WOTW | ALYSSA DANIELS vs MATT KING vs KAELAN LAUGHLIN

Everything hurts, but he’s been used to that now for a while. The only difference is theo nes inflicting pain aren’t backyard try hards. They’re world class deathmatch wrestlers from all over the world. A little piece of each person who wrestles for Death Trip is the same, except that Cass Baumer bitch. They’re all a little ‘off’ in a sense. Why else would you sign up to willingly be slammed through glass, onto tacks, have your skin pierced by a cactus. Yeah, a fucking cactus. Before all this, Matt was just a garbage man monday through friday, a garbage man who would show up to work every monday covered in cuts and bruises. It took awhile for his co-workers to know why. They’d whisper back and forth to each other and wonder why Matt was always wrapped up like a mummy, until one day they had found him youtube.

It was a short video looped over and over, but regardless of how many times they saw it they cringed. A picnic table on fire next to a garage. Matt stood on top of the roof of said garage with a man on his shoulders and he fell off rolling forward so that the guy took the majority of the damage. Yet they were both recipient of burns for a moment before a bystander in a white shirt that had black stripes drawn on with permanent marker put them out.

It’s that mentality that has drawn a crowd to him. It’s that willingnes to put his body on on the line that has a Japanese fanbase that knows little english chanting “M-D-K” Matt. Deathrow. King. A trailer park trash kid whose mom was a whore on craigslist who fought his way up from the bottom and now, somehow, finds himself having a date in Chicago that brings with it an opportunity to become a champion. A chance to represent the brand that has adopted him.

...but you wouldn’t know it.

Normally if someone had been given the chance to become a champion of a respected establishment like Battleground they’d be in the gym training until exhaustion or studying tape on their opponents who are unknown to him, but have their following as well. Alyssa, an Elysium roster member, carries herself to be larger than she is. Her daredevil tactics in the ring are awe-worthy -- but he hasn’t seen them. Kaelan Laughlin, wife of the 4CW Champion and former CWC United States Champion, is a submission and suplex specialist. She’s thrown guys twice her size and is no stranger to deathmatches either. He doesn’t care.

It isn’t cockiness. It isn’t even over confidence. It’s just life. Matt’s dealt with the sickest sonsa bitches in the last months since signing to compete in Death Trip Wrestling. Not once has he looked up the history of his opponents. He shows up like it’s a fucking street fight outside a bar and just brawls. You could tell him it’s going to be different this time, that it’s a wrestling match and there are rules. That’s cool too. Fact is, he’s just built that way.

That probably explains why he flew from Japan to Chicago the night after the Union GP fight. After Dark held an event where he finally got to fight Aoki, a guy he’d been watching on youtube for a long time. He lost, but that’s life. He doesn’t sweat it. He doesn’t make excuses, he doesn’t try to see where he went wrong. He just gets up, wipes the blood from his eyes and slaps some hands on his way to the back.

So now, as we see him sitting on a park bench, with bandaids covering his forehead and his left hand wrapped in gause, he’s got a box of the best deep dish pizza Chicago has sitting on his lap and he’s looking into the camera with a scowl on his face.

“Matt Deathrow King. Eastern Boulevard Backyard fucking King. After Dark Dweller and the motherfucking problem that you don’t even fucking know yet. Let me guess, you motherfuckers expect something special. Some prolific motherfucking words covered in metaphors while I try to convince you I’m going to walk out of War of Worlds the motherfucking champion.”

He shakes his head, scowl still staunchly pasted on, and opens up the box of pizza.

“Nah. That shit isn’t me. You’d see through how fucking fake that is in a heartbeat. You’d be thinking that some fucking nerd with glasses wrote my shit and I’m not coming to you fake as fuck I’m coming to you as a man. I heard Battleground was throwing invites out to the world asking who wants to fight their champion like the shit aint a contest. I raised my hand like the quiet motherfucker in the back of the classroom like yeah pick me and see what the fuck happens. Then the shit got real, real fucking quick. I don’t mean no fucking disrespect to that Kaelan broad or the champ bitch, but these motherfuckers never seen Deathrow. And if they have it was on a fucking television screen. Cringing every time I talk or open my fucking mouth because I’m not your pretty boy selfie bitch or basic ass social media twat. They shake their heads and think that shit shit aint wrestling what I do. I’ve heard the words. None of you motherfuckers respect this craft. But I can tell you this, deathmatch prepares you for war. And that’s what the fuck we find ourselves in. War of the Worlds. I like that shit. I live for the fucking war.”

Matt takes a piece of deep dish pizza and folds it in half as the sauce spills down his hand sloppily before shoving it into his mouth. He probably bit off more than he could chew, I bet he could say the same thing about you.

“But you see… that fucking saying that you got a plan until you get punched in the mouth….that shit rings true.”

He’s trying to talk through a mouth full of pizza, and it’s just as gross as you might think.

“Alyssa. She flies around the fucking ring like this shit is a circus. Flipping and shit off of whatever the fuck she can find. Respect to that shit. I just fall hard as fuck when I jump off shit, but I don’t need to do a fucking trapeze act to hurt motherfuckers. When you coming at a dude who puts forks in motherfucker’s heads you think flipping is gunna fuck me up? Hell no, bitch. I might stop and stare for a second and ask myself if you dizzy as fuck but right after you miss I’m punching you in the mouth. This shit aint one on one. I’d probably give one of you a chance if it was. Flipping and shit or trying to rip my fucking arm off with some mixed martial arts shit like that Laughlin bitch would. I’d nod my head like okay Deathrow gotta figure some shit out here hold up.”

He smashes the other half of the piece in his mouth. This time the sauce, unbeknown to him, runs down the side of his cheek.

“But how you are you gunna fucking flip with your head on a swivel? You think a submission is going to last long when there’s another motherfucker in this match dying to stop you.”

Shaking his head slowly, Matt wipes his face off with his other hand. I say wipe off, but really he smeared the sauce down to his chin.

“Nope. This shit is a motherfucking fight. A street fight type of shit only real motherfuckers endure. I’m throwing bows like I’m in the paint on the blacktop. Any motherfucker can get one too. Let that zebra striped fuck get in the way if he wants he can eat one too. I’ll wake his ass up when it’s time to raise my hand.”

The thing about Matt is he isn’t a crust guy. Which makes as he tosses it out towards a gaggle of birds on the sidewalk , trying to peg one in the process. The second piece is just as sloppy as the first one and this time it falls to his shirt. He does notice it, but shrugs it off. It’s not the messiest his shirt has been, he’s not too concerned.

“I want you motherfuckers to tell me how the fuck you plan to beat Deathrow. I just fought off some cage fighting motherfuckers in a ring. Had two of three of em seeing stars and their own fucking blood at the end of it. I can throw fists. I can wrap my arms around a bitch’s neck and choke ‘em out. That shit don’t take skill. It doesn’t take a genius to fall from something high and turn a bunch like a fucking seizure mid air. It takes a fucking OG to get put through some glass and keep on coming. It takes a motherfucker like Deathrow to get slammed on some tacks and shake that shit off. You all got some tacks? You got glass? Nah. You all ain’t got shit. You got specialties that you pride yourselves on, good shit bitch so do I. It’s called being from the fucking streets. It’s called fighting for life. Not fighting for a living. That shit don’t impress me. Kaelan been bounced around to every fucking continent trying to fight a motherfucker she can beat. Alyssa comes from a fucking spot that can’t even keep the doors open but that shit is supposed to scare Deathrow?”

He throws the second piece of pizza at the same birds, except this time he follows it up with the entire fucking box. The birds scatter and he stands up, wiping his face off with his shirt, and walks down the path in the middle of the park.

“Fucking deep dish pizza fucking sucks. I heard this fucking place had good pizza. Then again I heard Battleground had some fierce fucking competition, but here I am fighting two bitches with daddy issues.”

Matt extends his hands out beside him and turns towards the camera walking backwards.

“The streets are my fucking home. Even in Japan when those motherfuckers chant Deathrow and buy a fucking t shirt with my bloody face on it, I go home to the streets. Shit like that helps you keep it real. Helps keep you humble. That shock you? That shock you that a motherfucker telling you he’s going to end your fucking dreams is humble? Because I’m realistic bitch. I know what you have to throw at me, but I ain’t sweating motherfuckers like you. I run up against killers every fucking time I step in the ring for Death Trip. Yeah, I take L’s. I been beat to fuck in front of thousands but every time I stood back up I felt that energy those motherfuckers gave me. I didn’t beg them for it. I don’t have to. Real motherfuckers respect other real motherfuckers. So I know you two plan on walking down that ramp and hearing the fans cheer and chant your names. Alyssa because she’s got a strap and Kaelan because she’s known worldwide. But that fam that chants Deathrow and throws up the fucking gang signs telling me they respect the East Boulevard Backyard beginnings? They’ll be there too. Just the mention of Matt King has motherfuckers go ‘you mean MDK?’ Yeah motherfucker. MDK.”

Suddenly Matt charges the camera and gets his face uncomfortably close. Like close enough that you can mathematically figure out the degree of how crooked his teeth are. He grabs his shirt, his own merch of course, and presents it to the camera.

“When I’m champion of this bitch everyone you thought paid to sit in those fucking seats and have your back will crowd surf me right the fuck back to Japan until Batteground comes knocking for their staple to come back and rectify another motherfucker who don’t know what a fight is. Because this shit is a fight. That’s what you don’t get. Wrestling is for two motherfuckers in the ring showing their moves so the fans clap like monkeys in the zoo. Last time I checked the poster says war, and I’m battle tested like no other motherfucker that’s stepped into Battleground. I wear this shit as a reminder of who I am. Not because I get high off my own supply. I tell the world I show up and the motherfucker blows up.”

He backs up again, and this time pushes past the camera to go back for the pizza box that the birds have been trying to get inside of. In a way, that wasn’t meant to be comical to him yet in theory is hilarious, Matt kicks away at the birds and throws punches that meet nothing but air before picking up his pizza again and opening it back up.

“Forgot I paid thirty dollars for this shit, and I’m fucking eating it.”

Opening up the pizza box he sees a feather on his pizza and tosses it back down to the ground.

“Forget that shit, I’ll get a fucking hot dog…”

Angrily brushing past the camera man again Matt seems to be looking for a hot dog vendor in the park for a few moments before giving up.

“Bottom line is this. Everything I gotta say you motherfuckers already know. When there’s a war to be fought they want Deathrow. They want violence. Weapons or not I don’t need a fucking arsenal to put motherfuckers away. I just need two fists, the MDK fam, and the whole heart of the Eastern Boulevard lifestyle. You fight for everything you got, and everything you get is yours until you say so. Battleground. You just put these bitches on Deathrow.”