AEW Five Fingers of Death (and Friends) 5/18 - 5/24 Part 2

AEW Double or Nothing 5/23/26

Jon Moxley vs Kyle O'Reilly

Imagine being Kyle O'Reilly.

Last fall, he'd stared down the biggest villain of the last few years, maybe the greatest warrior of his generation. He fought a monster, perhaps a wounded monster, one with his back against the wall, sure, but a monster nonetheless. 

He fought the monster, defeated the monster, and yet, unlike so many others, he didn't become a monster in the process.

He stayed true to himself. Kyle O'Reilly has grown into a man who cares about his friends, who would rather smile than scowl, who thinks there is still good in this world, that there's something worth fighting for. He lives his life. He stops and smells the flowers. He sees the possible beauty inherent in everyone and everything. He's a breath of fresh air in an increasingly bleak world, someone who can smile backstage and then lock in when the bell rings, but as someone who never forgets what he's fighting for and what he stands for.

And yet, while he was gone, Jon Moxley has somehow turned public opinion back his way. Did he do it by apologizing? Did he do it by hitting bottom and losing everything? Did he do it through the sort of acts that Kyle O'Reilly would consider heroic?

No.

He won. And he won. And he won again. He won the Continental Classic, coming back from a deficit, including overcoming the injury O'Reilly had given him. Maybe his victory over Fletcher was suspect, as Fletcher defeated himself when he couldn't find the Callis Family Screwdriver, but he defeated the "Greatest Tournament Wrestler Ever" in Okada, and then gave a speech full of empty platitudes that the masses (and his own followers who had seemed otherwise on the verge of betraying him) ate up. 

This is Jon Moxley, the man who ended Bryan Danielson, the man who poured bleach down the throat of Kyle's good friend Orange Cassidy, the man who, after losing to Kyle right before the start of the Continental Classic, rushed back into the ring to cruelly and pettily put Kyle himself out of action.

And now only was the crowd seemingly okay with all of that, they were chanting Mox's name just as much as they were chanting Kyle's. 

Imagine being Kyle O'Reilly and hearing those chants. 

You had taken Moxley to the limit a week before, but this time, he didn't quit. 

And why would he? The Moxley from last fall was a man who had felt the walls closing in. This was a Moxley who was breathing air that he hadn't earned, save for through combat, save for by lying to everyone around him, save for by lying to himself most of all. 

Might equals right. The Continental Championship, with its barring of interference, was the ultimate arena to prove might. And thus, Jon Moxley was obviously the most right of all. Just ask Daniel Garcia. He had been at the bottom of his rope, had pushed Mox to the limit, and now he was under his tutelage. Just ask Will Ospreay, who Mox had taken out. Just like he'd taken out Kyle.

Just ask the fans. They'll be more than happy to tell you. They were more than happy to tell Kyle on this night.

It would have been one thing if they booed Kyle and chanted for Mox. It's a New York crowd. We live in dark times. Things happen. Kyle could have looked past that. 

But they chanted for one and then the other, back and forth. They saw Kyle O'Reilly and Jon Moxley as equal, as equally worth their adoration and support. Moral equivalents.

Imagine being Kyle O'Reilly, who came back from his injury and immediately helped his friends win the six-man titles, who now was coming back to take what else he felt he earned. To right a wrong that no one else seemed to care about anymore. Imagine hearing that. Imagine feeling it.

In his previous matches against Moxley, he did everything right and pressed Mox on his weaknesses, on his shattered nerve, capitalized on every mistake.

Here, now, months later, in a world that he never made, in a world that betrayed him and his positive outlook, O'Reilly was a little off his game, all while Mox was drinking deep in the confidence of his own Kool-Aid.

They fought even at first, but when they got to the floor, when O'Reilly finally pried off an advantage and pressed it, Mox managed to get under his skin. The middle finger wasn't about defiance. It was, I think, a momentary admission, a peeling back of a carefully clung mask. O'Reilly had won his battles. None of it had mattered. Mox was winning a much greater war of hearts and minds. 

O'Reilly lost his head, throwing wild kicks. Mox moved and O'Reilly's leg crashed into the post. 

Everything after that was academic. The match ended with both men in simultaneous leglocks. This time, Mox could be bolstered by his own bullshit that he could once again buy into completely. In the face of that, O'Reilly, brave, caring, tough, skilled was only human and what can a human do in the face of an idea, even one that can only exist in an unfair, unearned, decrepit world.

That wasn't enough though. Post-match, Mox stood before O'Reilly, spat out his platitudes, and held out his hand. And O'Reilly, who wants to see the beauty in all of us, took a breath, and let the world sweep him under. It was easier to believe. It was easier to forgive. It was easier to accept. He shook Jon Moxley's hand.

Which leaves me. Here I am, chronicling this story month after month, left to wonder how much longer can I too possibly hold out. You give the devil his due long enough and even a naked, fallen emperor has enough capital to buy himself new clothes. 

Jon Moxley is precariously close to getting away with all of it.

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