How to Beat Andre Holmes in Three Hours

I woke up groggy and disoriented on an unfamiliar couch somewhere in West Hollywood. I can tell this is West Hollywood because the floors are wood and the walls are made of that ungodly faux-stucco Plaster of Paris bullshit like every other bungalow in West Hollywood. More likely than not, I’m in that weird Jew neighborhood which all the trendsters have been aggressively gentrifying just a few blocks from the ABC studio and the Grove shopping mall. Still, while I can fathom my surroundings, I can hardly remember how I got here. Did I go home with some guy? Was it a friend I never bothered to visit? Are there any sharp objects around if I need to leave no witnesses? So many questions, so little time.

I was under some ugly wool spic blanket that whomever owned the house probably bought in SD; the patterns, colors, and itchiness suggested this much. The room was largely barren of upscale furniture, save an old mill spool sitting on its side to act as a coffee table, a few worn out leather chairs, and a bookshelf with a lot of pedantic dreck like Finnegan’s Wake, This is Water, and Elegance of the Hedgehog. I peeked under the blanket to do a quick inventory: underwear, check; skirt, check; shoes and socks, negative; strange marks, negative. No soreness or swollenness, so I assumed I hadn’t been fucked last night. I wasn’t in a bent depression, so I definitely wasn’t on E. On the makeshift coffee table before me sat a few empty bottles of red wine – I suppose that was the end of last night’s festivities. Still, I couldn’t remember what those festivities were. I remember throwing back Cape Cods at No Vacancy and breaking an empty bottle of Firestone Walker Luponic Distortion over the head of some tool at the Slide Bar after he mouthed off about post-modernism. After that, my mind had totally gone blank. I guess taking shots of Sambuca is never a good idea, even if it seems so at the time.

My questions were answered quickly after that dumb bitch Anna stepped out of the kitchen, garbed in an ugly little kitsch “Kiss the Cook” apron with some floral print oven mitt on, holding a sizzling skillet of bacon with a big shit-eating grin on her fat ginger face. I fucking hate people who fry bacon – you bake bacon in the oven. It’s a fucking pneumonic device; it’s literally in the name. Bakeon. Fuck. Even still, at least I knew I didn’t end up on the couch of some foot-licker or dick bag; the last thing I ever wanted was to end up next to some Brock Allen-type. Anna was a girl I knew from prep school when I was younger; she was the fat friend I took to bars to fall all over thirsty guys. Me? I could get any dick I wanted. But I didn’t want any – I wanted Jared.

Anna, on the other hand, was a chubby Gender Studies major who refused to shave her arms and was addicted to black cock. A few doe-eyes from me, some dumb giggling, and the eventual brush-off almost always ended in her getting the pipe from some #fuccboi. It was a convenient arrangement we had – I used to take the big fish, and she’d swim in my wake. Now, my wake was just a trail of broken dreams and blue balls. Not that Anna minded; she got the pick of the litter. I guess you could call her my Wade Moor.

Anna: Rise and shine, sleepy head!

I groaned and let my head fall back on the pillow. Turning to look at it, I noticed the drab gray color and nearly hit myself for not realizing I was at her place. Anna never washed her shit; there were definitely more than a few stains from drool and booze spills. But to reiterate, it could be worse – I could have the awkward conversation with some guy in the mornig about how I actually didn’t like him – let alone love him – and I’d be taking his wallet as retribution for stepping into my life. Since it didn’t have to come to that, I merely groaned and pulled the pillow over my eyes to block out the painful and intrusive rays of sun.

“The fuck time is it?”

She giggled, stirring the bacon in the skillet with a black plastic spatula. Dumb bitch doesn’t know you should be using metal when dealing with fried meat, lest you melt the plastic and fuck up the pan.

Anna: Almost noon.

I bolted upright in an instant, the pillow dropping from my face as I stared intently at the clock to make sure she wasn’t fucking with me.

“Shit! I have to be in Chicago in, like six hours! I have a fucking match tonight!”

Anna shrugged, continuing to stir the bacon in the pan as she walked back into the kitchen.

Anna: You’ll be fine if you get to the airport in an hour or two.

I pushed myself off the couch, stumbling still half-drunk towards my Christian Louboutin boots which sat over by the door. I shoved my aching feet into them, zipping them up to just below my knee before turning and walking to the kitchen.

“Where’s my car?”

Anna: Out front. I drove it here. You were adamant about not leaving it at the Slide Bar.

“Do you have any sunglasses?”

Anna: You have a pair in the glovebox. Keys are on the counter, but don’t you dare leave before you sober up totally.

I stepped into her small tile-floored kitchen to grasp my keys off the counter by her. She continued her work as I clambered from the bungalow and out to my gray 2016 Volkswagen Eos. I had broken the clicker a few weeks ago after spilling Heineken on it, so I was forced to shove the key into the door and pull it open, leaning over the center console for the glove box. After opening it, my hand rummaged through the assorted paper work and bottles of sunscreen to find a pair of Dolce & Gabbana shades to pull over my eyes. I lurched back through the door frame and stumbled through the living room, planting myself on one of the cheap wooden chairs she had around her equally cheap kitchen table. She’d already set the thing – placemats, silverware, mugs of coffee. If some guy treated me like this, I’d have contemplated sucking his dick. But it’s Anna, and I’m not about to go down on her unkempt feminist puss. Plus, I’m taking this little vow of monogamy seriously.

When she was done frying the bacon, she turned to the plates and distributed a few pieces for each of us before also offering me a portion of scrambled eggs and a few tablets of Aspirin. A long sip from the coffee was enough to wash them down, and in a few minutes I was ready to begin the daily ritual of pounding water and Gatorade to get me back to baseline. Or maybe I’d just take another shot of Jameson in the airport bar; I didn’t really care. We ate largely in silence until she finished her eggs and sat her fork across her plate.

Anna: How much of last night do you remember?

I shrugged, shoving another piece of bacon into my mouth and chewing.

“I didn’t fuck anyone, did I?”

She shook her head and laughed.

Anna: Unless you mean busting some guy across the face, no.

I made a face and continued eating.

“I assume he deserved it.”

Anna: He asked for your number.

“I’m taken.”

Anna: He didn’t know that.

Another face.

“We all learn the hard way. That was the Slide Bar, yeah?”

Anna: Yeah. We left after that. They called the cops.

“And fuccboi?”

Anna: Kept screaming ‘what the fuck’, holding his face, and making a scene. Tried to come at you, but then some guy ended up kicking his ass for trying to fight a woman.

“Bless.”

Anna: He’s upstairs now.

“So you fucked him?”

Anna: Yeah. Something like that.

I paused, cocking my head inquisitively.

“Something like that?”

Anna: He just wanted to stick fingers in me and eat my ass.

I shrugged for the third time.

“As long as you got off.”

Anna nodded, turning back to her bacon.

Anna: Enough.

“No bacon for him, huh?”

She snorted, the way fat girls do.

Anna: You don’t spoil these guys or they think there’s more.

I couldn’t help but smile. I reached over and gave her a high-five, remembering why we still hung out.

“You’re a bad bitch, Anna.”

She laughed.

Anna: I learned it from you.

We continued eating in silence, the only sound emitting from the long slurps of coffee we took between bites. Again, Anna would eventually be the one to break this silence.

Anna: Aren’t you worried about the match you’re having tonight? Doesn’t seem like you’re in the best shape for it.

I shrugged, letting my fork fall to my plate as I finished my breakfast.

“The fuck would I care about the shape I’m in going into the ring with this guy? You think he’ll be any different from anyone else I’ve curb stomped?”

Anna raised her arms in a shrug.

Anna: I’m just saying, he may be different.

I rose, picking up the plate and depositing it in the sink as I scoffed.

“Andre Holmes isn’t any different from any other loser fuccboi I’ve faced so far.”

Anna: What about his record? Hasn’t he been champion a few times?

“Sure. In WCF and some other irrelevant places. Andre is a fucking Chihuahua, yapping like a loud bitch and deserving a really hard kick to the fucking jaw for it. He’s a short-stack. A small fry with a padded record. I literally can’t wait to get the chance to finally put him down and out of his misery…”

I paused, savoring the situation in my head as a slow grin crossed my lips.

“…Jared always wanted to.”

I turned to catch Anna giving me a concerned stare.

Anna: Thursday… honey… About Jared.

I cocked an eyebrow at her as I returned to the table and sat down before her, folding my arms in front of me. I gave her a wry smile.

“What about Him?”

Anna: You know he’s been missing for almost a month now. I’m just worried about you.

I frowned.

“Jared’s fine. He’ll be back.”

Anna threw her arms up in exasperation. Her voice peaked – I think she was worried about me.

Anna: That’s just it, babe: you don’t know if he’s coming back. When you were wasted last night, you just kept rambling about ‘seeing him beneath the waves’ or something. Like, how do you know he’s not shot dead in some ditch or locked in some Acapulco hell-hole?

I rose, the anger coursing through me like a new drug. I was tempted to snap the unused knife off the table and fling it her way, but enough restraint remained in my hungover brain to prevent violence.

“He’s alive. I know He is.”

Anna: You don’t know that!

“I do. And all I’m doing is ensuring what he’d want. Andre is no match for me. A cake walk. A Sunday Drive, figuratively and literally. I’ve tripped over more dangerous crackheads on Sunset Boulevard than Andre Holmes.”

Anna dropped her fork on her plate, standing up to look me in the eyes. She really needs a mud mask; it would clear up her black heads.

Anna: That’s not it, Thursday! It’s not about Andre Holmes or this fighting gig you have – it’s about your health, mentally and physically! You get trashed every night. You cried yourself to sleep singing “Yellow” by Coldplay after killing a whole bottle of wine alone. You’re off on some plane to Chicago to damn near kill some guy all because of Jared! You won’t shut the fuck up about him, and where is he?!  You aren't yourself!  You're acting so fucking different, and I just want you back!

I turned, stalking towards the door and to my car.

“No, you don’t fucking get it, Anna. This? This isn’t me. And it’s not me because He’s gone.”

As I stepped into the Eos and started the engine, she ran out after me. I rolled the window down and looked her in the eyes.

“But He told me what to do. And I’m doing it for Him. Because I love Him.”

She had no response as I pulled out of her driveway and rolled on towards the center of town and eventual freeway. I pulled my phone from the cup holder and locked it in its holster mounted on my dash board. I opened the camera app and hit play, starting the recording by flashing a peace sign and a smile.

“Hey, Andre boo! You ready for later tonight? I’m on my way to the airport right now after a whole week of getting shitty and celebrating your eminent loss to me tonight. Man, I bet you can’t even imagine the difference in our preparation for this match. See, I already got this image in my mind – you’ve been at the gym, training hard and watching the film. I can picture every pull-up you do, the gritting of your teeth, the glistening of the sweat on your tanned skin. With every rep you complete, I bet you’ve thought of poor old Edward or Burn Out or maybe even Aaron Miles. Or who knows, maybe you’ve thought of Jared and how much you always wanted to get your hands on Him like the faggot we know you are. Sorry, love, I don’t have a dick you can grope through my shorts, but I’m more than eager to kick you in the skull until you’re concussed. Just like it would have been if you and Jared had tangled.

Perhaps you’re mistakenly excited for this match. I mean, this could be a big boon to your career and prestige, right? You never had your chance to really lay hands on #BeachKrew outside of that Tag Title match, so you never really proved you were up to snuff. Yeah, you had your little clique of idiot faggots in Rebellution, but where are they all now, Andre? Bonnie? Totally abandoned you for the greener pastures of the Guardians. Grayson Pierce? MIA. DeMarcus Jordan? LOL WHO? Now it’s just you, swimming about in space and praying to god that you don’t drown. Oh, poor little Andre – you’re already drowning. You were drowning before the Incident in Mexico, and you’re only drowning faster in UCI. You’re no longer the medium sized fish in a small pond; now you’re the little guy in the ocean.

You’re an absolute beta, and you weren’t built for this. See, if you buy a beta from Petco, they beat into your head how betas aren’t allowed to socialize and how they need to be in small containers. Betas, they’ll tell you, are decorative fish who get aggressive due to their diminutive stature and thus have a tendency to provoke death upon themselves when something else gets fed up with their nipping. Every actually put your finger in the tank of a beta, Andre? Harmless. Too small, too weak, and too cute to smash. A child may fear a beta, when one’s fingers are delicate and small, easy for that fish to give them a hard pinch no worse than a bee sting. But a fully grown person? No, no one’s afraid of sticking their fingers in the tank. That fish is harmless. That fish is a bottom feeder. That fish is going to spend its life in its impossibly small little tank, being the baddest motherfucker of nothing at all. That’s you Andre; the beta fish who doesn’t realize he’s an easy snack for even the docile koi.

Your resume is as impressive as an aluminum Christmas tree. Your biggest claim to fame is winning the World Title of some nowhere federation on your debut match. You think I give a fuck about that, Andre? If I entered that shitty little fed, I’d have won every belt on the fucking roster at once on my debut. Shit, I’d have even won both tag belts by myself. I know this because you could apparently climb the ranks like that, and I’m lightyears better than you. If you were the high water mark – the standard bearer – then you let the entire company down. You let it down every day and diminish a title you don’t even own as you continue to slog through mediocrity and shit on the doorstep of any company who will sign you. As of now, after your speedy exit from the UCI Title tournament, you’ve proven that you’re in no way, shape, or form ready to front any company at all. You’re a paper tiger folded in origami from print outs of Tumblr memes. You’re words, words, words and no bite.

The fact you were ever a double champion in WCF was all the proof in the world that WCF was a sick dog needing to be put down. Like, it is absolutely maddening to me that you got title shots when people like Raymond Hatcher and even Billy got absolutely nothing. What did you do, Andre? What did you earn? You grabbed onto the coattails of perennial loser Grayson Pierce and rode them all the way to a pity fuck off the sweet dick of Daddy Seth. You spun a laughable Twitter war with “champion in name only” Dag Riddick and resident psycho Katherine Phoenix into a Hardcore Title shot. Yet for all your narm-y shitposting and skullduggery on the internet, you’ve yet to have any solid accomplishments in your resume. You beat a reeling #BeachKrew for the tag belts in a moment of weakness and leadership change. You beat Katherine Phoenix when no one was there to prop her up. That title she had, Andre? The won that you beat her for? Guess who the fuck shoved her into that position in the first place?

Me, motherfucker. Who took out Obi-Wan Keblivion with a taser? Who gave the chick a pat on the ass and fed her a good meal? Me, Andre? I’m a king maker. I’m like a hammer – only making hits. Before that stupid Mexico Incident, Jared was a sneeze away from toppling either Flash or Logan, and you know it. They say behind every man, there’s an equally powerful woman – what do you think Stiletto is?

This match is the squash of the year. The only way it could be a worse squash is if you threw Caitlin in the ring to face me. I bet behind every limp-wristed man, there’s an equally limp wristed bitch. And considering she was getting the pipe from that Shia-looking motherfucker Kit Harrington, I can’t imagine she has that much self-esteem. Then again, how much self-esteem do you need to shack up with Discount Howard Black? How much self-esteem do you need to give your love to a man who has actively celebrated the suicide of another woman while claiming he’s the misunderstood victim in the situation? How much self-esteem do you need to shack up with a delusional Spencer Adams who seems to think he’s a Joey Flash? Lemme break the fourth wall and drop a meme in my rant:



Even you know this is a massacre on par with Mai Lai. This is going to be the biggest curb stomping since Flash vs. Price. Since David Sanchez vs. Teo del Sol. Since Andre Holmes vs. Erin Fauss.

Line those ‘Promo of the Week’ awards up, Spencer, and buy this bitch a fresh coffin while you’re at it. I’m about to beat Andre as bad as Andre beats women. See, I think that’s the reason I’m looking forward most to kicking the shit out of you, Andre – my whole gender has a serious bone to pick with you. Like the lazy, pathetic, cowardly little vulture you are, your biggest achievement thus far has been you penchant for engaging with chicks in fights. What’s wrong, Andy, are you too scared to go toe-to-toe with a man? Too worried you’ll break a nail or have your hair fall out of place? You step in the same federation as me, and the first thing you do is get into it with Lucious Starr. He’s not a girl, but he wore eye-liner, so he was practically one. You won your little TV Title shot, following in the footsteps of the midget Nebraskan you seemed destined to rip-off. Then, when you had your shot? Shit the bed. Totally fucked it up and got sent back to the lower card doldrums you came from. So what’s a “Relentless One” to do? I guess maybe you could try again and demand a one-on-one rematch with Slane. Or maybe you could shoot for Mikey Extreme and go at another championship. Or you could show them real chops and take a shot at Wade Moor, considering how much you loved to talk shit at #BeachKrew.

Spoiler alert: Andre chose to get into it with Katherine Phoenix. The Katherine Phoenix who had spent her time being a nuisance as Assistant Director of Talent Relations. The Katherine Phoenix who pulled a similar stunt on Jon Crow. The Katherine Phoenix who was clearly delusional and abused and needed guidance. You posit yourself as a good guy, Andre. You were not a good guy to Katherine. I don’t care what she did to you. I don’t care how many buttons she pressed of yours or how much she got under your skin. Katherine Phoenix claiming you were together had as much weight as some vagrant in New York saying he fucked your sister – you are just as fucking crazy if you took it seriously. You didn’t take the high road. You didn’t ignore her. You didn’t save face. You took it personally and set off on a campaign to bully a woman who belonged in an institution. You are as bad as anyone shoving a drink in your face. You are as bad as Kit Harrington saying you were stealing his girlfriend. You are everything you hate. We have seen your true colors.

I don’t play pretend, Andy. I’m not a good person, and I never was one. I’ve done a lot of evil shit since signing up for UCI, and I’m gonna keep doing that evil shit this week to you. But darling, that’s exactly the difference between us – I’m all natural, and you’re silicone. I was trained by the greatest wrestler to ever pass through the doors of WCF: a man who will burn this company to the ground the moment he comes back. A man you fear. A man who keeps you up at night. A man you will never come close to matching in the entirety of your – hopefully short – career. I have a pedigree; I was bred for success. You’re gum on my heel that I’m going to scrape off on my way into the club. You’re the shot I’m going to toss in the planter because I don’t drink well booze. You can take your little championship ambitions and shove them up your ass – you’re going to be just another dead #fuccboi in my wake as I cut through this whole roster.

And as I stand over your hopefully crippled ass? I’m going to take the best selfie ever.”

I blew a kiss to the camera. I was almost at the airport.

“Love ya! Bye!”

I waved and ended the recording as I turned into the parking garage. After paying for a week to keep the Eos, I took the elevator to the terminal and stepped into the Pre-Screening line for the TSA check. No carry-ons, no checked bags – when you’re as rich as I am, you’ve got everything you need in all the places you’ll be. I left a car here, and I’ll pick my other Eos up at O’Hare; I slept in the only clothes needed for the day, and Al will have my ring gear in our private dressing room. As I made my way towards the overpriced bar outside my flight gate, I looked up at the clock and saw it reading 2:30. In two and a half hours, I’d cut the sort of soul rending promo needed to leave Andre in tears and myself pumped up enough to win the match. Yes, I’d made the correct choice letting this whole thing be absent from my thoughts – there was simply no feasible universe in which I wouldn’t win this match. I sat down at the shitty little airport Chili’s bar and ordered myself a Bloody Mary. I’d continue drinking from this point on until I landed in Chicago and stepped through the doors of the Warehouse. I could get in that ring and stomp Andre into chum while shit house drunk. That’s what perfection looks like.