"Cut Me, Mick." [RRS HoliCraze Hell Tournament Round 2]

There's a creak to start off the recording, that small sound blotted out by a rueful and almost bitter chuckle before the darkness resolves to show the bearded face of Wrestle Da himself, Bruce McLeod.

"Hello, lovelies." There’s something in his tone that seems a bit strained, his voice a little hoarser than usual – maybe he’s aware of that because he takes a moment to chuckle under his breath, shaking his head. "Made a promise when I cut ties with that fuckaree, a promise I’ve just broken. Wasn’t intentional, mind – never is, though, is it? Aye, there’s the rub. But this business, it’s never been what one would call ‘safe’ though… has it? Never been a bleedin’ cakewalk down primrose lane, a little skip-dee-loo ‘twixt the tulips."

He leans back against the lounge chair he’s in, his gaze drifting out over the swimming pool that’s glowing a vibrant aqua, casting a strange glow over his skin and hair. He sucks his teeth for a moment, almost as if he’s trying to keep that emotion from bleeding through and by the look in his eyes, he’s failing miserably. They’re dead black, alive and over-bright as though he’s been charged with some sort of kinetic energy – Frankenstein’s monster – a fucking glorified scarecrow, held together with scar tissue and baling twine. He stirs the words around with his tongue, finally spitting them out.

"My wife feels like I’ve duped her, as though I’ve made it a point tae misstep into these precarious situations over an’ over. Am not suicidal. Haven’t been for a good long time, as much as it pains a fella tae admit. But, supposing that’s par for the course, aye? We all have a wound that brings us tae the squared circle. There’s holes in all of us, but then, that’s what it means tae be part of this tribe. Not the business. Bein’ human, mind – the thing that sets us above the animals ruttin’ for their next satisfaction. Fill the gullet. Empty the balls. Scratch an itch. Give it no thought. "

He sighs, shaking his head.

"Oh aye, fellas. Humanity’s all about holes. Wounds. Voids that need tae be filled – nae so vulgar, though. Some with knowledge. Some with adoration… fuckin’ adulation. Some with blood an’ gore an’ a splash of ochre on canvas akin tae the next Jackson Pollock masterpiece as validation of life. Leave a mark. That’s what we all wanna do. That’s why we reach for the stars. Plant flags on the moon. Leave trash at the summit of Mount Everest. Have tae let the future generations know we’ve been here. This late in the game, the thought of my legacy’s been weighing quite heavily on the mind."

Shrugging, the silver-haired Scot looks down for a moment.

"Treats wants a rematch… wants a pound of flesh in lieu of revenge. An eye for an eye."

He flashes a bitter smile.

"El Diablo Blanco wants some more clout tae carry back with him, wave that flag he captured when he goes back tae OATH. Another cherry atop the sundae. He sent ol' Lex back tae retirement, after all. Mebbe should just roll over, accept that lot as well, hmm?"

Sucking his teeth, he shakes his head. 

"Much as I spent a good fifteen years doin’ just that, there’s no joy in the prospect of puttin’ another fella over. As good as this year’s been, as many successes that’ve had, the big one still eludes me. Is that greed? Is that hubris… some Ozymandian bullshyte tae think I’ve earned that spotlight after all this time? Mebbe so. Aye, mebbe so. And if that’s a sin, nail these hands tae the cross. Let me hang ‘til all the poison, all the fuckin’ ego runs thick and black from my veins to stain the ground beneath – is never quite bein’ good enough the sort of legacy I wanna leave behind? It never fails, though… these moments where I’ve gotten so damned good at dissection, at this self-inflicted vivisection that there’s nothin’ left for the vultures to do but pick the bones. Ach, it’s almost comedy: I get knocked down, I get up again. It's a 90’s top hit song by a one-hit wonder. Is that what I am? Some sad cliché? Some fuckin’ joke walkin’ about, oblivious tae the laughter in my wake?"

The words ooze bitterness as he shakes his head.

"How many times can I pull myself back together before there's a little less give than before? How many times can I patch the cracks in my psyche, and move along like the world’s whipping boy, keep my head down, and do what I'm supposed to do? How many licks does a fella swallow before it’s acceptable tae fire back – am genuinely curious, here. How many? How many times can a man be denied before he wants to burn it all to the ground? How many risks are deemed acceptable before the tally weighs against the soul? How much blood shed is too much bloodshed?"

Those dark eyes blink as he stares forward into the camera.

"In this moment, I’ve had all I can stomach. It’s comin’ out, one way or another. You’ve got a choice tae accept what your actions’ve wrought or continue tae rage against the truth starin’ ye in the face."

He falls silent for a moment, leaning forward as he speaks one last time, and that strained emotion and pronounced rasp are back. His voice shakes. It’s laced with steel. That thousand-yard stare doesn’t flinch or flicker and when those famous words come tumbling out, the meaning is crystal clear, even without the follow-up promise.

"I can't see nothin’; you gotta open my eyes. Cut me, Mick. Oh, aye, fellas. Happy tae oblige."