No, No...THIS is the Last Possible Minute!

February, 2013
Chicago, Illinois

Paul Matthews: "You're actually going to go through with it, then?"

Chuck shrugs. Truth be told, he wasn't quite sure himself whether he really wanted to attend this meeting. The call had come seemingly out of the blue, but, somehow, Chuck wasn't surprised when it did. There had been subtle hints everywhere. Maybe he'd heard the name one too many times lately, and it had tipped him off. Maybe someone had mentioned it when Chuck wasn't paying attention, planting the idea somewhere in the recesses of his mind. Whatever the reason, when he finally did get the call, and the accompanying proposal to meet, he felt a strange wave of deja vu overcome him. He had seen this scenario unfold before...and yet, he could not remember a time in his life when he had been quite in a position like this.

Across the limo, Paul Matthews sits, his legs stretched out in front of him. The cab is dark, the windows tinted. Chuck can still see his brother with perfect clarity.

Chuck Matthews: "Think it's a bad idea?"

This time, it's Paul's turn to shrug.

Paul Matthews: "The two of you don't exactly have the best history."

Chuck Matthews: "I don't work for him anymore."

Paul Matthews: "But you have that sinking feeling that's where this meeting is going to go."

Chuck Matthews: "And if it does, he should be prepared to watch me stand up and walk out."

Paul Matthews: "You don't want to go there anyway."

Chuck Matthews: "I honestly don't care either way."

Paul Matthews: "That a fact?"

Chuck leans back.

Chuck Matthews: "I'm tired."

Paul Matthews: "You're always tired."

Chuck reaches into his pocket and pulls out his watch. It's nearing four.

Paul Matthews: "This isn't seventeenth-century England. Invest in a real watch."

Chuck says nothing, just flips off his brother as he tucks the watch back into his pocket. There's a silence.

Paul Matthews: "So have you talked to Amber lately?"

Chuck closes his eyes, relaxing in his seat.

Chuck Matthews: "Nope."

Paul Matthews: "Why the fuck not?"

Chuck shrugs.

Paul Matthews: "I think she likes you."

Chuck Matthews: "What, is this third fucking grade? Should I send her a love letter? Maybe a pretty little valentine with a choo-choo train on it?"

Paul Matthews: "I'm just saying...you're getting up there in years, Charlie."

Chuck Matthews: "I'm twenty-seven."

Paul Matthews: "I was going to get married at twenty-four."

Chuck opens one eye, peering at his brother.

Chuck Matthews: "And how did that work out for you?"

Paul frowns.

Paul Matthews: "Plans change."

Chuck Matthews: "I suppose death can do that to a person."

He smirks.

Paul Matthews: "Speaking of that, how's my liver holding up, anyway?"

Chuck feels a chilling hand pat his gut. Chuck brushes Paul's arm away.

Paul Matthews: "You know, it was fourteen years ago today when it happened."

Chuck Matthews: "I was just thinking about that, actually."

Paul Matthews: "Happy anniversary, buddy."

Chuck Matthews: "That's not funny."

Chuck suddenly sees flashes of the night in front of him. A car, skidding across ice. Headlights. A crash. Paul's pained groans beside him. Chuck, thirteen years old at the time, yelling, crushed between the door and the center panel. An ambulance. Paul, lying on a hospital bed next to him. A doctor's pained expression as he delivered the news. Paul, looking over at Chuck, smiling. A single tear rolling down his brother's face. The operating room. Two brothers rolled into the room. One emerged.

Paul Matthews: "It all worked out for the best."

Chuck Matthews: "Yeah."

His voice is strained, and he chokes on the word.

Paul Matthews: "You alright?"

Chuck nods, but struggles to find his voice beneath the massive lump forming in his throat. Paul frowns.

Paul Matthews: "So...Amber."

Chuck Matthews: "What about her?"

Paul Matthews: "She seems....nice."

Chuck Matthews: "Fucking wonderful."

Paul Matthews: "You don't sound as enthused."

Chuck Matthews: "I just...don't care."

Paul frowns.

Paul Matthews: "Whatever happened to Megan?"

Chuck opens his mouth and closes it. Megan O'Day...that was a name he hadn't thought of in a while. They had dated for some time...far more time than Chuck was willing to admit. Chuck shakes the memories from the forefront of his mind.

Chuck Matthews: "She just....she wasn't terribly important to me."

Paul Matthews: "You two got pretty close."

Chuck Matthews: "Sure."

Paul Matthews: "You did."

Chuck looks at Paul. He sits, grinning. Chuck rolls his eyes and shakes his head, turning away from Paul.

Paul Matthews: "Did you ever tell her? About your...condition?"

Chuck Matthews: "'Hey babe, I'm walking around with the transplanted organs of my dead brother. Cool. Bye.' Yeah, I can see how well that'd go over."

Paul Matthews: "That's not the condition I was referring to."

Chuck knew this already. He knew exactly what Paul was talking about. He tried to avoid the question as best he could, but the simple answer was:

Chuck Matthews: "No."

Paul sighs.

Paul Matthews: "You know, eventually, you're going to have to tell someone. If you want to get married, she has a right to know."

Chuck Matthews: "So I don't get married. Probably works best for everybody, honestly."

Paul Matthews: "But you know that's not what you want."

Chuck is silent.

Paul Matthews: "I don't know, Charlie. I guess at the end of the day, it's up to you."

Chuck is about to answer, when the divider opens up. Paul fades out and vanishes as the driver turns to look at Chuck.

Driver: "We've arrived."

Chuck nods, and slides out of the vehicle. He glances at the driver.

Chuck Matthews: "I'll give you a ring when I'm out."

The driver offers a mere nod before driving off, leaving Chuck standing in front of the restaurant. It's a ritzy place, and Chuck suddenly feels underdressed in his jeans and t-shirt. He wears a black button-down shirt over his t-shirt. It's unbuttoned, and the wind catches it, blowing it out like a cape behind him. Chuck decides that it's dressy enough, and steps into the building. The host stands at a podium, flipping through a reservation book. Chuck approaches.

Host: "May I help you?"

The man doesn't bother looking up.

Chuck Matthews: "Hey. I'm here to meet-"

The host looks up, staring at Chuck.

Host: "Ah. Mr. Matthews. Yes, he's been expecting you. Right this way."

He leads Chuck through a maze of tables, where people sit, dressed in their finest, sipping fine wines and eating foods that Chuck has never heard of, let alone eaten himself. He is led past tables of caviar, roast duck, arugula and herb-spiced fries. Waiters carrying fine chardonnays whisk by, expertly maneuvering the tables. As wealthy as Chuck is, he never felt at home here. He loved the life of luxury, to be sure...but these ritzy, high-end types were never really Chuck's crowd. He spots the man across the room. Slowly, he appraoches and sits down.

Brenton Cyrus: "Long time, no see."

Chuck Matthews: "What's it been, two years now?"

Brenton Cyrus: "Something like that. How've you been?"

Chuck Matthews: "Same shit, different day. You?"

Brenton Cyrus: "Nothing out of the ordinary."

The two men are silent. Without warning, both burst out laughing. Something about the intentional awkwardness of the meeting was strangely hilarious, and the two men found themselves, victims of their own laughter. So began the fateful meeting between Chuck Matthews and Brenton Cyrus.

---------------------------------------------
One Hour Later...

Chuck clasps his hands together.

Chuck Matthews: "So what've you got for me?"

Brenton had contacted Chuck to set up the meeting in the first place, mentioning a 'lucrative offer he couldn't possibly refuse.' Despite their differences in the past, Cyrus and Chuck had proven, time and time again, that together, they were a force to be reckoned with. Their friendship had gotten stronger over the years. The absence had served two purposes: First, it helped them to cool off and mull over the tensions that had plagued them for the better part of the past two years. Second, they realized that a lot of the dispute between the two of them sprouted from one constantly trying to one-up the other. Brenton and Chuck were not meant to compete against each other. They were meant to collaborate. That was when the two were at their most lethal. Sure enough, when Chuck chose to focus more on his own company, leaving Brenton to work on his, the strain on their friendship slackened. When one wasn't working exclusively for the other, things went rather well. They had learned that, and the past two years with Chuck out from under Brenton's wrestling contracts, and Brenton away from Chuck's talent agency, the two had quickly forgotten why they'd even hated each other in the first place.

Brenton slaps a flier on the table in front of Chuck.

Brenton Cyrus: "Warrior Games."

Chuck stares at it. It's a promotional poster for the event, with James Shark's face plastered across the top.

Brenton Cyrus: "No Limit Invitational. A War Games tradition. I want you to host it."

Chuck laughs nervously.

Chuck Matthews: "You want me to come back to NLWF."

This was what Chuck had been dreading. Brenton obviously hears the uneasiness in Chuck's voice, because he quickly shakes his head.

Brenton Cyrus: "No. I want to make that clear right from the get-go. You won't be contracted to NLWF. It's an easy gig. You do this one match, and you choose where to go from there. If you want to walk away, there will be no contracts tying you to NLWF. If you want to stay and fight, I'll find a guy to go against you."

Chuck frowns.

Chuck Matthews: "That's what this is about? You want me to come and wrestle again?"

Brenton grins.

Brenton Cyrus: "I think it'd be a perfect surprise for everyone in attendance. Chuck Matthews, back in an NLWF ring? Defending his legendary streak?"

Chuck nods.

Brenton Cyrus: "And you're still doing that promotional tour of yours, right? Make NLWF a stop. Fight one of my guys."

Chuck Matthews: "Give me Hostyle Jones."

Brenton stops abruptly.

Brenton Cyrus: "Hostyle?"

Chuck remembers his last meeting with Hostyle. They had met in the ring at IWF's From the Ashes. Chuck had looked forward to the match for weeks. He had gone out of his way to piss Hostyle off, to get Hostyle fired up. When Hostyle finally threw down the gauntlet, Chuck was quick to pick it up. Their match, though, was lackluster. While Chuck would love to say he'd played his game better, and destroyed an inferior opponent...something about the match seemed off. Something about it nagged at him. Like Hostyle wasn't at his best that night. Like Hostyle wasn't truly at his fullest. Chuck had won, but it wasn't the five-star match he'd hoped for....and the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to fight Hostyle again.

Chuck Matthews: "We have unfinished business."

Brenton stares at Chuck for a moment. By his eyes, Chuck can tell Cyrus is thinking hard about something.

Brenton Cyrus: "What are you doing on March 2nd?"

Chuck raises an eyebrow.

Chuck Matthews: "What have you got in mind?"

Brenton Cyrus: "I'm thinking you come down to Australia. Make an appearance in NLWF. Do it right after Hostyle's match-"

Chuck Matthews: "I'm not going to call out Hostyle Jones. I've said I would never compete in that ring again."

Brenton Cyrus: "So have him challenge you. Make it so that if you DON'T wrestle in that ring, it'll be far worse than if you do. Just go out there after his match and rattle his chains a little. Do what you do best. Show him your cards, and make him pick the one you want."

Chuck nods. It wasn't a bad idea, really.

Brenton Cyrus: "And...actually, that could tie in well with the other thing I wanted to talk to you about."

Chuck Matthews: "Which is...?"

Brenton Cyrus: "I'm interested in re-signing a deal between NLWF and Matthews Enterprises."

Chuck raises an eyebrow. THIS was more to his liking.

Chuck Matthews: "I'm listening..."

Brenton Cyrus: "Just like the old days. NLWF gets broadcast under your media group. You reap profit, we get a worldwide audience again."

Chuck Matthews: "What, did MTV drop the ball?"

Brenton Cyrus: "It was HBO, actually. And yeah, they did. Fucking morons. But, truth be told, the reason I didn't propose this sooner is because-"

Chuck Matthews: "You knew I wouldn't accept it until I'd seen some promise from NLWF."

Brenton Cyrus: "I've made some changes around there, Chuckster. It's looking good. Real good, better than it did in 2009."

Chuck Matthews: "Who's paying the bills?"

Brenton stares at Chuck, and raises his hand slightly.

Chuck Matthews: "You're the man in charge?"

Brenton Cyrus: "The one and only."

Chuck leans back in his seat. A waiter walks by, and sets a bread basket on the table.

Chuck Matthews: "You know that the reason I'd pulled NLWF from my programming before was because I thought NLWF had incompetent management."

Brenton Cyrus: "We trained the kid well, but he'll never BE us."

Chuck laughs.

Chuck Matthews: "I can't argue with that. So what, that's it then? Just sign the papers and we're back with the partnership with ME and NLWF?"

Brenton Cyrus: "That's what I was planning on, yeah."

Chuck Matthews: "Same deal as before?"

Brenton Cyrus: "Exactly."

Chuck Matthews: "Your guys start signing to my company?"

Brenton Cyrus: "If they so choose."

Chuck strokes his goatee. There wasn't much wrong with the plan. Chuck could easily find a spot for NLWF to broadcast. That was no problem. And with NLWF players signed to Chuck's company, they would be entitled to appear on any show under the Enterprise Media Group.

Chuck Matthews: "I like it."

Brenton Cyrus: "I thought you might."

Chuck Matthews: "So next season, then? I'll have the lineup for my next rounds with the network probably around April. We can discuss the finer details at a later time."

Chuck pushes his chair back, getting ready to stand.

Brenton Cyrus: "There was one more thing I wanted to talk to you about, Chuck."

Chuck raises an eyebrow. Brenton slides an envelope across the table. Chuck frowns.

Chuck Matthews: "If this is a belated Valentine's Day card, you can go ahead and fuck right off."

Cyrus stares at Chuck. Chuck shrugs, and opens it. It's an invitation, written in elaborate calligraphy, the thick paper embroidered in gold.

Chuck Matthews
Immortal

Chuck Matthews: "I don't get it."

Brenton frowns.

Brenton Cyrus: "I want to induct you into NLWF's Hall of Immortals."

Chuck Matthews: "No. Seriously. What is it?"

Brenton shakes his head.

Brenton Cyrus: "Forget it, I'm wasting my time. I'll just take the ME deal and be done with it."

He reaches for the paper, but Chuck jerks it out of Brenton's reach.

Chuck Matthews: "Whoa, hold on, I'm not rejecting it. I just think it's funny."

Brenton Cyrus: "What's funny about it?"

Chuck shrugs.

Chuck Matthews: "Never considered myself much of a hall of famer, really."

Brenton Cyrus: "Coming from the guy who won every world title NLWF had to offer?"

Chuck Matthews: "And only defended one."

Brenton Cyrus: "Who put on the match of the year two years straight?"

Chuck laughs.

Chuck Matthews: "It's a two-man job to put on a great match."

Brenton Cyrus: "WHERE'S YOUR FUCKING EGO?"

A few people look over at Chuck and Brenton, startled by his outburst.

Chuck Matthews: "I mean...I guess my thinking was that when I was inducted into any sort of Hall...that was it. I would have accomplished everything there was to do in this business. There's no match I haven't won. No title I couldn't win. The only thing left is to be inducted, take my spot, and retire. That's the end of the line, you know? That's the last thing I have to prove."

Brenton Cyrus: "And you've proved it."

Chuck Matthews: "So what's left?"

There's a silence. Normally, Brenton was exactly right: Chuck had an ego. Chuck would jump at any opportunity to talk about how great he was. But since his stepping away from the ring...part of him felt like he could return at any time. He could always go back, win matches, compete again. But for what? It was true, the only thing left for Chuck to do in the industry was to be recognized as a legend of the business...a master of the craft. When he had that...what? There was nothing left but retirement...permanently. There would be no return. There would be nothing left to attain. No glory left to gain. Chuck knew he had achieved that rank. He knew the fans believed him a legend of the business. RWF had asked him to accept his spot in the Shrine. IWF had pushed on three separate occasions to get him into the Hall of Fame. There had been rumors buzzing in Chuck's ear that NLWF had been interested in Chuck's presence for quite some time...and now their offer was official. Chuck had always turned it down. He knew his time had come...but the dreaded Iconic status was getting tougher and tougher to push away with every company that associated it with him.

Chuck Matthews: "I'll think about it."

Brenton shrugs.

Brenton Cyrus: "If you insist."

Chuck smiles weakly, and slips the page into his pocket. He appreciated the fact that Cyrus wasn't pressing the issue. It was strange...normal people would revel at the thought of such a high honor. Chuck detested it. The waiter returns with the check.

Waiter: "Thank you, gentlemen. Have a wonderful day."

Chuck nods at the man, and turns his attention back to Brenton.

Chuck Matthews: "Yeah...just give me some time to sleep on it. I'll give you an answer sometime in the future. I don't know."

Brenton shrugs. Chuck can't help but smirk. Years of knowing each other had taught them well. Cyrus knew better than to question Chuck's train of thought. If Chuck wanted to do something, he would go right ahead and do it. If he didn't...there wasn't a soul on Earth who could get him to.

Chuck stands up from the table.

Brenton Cyrus: "Leaving so soon?"

Chuck Matthews: "My flight leaves in two hours. I need to get the rest of my shit packed up."

Brenton Cyrus: "Busy schedule?"

Chuck Matthews: "If this promotional tour ever ends, it'll be too soon."

Chuck extends his hand. Brenton grasps it, shaking it firmly.

Chuck Matthews: "I'll give you a call sometime next week to finalize plans for this TV deal."

Brenton Cyrus: "We'll keep in touch, then. Take care of yourself, Chuck."

Chuck nods, and slaps Brenton's shoulder with his free hand.

Chuck Matthews: "You do the same."

He releases Cyrus's hand, and moves through the tables back to the exit. To his surprise, his driver awaits outside. Chuck slides into the limo.

Chuck Matthews: "Nice timing."

Driver: "I ran a few errands. Decided to just wait here when I got done."

Chuck closes the divider, and leans back in his seat.

Paul Matthews: "So....how'd it go?"

Chuck jumps at the voice of his deceased brother. He looks over.

Chuck Matthews: "I'm headed back to NLWF."

------------------------

Chuck Matthews: "The streak.

The Biggest Events of the Year.

RWF FightFest
NLWF War Games
IWF From the Ashes

Six straight wins at FightFest. Nine straight at War Games. Two in a row at FTA.

FightFest 2002. My debut. Chuck Matthews defeats Iron Ryan. That was the start of something that would turn into one of the greatest winning streaks of them all.

FightFest 2003. Chuck Matthews defeats Sacrifice in the first ever Devastation match...a match I would make famous, and another part of this business that I dominated. I won a title there, and the managerial services of Lauren Taylor.

FightFest 2004. Chuck Matthews defeats Matthew Lynch. A long-winding battle over the Bloodlust title...I walked in as the champion, and I walked out as the champion. Three years. Three wins.

FightFest 2006. I had missed the 2005 event due to an injured knee. At FightFest 2006, a year later, I got my revenge against the man who did it. I took on the single largest athlete the company had to offer...a match I entered as the massive underdog. Richard had never lost by pinfall or submission. I became the first. Now...people were starting to talk. Now, people were beginning to realize the pattern. Chuck Matthews was building a streak at FightFest.

FightFest 2007. I found myself in a losing battle against Rogue Nation. Necrosis, Mason Clark, and Keith Axle led the charge against me, and I was at the end of my rope. At FightFest, I found myself in a six-man tag match. I brought two of my best friends in the business, and two men that I had won tag gold with in the past: Craig Hemming and Johnny Electric. We sailed to an easy and decisive victory. 5-0.

FightFest 2008. Jacob Jericho was a thorn in my side. I was leading The Coalition. I was the RWF Champion. I entered against Jericho in an Ironman match. Jericho had built a reputation of being one of the most enduring athletes in the world. He was undefeated in Ironman matches, and had devoted an entire title reign solely to defending with such a stipulation. His streak was longer than mine...and that's exactly what it was hyped as. Jacob Jericho's 8-0 Ironman Streak against Chuck Matthews's 5-0 FightFest streak. I pulled off the win. I defended my RWF Championship. That was the last time I appeared on RWF's biggest stage. A few months later, I left the company, and signed with NLWF. It was a new company, a new year...and a new show to call "The Biggest Stage of them All."

War Games 2009. I found myself defending the No Limit Title in what was called the 'Chuck Matthews Invitational.' It was a joke, and, honestly, there's a part of me that would love to scratch the matches from history. The first match was against the Brooklyn Brawler...a match which, predictably, ended with a quick and easy victory. But I wasn't quite done yet. Insulted, I called out any other opponent who might want to take me on. I was, for the first time, going to put my streak, and my title, on the line for a SECOND time that night. Enter the Naked Cowboy. I was awarded the victory by forfeit...and found myself adding two more victories to my streak. 8-0.

War Games 2010. The night that made the streak a formidable accolade, and the night that proved, without a shadow of a doubt, exactly why one does not underestimate a man like Chuck Matthews. Again, I held my invitational. Again, I stood, unsatisfied with the contenders. Again, I called out one opponent after another, demanding someone to give me a run for my money. I defeated Carver Ocean. I defeated Death-Angel. I defeated Joe Santiago. I beat Cyber Punk. I took down Johnny Electric. Five straight matches. Five straight wins. Eventually, they forced me to stop. They instead offered me the final spot in the Triple Cage Briefcase match later in the night. I had been in that structure twice before. The first time, I walked out with the Undisputed Championship. The second, I had lost the same title. Third time was the charm. I went up against the entire Deep Sea Union. Against Matt Gray. Tha Kid. Sweet Cheapshots...and even with interference from Carver Ocean, I walked out, briefcase in hand. Six wins. One night. And yet...I still wasn't satisfied. I was fired up. I was ready. I cashed in my case that same night...right after the Undisputed Championship match. I was prepared to walk out with another world title around my waist...but more interference from Ocean left me without a case...without a title...but, ironically, with a victory by disqualification. In one night, I had gone 7-0...bringing my streak to an imposing 15-0. By the next year, I had left NLWF. I was given an offer to compete in IWF's event...and that would be the next time I appeared on such a grand stage.

From the Ashes 2011. My old nemesis, Frank Hart...a man I had fought in NLWF on numerous occasions. We competed in IWF, in the match I had made famous: Devastation. I was going in with my undefeated streak intact, and with the match stipulation on my side to boot. It would have taken a miracle for Frank Hart to beat me. The fates were not smiling on Hart that night...and I walked out with yet another win to my resume.

From the Ashes 2012. Hostyle Jones had called me out. He knew about the streak. He knew about my status, and he knew that if he wanted to be considered one of the best...if he wanted an instant catapult to stardom, beating Chuck Matthews on the Biggest Stage...beating him when he was in his element...THAT would be the way to do it. I took the challenge. I fought Hostyle Jones, and, to credit the man, I had anticipated it to be one of the toughest matches I'd ever had. I planned weeks in advance, playing my games, planting my tricks and traps. I gained the psychological edge early on...and, in the end, it was for nothing. Hostyle Jones was NOT the man who would beat my streak. I had nothing to fear. I beat him in what was the second fastest victory I'd ever had at such an event. I walked out, and have ever seen been...17-0.

With that all being said...I would like to offer a congratulations to Mr. Hostyle Jones. You will be recognized as the first person in wrestling history to lose to my streak twice. What are you going to do, Hostyle? What's your marvelous plan to stop me from doing here exactly what I did in NLWF? Because I'm not fucking your ex? You fell for the oldest con in the book, and look where that got you. You wanna know why I beat you, Hostyle? It's because you couldn't figure out how to attack me. You couldn't figure out how to plan against me...and what's changed that you think you do now? I mean...what, you're angry? You're more focused? Guess what, dumbass? The reason you can't attack me is because I AM UN-FUCKING-TOUCHABLE. How do you beat a man who reads your every move before you even know you're going to do it? You're angry? Great! BE angry! An angered mind is a mind that makes mistakes.

When you fight Chuck Matthews, you are not allowed to make mistakes.

Your problem, Hostyle, is that you don't fucking learn. There is no revelation that brings you to that next level. You do some crazy bullshit. You go home. You come here again next week and do it all over again, regardless of whether you won or lost. You failed to win the IWF Championship, and, honestly, I'll be surprised to see you ever win the NLWF Championship. Why? Because you lack that simple characteristic that every world champion, every legend, every man who can maintain relevance for more than three months has...

You lack adaptability. You fail to evolve. I look at you now, and you're a carbon copy Hostyle Jones of the one who was prancing around the IWF halls. You're EXACTLY the fucking same...and you're achieved what? A tag title? Congratu-fucking-lations, Jones. You won a tag title! Now if you'll just guide your eyes to an upward position, that shiny reflective surface you just smacked your head against is called a 'glass ceiling.' Learn to love it, because you're never going to break it. You're doomed to be a tag wrestler. At best, you'll be a glorified singles wrestler. Maybe you'll win a midcard belt. Maybe. Perhaps you'll even get your own T-shirt. THAT'S what you are. You're a fucking T-shirt. You're a flash in the pan, and eventually, you'll wear out, and be tossed aside.

So...I'll tell you what to do: Get rid of this Ape Tard Army or whatever the fuck you're calling it. Stop screaming at the fucking camera like a kid throwing a tantrum. And for fuck's sake man, lose the fucking hand. Seriously? The hand is ridiculous. Nobody cares if you're smacking people in the face with your hand of destiny or whatever the fuck you call it. That thing is a sad excuse for you to go to the back and jerk off while still being allowed to call it a Dutch rudder.

I'll wait for a moment so you all can look that up. My promos are so much nicer when you understand the jokes.

Fact of the matter is, Hostyle...you'll tell yourself that you lost because I mind-fucked you. And, in your defense, I did exactly that. What you fail to grasp, though, is that this mindfuckery shouldn't have come as a surprise. That wasn't the deciding factor, that was a pawn in the plan. That was a physical thing you could look at, point to, and say 'THAT's why I lost!'

No, Hostyle. You lost because I'm smarter than you. You lost because I can turn any wrestling match into a game of chess, and when you let that happen...and you DID let that happen...I had you cornered before you realized what had hit you.

And that leads us to the man who's already lost his queen, and has resorted to the age-old tactic of moving the king around and around in hopes that he won't get hopelessly cornered.

Hello, Michael Harris.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is all I need to say to him. I just need to say his name. I have now given him the validation that he so desperately needs. That recognition from his superior that he has been dying to get a taste of.

Wanna see something cool? For my next trick...I will verbally annihilate Michael Harris.....and I will never quote twitter to do it. Let's get rolling...shall we?

You want to know when I realized I had this match won? Now, let's just cut right to the point, gentlemen. No more fooling around: I have this match won. Might as well put it out there so we can all be on the same page before moving on. All there is left to do now is for me to kick back, and tell you what you did wrong.

See...I know you might not think it...but I DO listen to what goes on in the world around me leading up to the match. I watch the promos, no matter how laughably wrong they are. I watch twitter. I'm probably one of the few wrestlers crazy enough to read the wrestling news reports and see what the internet has to say about me. That's how I learn. That's how I can figure out my odds going in, what my opponents weaknesses are, and what I can do to exploit them.

Mike...I have exploited your weakness. I have learned what makes you tick...and I planted the dynamite right over the crack in the wall.

Your weakness, Mr. Harris, is that you crave validation. You'll brag about your title reigns, and how long you've been in this business. You'll boast how many companies you've been in. You'll talk trash to guys on twitter, and jump for joy when they finally respond to you...

...and, on the flip side of that coin...when you're fighting a guy that gives no merit to the things you've done? When you're fighting a guy that DOESN'T ackknowledge you? When you're fighting a guy that you swing wildly at, only for him to brush all your punches off like they're nothing more than annoying taps at an impenetrable defense? You panic. You throw haymakers...and you fail.

That's what I've done to you, Mike. I have made you fail.

I want you to look at something. All of you. I want you to go back, and I want you to read the things Michael Harris has said about me all week:

How I've never competed on the biggest stage. Said to the guy who is 17-0 ON that stage.

I won a few matches here and there. Said to the guy who won nearly every championship there was to hold in NLWF.

I'm an internet thug...said to the guy who said all of three things about his NLWF match...compared to a half hour of ranting and raving, only to give up when he realized he was getting no recognition for any of it.

That is where you screwed up, Mike. You failed to do any sort of research...which, ironically, is EXACTLY what you accused me of doing. Did you even read your history? Did you even make an attempt to look at who you were calling out? Did you stop to think that when people were snickering when you walked into the locker room and asked "Yo, you guys see my promo?" that they were laughing AT you and not with you?

I hate to always be the guy to shed light on these situations...but yeah, Mike. They were laughing AT you. They were laughing at how mind-numbingly painful your shit is to watch. They were laughing at how blatantly wrong you were in everything you said to me. You bragged about titles to a guy who doesn't give a shit about them. You criticized the icon status of a guy who doesn't care if he's an icon or not. You tried to pass it off as if this was my first trip to the rodeo...when, in reality, I spent two years doing everything there was to do in NLWF, and making it look easy. Most importantly, though, I think they were laughing at how many holes you're going to have ripped open by the time I'm done with you. Now let us start....by going on a little trip.

OH YEAH, YOU KNOW WHERE I'M GOING WITH THIS!

Is everybody ready?

Is everybody buckled in?

HEY, CYRUS. Been a while since you've seen one of these, hasn't it? This is what you get for bringing me back. Ladies and gentlemen, it's time to take Michael Harris on a journey to...

THE ROAD TO REALITY, BABY!

I mean, you want to talk to me about doing research, I've sat and watched as you failed to do the exact same thing. I mean, don't get me wrong, you cut some adorable little rookie talks against me...but had you had even a modicum or foresight...had you even done the simplest of searching...like, you know, looking at my resume, for instance...you would have known exactly what you've already done wrong.

You've tried to back Chuck Matthews into a corner.

You've tried to take Chuck Matthews on in a show he does not lose.

You've used the most painfully generic of insults and claimed it to be top notch stuff.

But your biggest mistake, Mr. Harris?

You've made a piss poor attempt to call Chuck Matthew stupid.

Which, as anyone worth their salt in NLWF knows means:

You've taken the safety off the gun.

Maybe you don't understand how this works. You're absolutely right, I hadn't said a word all week. I didn't answer any questions at the press conference...and honestly, the only reason I was even there was because I had nothing better to do that day. I don't hype things up. I don't talk about what a great match it will be. And yet...there it is, the final match before the world title matches that headline the event. Why?

Because the moment they put the name 'Chuck Matthews' on paper, they knew people would watch. They knew that if they booked him, he would come. And they knew that if there was anyone in this business capable of carrying a match on the biggest stage, mine was the number they needed to call.

But more important than that, Mike, I remained silent because my silence drove you insane. The fact of the matter is, Harris, when you're not being talked about, you go completely fucking nuts. I respond to something on twitter, and you jump on it like a giddy puppy with a tennis ball. FINALLY! FINALLY, CHUCK IS TALKING TO ME!

But...that was all. That's all I had to say. I made one comment...one snarky, top-of-the head comment. And you made the mistake of thinking that was the best I had. The sad part of the whole thing? My silence, my waiting, my letting you tear me to pieces in the early part of the week? It was all part of a master plan.

Oooooh, did anyone else get goosebumps? I bet it's been a while since you've heard a Chuck Matthews master plan. Show of hands, who's happy to see it?

That, Mr. Harris, is EXACTLY what I've been doing to you all week. I have exploited your weakness. I exploited it, by staying silent.

And, as I figured you would, you went ballistic. You said ANYTHING to get under my skin, no matter how fucking stupid it was. You said things that even you couldn't have been dumb enough to believe. Things like:

'Chuck’s best insult and the shit he wants to talk is about how I’m a cheap knock off of him and apparently I’m going to be known as his twin or as Chuck Matthews V2.'

'Well that’s a good question coming from someone that doesn’t know how to do research and how you don’t know how to do your homework.'

Said to the Smartest Man in Wrestling.

'[I] went as far as competing on the biggest stage of the biggest company to ever exist in this business. Something that you haven’t done and something you will never do.'

Oh god, my sides. Let me ask you a simple question, Harris, and if you can answer it correctly, I will take back what I'm about to say.

Do you know what streak you're trying to break?

That's all I had to ask. I'm fairly sure the fans watching this know exactly what streak this is...and now that they've heard you say that all over again, I think they're laughing their asses off.

Guess what, buddy? Not only have I headlined those big events...I HAVE NEVER LOST IN THEM. Seventeen times, I have entered the ring when the lights shone their brightest. Seventeen times, I walked out the winner. THAT is the streak you keep hearing about.

So, you know...that's a small sample of some of the dumb shit we heard from Mike early this week. We all had a chummy little laugh at it, we thought to ourselves 'Oh man, Chuck is going to curb stomp this guy,' and went on our daily business. Still, I stayed silent.

And with every passing day with me never even acknowledging Mike, he got more and more desperate...more and more frustrated. Each video he sent out got more and more convoluted, more and more far-fetched. I began to think, perhaps it isn't that Michael hasn't done his research...maybe he's INTENTIONALLY saying things that are wildly out of left field in an effort to get me to say something in retaliation?

Nothing doing, buddy. I don't break so easily. But since I'm talking now, I'll tell you straight up: My favorite part is when you said I'd stay silent because you spoke the truth. I wonder if anyone else laughed as hard as I did.

That's what you became, Harris. You are the epitome of what happens when someone doesn't do their homework. You are a shining example of why people should NEVER count Chuck Matthews out of the race.

So I finally said something. I finally released the long awaited 'Return to NLWF' promo, where I would reveal all my lovely thoughts going into Warrior Games.

Since then? You went from swinging wildly to holding your hands in front of your face, desperate for any relief from my onslaught. You're on the defensive, Mike. You...actually...went on twitter...to try...to....attack me? What?

Yeah, I sang Backstreet Boys on an IWF show in celebration of Blyss Lockhart winning the IWF Queen of Wrestling Championship. Know why I did it? Because I fucking can.

Oh shit...Michael called me a faggot? He used the most cliche, generic, desperate bullshit in the book? He made a gay joke! HOLY SHIT! He used the insult that is ALWAYS an indicator that you have literally NOTHING on your opponent, so you turn to the one thing that is SURE to sting them to the core!

Guess what, man? That shit doesn't work against me. Call me a faggot all you want. Think I give a fuck? Think that's going to get inside my head? What are you expecting to happen? I'm going to break down and cry in the middle of the ring because some moron thinks I take it in the ass? Are you really that fucking dense?

You tried attacking me for my relationship with IWF? Hey, nimrod, I'm going to let you in on a little secret. And by 'secret' I mean 'this is actually public knowledge that I'm fairly sure everyone and their dog knows.'

I DON'T WORK FOR IWF.

You know how I'm connected to them? The same way I'm connected to NLWF. I run a media network that PUTS THEM ON TV. I don't work for IWF or NLWF, you fucking moron, they're contracted to MY company. And since MY company puts THEM on MY network, that allows ME to appear on THEIR shows without ever signing a contract to either one. Of course...if you'd done any sort of homework...you'd know this.

The point I'm getting at here, Mike...you're backed into a corner. You came at me, fists flailing, and I brushed you off like it was nothing. I made one speech. I filmed ONE promo, and suddenly, all three of yours meant jack fucking shit. You were sent reeling towards the ropes...and do you want to see a REAL kicker? You want to see why I'm the smartest motherfucker this business has ever seen?

Go back and watch my promo. Watch it the entire way though. Now try to find that exact moment where I turn the tables. Where exactly did I beat Michael so badly into submission? Where was that sucker punch that sent him reeling? Where was that glorious moment when he heard my words and realized: 'I am so fucked.' Ready to see why I'm the smartest motherfucker this business has ever seen?

Count the number of times I mention Michael Harris. Wanna see a magic trick?

His name isn't mentioned....one....single......time.

Don't believe me? Watch it and tell me I'm wrong. I broke Harris without ever uttering his name. I beat him without ever acknowledging his existence. Because, the fact of the matter is...that's what wrecks him. That's what Harris does. He hears the words, and he hears his name where it isn't spoken. He takes tweets that have nothing to do with NLWF. Tweets like being booked for a company I don't work for...and automatically assumes that everything I say is all about him. He watches as I release a video that he knows stomps out everything he's ever done...and I managed to do it without ever uttering his name. He was put on the defensive by a rant against NLWF.

And this guy thinks he can beat me?

What I proved here this week, is the same thing I prove every week: I am the smartest man in this sport. I'm not the strongest. I'm not the fastest. I'm not the biggest. But the reason I beat you is because I'm five moves ahead in a game you don't even know you're playing. I beat you beacause I'm writing the rules to a game that I con you into joining. I beat you because I don't make up words like 'kayfabe.' What the fuck is a kayfabe?

You can't beat me, Harris, because you can't understand me. You think I'm just another competitor. Fuck, you said it yourself: You've beaten every man you've ever stepped into the ring with.

Well, that's all well and good...except I'm not a mere man. Ask Robbie Hart. He'll remember this speech.

You cannot beat me, Harris, because I have not set this fight to be Michael Harris against Chuck Matthews. You are not fighting a man...you are fighting a man's idea. I proved to the world that you can't think three moves ahead. Know how I did that? By proving to the world that you can't function unless something revolves around you. And if it DOESN'T revolve around you? You'll talk about it as if it does. You can't see three feet in front of your own face, and you expect to be able to beat a guy who can see every little intricacy of your primitive mind? I know you, Harris, and I didn't need to watch your tapes to figure it out. I let you talk. I watched your confidence rise, and then I watched you scurry like a rat in a maze when I crushed everything you'd thrown at me.

That is your weakness, Harris. You go your hardest in the first rounds, and you expect that to get the job done. You expect to win early on, because the simple fact of the matter is that you just can't maintain the same momentum moving as time drags on. You can't last the full twelve rounds. And if your opponent can hit that fatal blow? You have nothing to come back with. You don't have the fight to keep moving after the bell rings for the third time.

And you used that tactic against a guy who saves his energy UNTIL the twelfth round. You're fighting a guy who willingly lets himself take the punishment so he can spot the weakness, the crack in the wall, and then blows it to fucking pieces. THAT was your mistake.

And what happened? Where did your plan of attack get you? I sat and I let you say whatever you damn well pleased. I let you pop off at the mouth. I let you get the upper hand, so that when I crushed you, it would be that much more beautiful to watch, and that much more crippling for you to bear. I let you undo yourself, Harris. I let you feel better and better about yourself. Every time you tried to tear me down, you climbed higher and higher on your pedestal, to the point that you couldn't see me at the bottom, planting the dynamite at the base, ready to bring the whole goddamn thing crashing down.

And that's when I released my first promo of the week.

Kaboom.

Congratulations, you've fought every other man you've ever stepped in the ring with. You're about to learn why few can beat me...and even fewer can beat me twice:

I'm not like everybody else.

You and Hostyle...you two are one in the same. And by that, I mean 'just like everybody fucking else.' You walk in, you tell us about shit that doesn't matter. How many titles you've won...how many events you've headlined...how many years you've been in the business...how often you get your dick sucked...how much less of a faggot you are than your opponent...You tell us you're the strongest...or the fastest...or the biggest...I know the feeling. I used to do the same thing. And then, I evolved. Then...I was enlightened. And now...I'm different.

I'm the smartest. I have what is quite possibly the most undervalued asset a wrestler can have. I have that uncanny ability to think beyond my own mind. I can think like my opponent...even if I've never met him before. I can strategize on the fly. I've mastered it.

But more importantly than that?

I don't use that as the reason why I'll win my matches. While, yes, in the end it IS my brainpower that wins my matches...I don't rely on it. At the end of the day, this is an athletic competition, and I need to rely on my own body to win. But I won't tell you that's why I'll win...in fact...I won't tell you why I'll win at all.

That's what makes me different. I don't go into matches thinking I'll win. I go into matches assuming I'll lose. I go into matches believing I'm the WORSE competitor. Why? Because it motivates me to prove myself wrong...but more importantly, because it forces me to plan ahead. It forces me to strategize. I go into a match thinking I'll lose, and it kicks my ass to think a plan that can't possibly go wrong. Then, when the match comes...if I'm right, and I AM the worse competitor, I win because my plan is carried out, and it is designed to beat an opponent who has an advantage. If I 'm wrong, and I'm miles ahead of my opponent, my plan is mostly useless, because there's no chance I'll lose the match anyway.

You two fall under the second category.

I don't tell people why I'm going to win. I tell them all the ways they can beat me. I sit here...and I used to do exactly this, for week after week, and I tell people my master plans. I tell people exactly what I intend to do to win the match, just like everybody else. But then...I tell them how to stop it. I tell people, in the simplest terms, the steps they need to take to defeat me.

And then, I sit back, and I watch them consistently fail.

You, Hostyle Jones, will fail.

You, Michael Harris, will fail.

You think otherwise? Why? What could you possibly say or do that can stop me? You're gonna call me a faggot again? This is wrestling, not third fucking grade. Come at me with something that MEANS something. Come at me with something that will make me stop and think 'maybe I've gotten in over my head.'

Make me think exactly what I made Michael Harris think this week. Put me on the defensive. Corner me. Kill my queen. Take my pawns. Until you can beat me on the proverbial chessboard, you will never beat me in a ring. Learn my game. Respect my game. And when you have entered into my game, mastered it, and used it against me?

Then...and ONLY then...will you have any sort of hope in hell at defeating me.

Until then?

Checkmate."