In the town where I grew up, the natives used to hold this annual competition called The Derby.
Once a year, a load of these crazy motherfuckers would arrive in convoy; each with the intent of becoming Derby Champion.
The Derby itself wasn’t your typical, everyday moto-event. There were no tracks, no start or finish lines, and the entire thing took place in a big circular field known as The Bowl.
The rules weren’t what you’d expect of a regular vehicular contest either, nor did they involve any traditional means of racing.
Instead, the sole purpose of The Derby was to survive it by outlasting your competition and being the last car left standing.
Here in Old School Wrestling, it’s that time of year again.
With Red Snow behind us, the great survival of the fittest act is fast fucking approaching.
As I cast my eyes on the horizon, I see a bunch of enthusiastic motorists riding convoy; each of them heading straight for Wrestle Heroes in the hope they finish first during the biggest race on earth.
Like my old hometown Derby, the contestants have spent months fine-tuning their whips; modifying their bodywork and hot-rodding their engines in order to give them the best possible chance of victory.
There will be many different vehicles that go to combat. There will be the newer and dare I say lesser cars; the likes of Starboy, Wiz and the Generation Kid who have scarcely even acquired their licenses.
These young, naïve fools will roll into Wrestle Heroes with a raw and stilted confidence that they can come out on top.
They will put their foot to the floor from the get-go and try to eliminate everybody else as quickly as they can.
They are a generation of haste who want everything now, but come Heroes they will soon discover that the only thing swift will be the sound of their own engines cutting out before they even start.
Secondly, there are the run of the mill vehicles; the cars that flatter to deceive. These consist of Messrs Knightlord, Mordecai and Tenchu who can always be found tailgating the rest of the pack; unable to keep up with the bigger and better buckets of bolts.
And finally, there are the classics; the finest four-wheelers our business has to offer.
These seasoned cars know that slow and steady wins the race, and as such they will bide their time in the Wrestle Heroes ring. They won’t rush in at a hundred miles an hour, nor will they consider themselves chaperones by simply making up the numbers.
Men such as Luke Storm, Albert Shaw and Israel Grimwolf mean fucking business, and as such you have to know exactly the right time in which to run these vehicles off course.
Well, fellas, watching The Derby taught me how to do just that, and at Wrestle Heroes – Viper Roberts is firing for first fucking place.
While all you pricks are sat there, rabbits in my headlights, I’ll smash you out the fucking park.
I will go the distance, leaving the Slaughterhouse a wreckage of rubber and steel in my wake; your two-time World Champion.