I remember the first time I had a close encounter with a blood-sucking leech.
The family were vacationing down in Florida.
Now whilst the Sunshine State is widely regarded as a tourist’s wet dream, there’s a darker, more sinister side to it that holidaymakers are well advised to stay away from – and I can personally vouch for it.
You may have heard of it? They call it the Everglades.
You heard me right, motherfuckers. Amid all those golden sunsets, romantic river walks, and glorious sandy beaches, sits this stinky, shadowy, shit-smelling quagmire, with all manner of parasites residing within it.
This one afternoon, while our parents were busy working on their suntans, my brother and I decided to check out this sess pool for ourselves.
We rock up in our hula shirts and immediately wish we hadn’t. I mean we’re talking the dirtiest, grimiest, nastiest, shit-smelling foulness you’ve ever tasted in your god damn life – and that ain’t even the worst part.
That stench, ya see, has to secrete from somewhere, and that somewhere just so happens to be the wetland that surrounds the Everglades.
The motherfucking swamp itself.
Old School Wrestling often reminds me of that trip I took down to Florida.
And ever since I became the OSW Champion, the Slaughterhouse has assumed the form of said fucking swamp.
Just as I found out the hard way all those years ago, I’ve come to realise there are as many leeches living within these muddy wells as there was then, ready to sink their teeth into my skin and remove me of my vital fluids.
When you’re the bearer of this coveted belt, people look at you and assume it’s all golden sunsets, romantic river walks, and glorious sandy beaches.
But the fact of the matter is, when you’re bogging around this marshland with the OSW Title wrapped around your waist, you’re a walking, talking target for all the barnacles and bloodsuckers who lurk in these waters, wanting a taste of the action – and you’re the worst of them all, Hell Bat.
You skulk around in the depths of the swamp that is Old School Wrestling, masquerading from your prey; moving through the reeds stealthily, while all the time fighting the primordial beast inside you to feed.
No matter how hard you try to resist the temptation, your hunger always outweighs your resistance.
Time and time again, your vampiric form rises to the surface of the swamp, rearing its ugly head in search of an unsuspecting donor to feast upon.
And now your nose has sniffed out the tastiest plasma on the menu, hasn’t it?
Through the murkiness of the swamp, you have homed in on the scent of Viper Roberts.
On Monday night, when you target the Head Snake’s neck, your drooling tusks glint and ready to strike, I shall slither away from your brooding advances.
It’ll be my teeth, not yours, detective, that plunge into your neck; delivering my fatal blow.
A leech, Kaine Knightlord, you may well be, but you will soon discover that nothing packs a bite harder than a snake.
And as far as snakes go – I’m the hardest of them all.