, build the hatred between the two of you. Thats what will make this match up on Overdrive garner the highest rattings of any show thus far.

With a sigh of acceptance the JESUS places his headphones back on and looks down to the monitor.

Lively: With the dawning of a new era, starts the rebuilding of another.

The monitor shows Level One with the title raised high standing over Michael Lively.

Lively: Alright...this is bullshit. They have a clip of me looking as if I'm a cowaring from this bastard. What the fuck kind of editiing is that?

Engineer: It's actual footage from Rasstlemania...no editing.

Lively: It's almost as if I wasn't there, I don't rememebr any of this. Lets skip this shit, and get into the next portion of the tape please. Lets begin to build to the meat and potatoes.

Engineer: Sure, we can come back to this portion in a bit.

The tape is fast forwarded, then stops with Michael Lively making his way back to shock the world.

Lively: Like a Phoenix I rose from my ahses. The JESUS has crawled from the depths of hell, scratching, and pawing my way to the surface. With great furry and powerful vengance I have caused a path of destruction with my return.

A video assortment of Lively pounding on Joe Martinez, choking out BDC, pinning Jason Royce, and various others.

Lively: One goal in mind, one thing left unfinished...

The Xtreme championship hanging from the rafters is shown, and then fades into a glimpse of Chris Cyrus holding the title proudly.

Lively: Something that I have never acheived, something that has eluded me my entire career...

The video quickly turns to a shot of Level One, pinning Lively.

Lively: Hey what the hell...why are showing this horse shit again.

Engineer: Listen Michael, I guees the build up is that you have never beaten Level One. I don't see what the Xtreme title has to do with Monday night. You are not the champ, and niether is he. It's you and him.

Lively: NO, the buildup is that I am one title reign away from being the only grand slam champion APW has seen. The Xtreme title comes my way at Christmas Chaos, the PPV named after me.

Engineer: Calm down lets just do the rest, wait what named after you?

Lively: Yeah I am the Christ, Christ-mas...it's real simple chied try to keep up.

Lively takes a deep breath and looks down at the monitor. A video of him performing crazy antics to various crowd memebers, and other wacky stuff.

Lively: This industry has never seen a Michael Lively before. After my legacy has been cemented and all that is left but a memory, they will never see one again. The Hottest Shit Going isn't just a nickname, it's not just a monicker, it's God damn fact.

The video then shows Michael Lively inside a wrestling ring stepping out from the darkness.

Lively: This Monday night, live on Overdrive...two industry greats have followed their paths, and find themselves face to face once more.

On the monitor it shows Ms. Lively dressed as Level One stepping from the darkness on the other side of the ring.

Lively: Ohhh, this is the good part.

Engineer: Lively, stick with the script, or the timing will be off.

Lively: Face to face once more, the top of the business, two future hall of famers will go nose to nose.

Ms. Level One Lively and Michael Lively step nose to nose on the video.


Lively: One must fall...


Lively then takes a stiff kick planting in the gut of his mother on the video. He then steps back, waits for her to rise, and plants a super kick right in her face. The woman flies backward out of the ring, and he simply strikes the I am JESUS pose.

Lively: and one must stand tall...through the foggy haze that surrounds our exsitence, we must not surcome to the fa...fakaid...fakoid...fack-od...what in the blue hell is a fack-od?

Engineer: It's facade Michael, it means...

Lively: Who gives a shit what it means, why are you people making up words and sticking them inside my script.

Engineer: We are not making up words, these are straight from the english language.

Lively flips forward through the script

Lively: Who uses intrigue, Metaphor, and facade as you put it, what about...you know what never mind, fuck the script, and the cheesy video package. You just sit behind that there console and record this.

Lively tosses the script to the side. He grabs the microphone standing from the chair kicking it backwards to the floor.

Lively: You fucking idiot fans don't deserve this shit Monday night. You fucking out of shape, welfare dependant pukes shouldn't be getting something of this calibur for FREE. None the less my pay check is still the same, so it's happening with out a single thing I can do about it. Level One and Michael Lively, round two...for FREE!

Is it cliche' to say that round two will be different. Is it excuse making to say that my head is in a different place now. Ahh who gives a fuck, it was huge back then and it quite frankly is huge now. Two bad asses are going to go toe to toe for the enjoyment of the fans. I say fuck the fans, fuck them all right in their hemroided assholes. Now, speaking of hemroids let us start to pick at the one on APW's ass...Level One. Anytime the heads of this company try to sit down and formulate a way to move forward there you are right on the ass, nagging like a little bitch.

I can't judge you though, I am guilty of the same sins, if not ten times guiltier then you. I'm sure you will be patting yourself on the back, trying to boost your connfiendence all along in the attempt to convince the fans that last time was legit. Well I know, you know, Jeff knows, and the entire roster should know that no matter what happened inside that ring I wasn't walking out with the title. Because of my actions, and my intentions it was crystal clear to everyone how things were going to go down. Something that works well for instances like this is FUCK YOU and the PAST, like Marty McFly let us go back to the future. The future were I admitted my mistakes, and have moved forward. My focuss is clear, and my path has been layed out in front of me.

It just so happens that your boastfull ass has stepped in the way once more. The great and all mighty Level One...oooh don't bust me up. Your bitch ass can fall just like the next guy. It just may take a little more time, and some creativity to do it. Who better then the savior of APW, Michael Lively. I find it funny Level, that the two of us seem to have this hatred for eachother. Ali and Frazier seemed to share the same thing at one time. The thing is though we aren't so different. Both high achievers, both ego maniacs, extreme shit talkers with more then enough skill to back it up. You claim you saved APW from it's trenches of shitiness. You pulled this company from a dark hole apparantley. People look upon you with fear, I see it every week. When I stare upon you, fear comes to mind as well. I look deep into those dog shit brown eyes of yours and realize that the waste inside you is building up and about to over flow. You are a scarred little bitch. Affraid people will soon figure you out. Realize that you are nothing short of hype. It's cool, it seems I am in the business of expossing hype machines lately. BDC was proved to be the fraud I found him to be. A washed up old sack of shit who couldn't keep a diaper clean long enough to pull up his wrestling tights. Yet this isn't about BDC, it's about you. A fragile little man walking around all puffed up feeling good about the make believe kingdom he has created. Thats what this business is all about.

We move around trying to make a platform for ourselves to stand on so we can be above the rest. You have found a talent in knocking people down from that platform, and taking their spot. The problem Level One is that you are like the silly little pigs fearing for the wolf. You are in a panic to build your fortress so that the sight of this big bad wolf can no longer be seen. Sadly your legacy is built upon sticks of hay, and planks of wood, it doesn't take much to create destruction.

Now why has it lasted this long, your run, your reign. I'm guessing that this place might have been exactly what YOU said it was, a pile of shit fed stinking up the airwaves. A company of talentless hacks who don't deserve to stand in the spotlight. Well you have rightfully taken your throne as king of shitty, prince of poop, and ruler of regular. You walk around as if the world owes you something, well Michael Lively has enough in the bank to write that check you son of a bitch. The big bad wolf has made his way around the bend and has his beedy eyes set upon your weak house of cards. With a few huffs, and puffs I'm going to leave you laying in a pile of your paper dreams. Level One, I may not give my money to various wrestling publications like you so that they can rank me amoung the best in the world. I am far from being an Expert, but what I can say is that once the bell rings you will have one hell of a legit contender on your hands.

This one is sure to be a classic, it's sure to bring the noise. I'm not pulling any punches, and the desperation in your eyes tells me that you won't either. I'm no fake contender, no fraud of a man. I don't mince words, or come accross with extreme intteligence. I cut to the chase, you can see in my eyes as I don't even mutter a word that FUCK YOU is what I'm saying. My inttillengance doesn't come from a thesaruas, or various encyclopedia's, I'm not a what people call an educated man. My degree isn't from a college, it's been earned inside the ring. I have gotten a Master's degree in beating people who seem unbeatable. You my friend are the very next on that list. I will not guarantee victory tonight, but I can say the cake walk is definately over sunshine. No longer will your bloated bullfrog looking ass be getting away with easy W's. Hopefully the rest of this pathetic roster will stand up and take notice. You are nothing more then a simplton.

We can all see the real you. Little Level One just like the kid running the elementary playground Monkey Bars. Stumbling around with his chest puffed out thinking he is Billy the Kid. Until the day he losses, the first thing that happens then is crying foul, or bitching about a cheat. You little fragile bitch can't except a loss, that is your weakness. Thats what drives you to where you are.

I stand before you with nothing to lose, and everything to gain...and that makes you nervous doesn't it. You beat me and so what, everyone in the back already thought thats how it would go down. You gain nothing, the title isn't even on the line.The fans are begging for a me to catch a smackdown anyways.

Flip that coin and say I win, that puts a damper on a ton of things around here doesn't it Level. It sends you into Christmas Choas with a loss, your first in APW one on one. It would begin to chip away at that ego of yours and expose that fragile state I talked about just seconds ago. The world champion would then be in question as he steped into the main event with a tough challenger. Thats all the announcers could talk about is how just a few weeks ago Michael Livley did the unthinkable, could it happen again here tonight with Craven. Either way I don't care, I'm set. My path has taken me to where I belong. Beat me and I still have my shot at the Xtreme title. Fall to my hand and yet nothing changes my destny, but you...

The myth that you are some unconquearble conquest would be proved to be far from truth. Like the great virgin Mary, anything is possible when a Dick is involved. I am one of the biggest Dicks around, and once more tonight I have picked out ONE pussy to royally fuck. Open wide big boy, cause it's rather large...Thank goodness you practice the sausage stuff with managment backstage, cause in front of thousands I will be bringing forth a Peter North size load, and your lilly ass better not waste a drip.

Sometimes life will stand up on it's hind legs Level One. I say hind legs because it's a bitch, and it will slap you right in the face making you humble. Level One, I'm YOUR slapper!!!

Engineer: Whoa...So...uhhh, Michael, I think you just called yourself a bitch, not to mention slapper just sounds weird.

Lively: Wait, what, no I said I'm his slapper, oh...then I guess you can edit that last little bit out, now can't ya! Just end it with drip, he better not waste a drip, OK!!!

Lively then stands tossing down the headphones as he glares at the engineer.