Cairomoves II: The Beetle, The Spider, Or The Web?
Sept 27, 2013 20:25:11 GMT -5
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Post by Deleted on Sept 27, 2013 20:25:11 GMT -5
"Cairomoves II: The Beetle, The Spider, Or The Web?"
The golden yellow sun radiates unyielding heat as it illuminates the Cockapooni Desert of New Mexico like a window into Hell. A panoramic gaze reveals the presence of cacti, scorpions, Gila monsters, rattlesnakes, El Chupacabra, and a smattering of human skeletal remains from an uncertain date and unknown cause of death. Perhaps they were drunken college kids who took a meandering detour through the desert and found themselves suddenly and irrevocably unable to cope with the impossibly harsh conditions? After all, there is nary a drop of water to be found out here, much less shelter from the sweltering heat. Or perhaps these unfortunate souls were degenerate gambling junkies who failed to pay up at one of the shadier Albuquerque gaming establishments? Maybe. Or maybe these fuck-faces were simply dumb enough to cross Bobby Cairo's path on his way to WAR? Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner, Charlie! That'll teach those bitches not to bite down on the head when they're giving The Godfather a blowjob.
A particularly ornery-looking rattlesnake slithers through the eye sockets of one of the human skulls. The eyes of the snake appear lifeless and unfocused, yet the brain of the serpentine beast is methodical, always calculating its next move, biding its time before lashing out at a future meal with its lethal fangs. Such is the cold, predatory mindset that this hellish terrain necessitates if one wishes to survive. Kill or be killed. Hell is war and war is hell. "WAR is hell." The words tumble from Bobby Cairo's tongue like soft serve from an ice cream cone on a hot summer day. Bobby cruises down the New Mexico desert highway in his vintage 1976 Cadillac Eldorado, known affectionately as Tina Machina. While thinking about the match that awaits him on Sunday and contemplating various scenarios and outcomes, Cairo peers across the sands that stretch as far as the eye can see on either side of the paved road. These desert flats are intimately personal to Bobby Cairo. The man nearly realized his dream out here. And then? He nearly died out here.
OK, Fly, Orbit, FPV, Logan, Twilight, and the rest. Buckle up. We're going on another journey down memory lane, Bobby Cairo-style. The year was Two-Thousand-and-Eight. Five years before Phoenix, Arizona played host to WAR XII, the Cockapooni Desert played host to a very different kind of war, a war where pinfalls and submissions were not recognized, but crimes against the state most certainly were. Just when you think you know a WCF superstar, just when you think you've recognized the limits of his ambitions and capabilities, he goes and does something crazy like dropping out of his bid for the United States presidency and declaring all-out war against the federal government. If ever there was a man who failed to recognize his own inherent limitations it would be Bobby Cairo. If ever there was a man who placed his warped sense of idealism before his regard for self-preservation, that would also be Bobby Cairo.
It should come as a surprise to no one that back in Two-Thousand-and-Eight Bobby Cairo fancied himself as a one-man army, destined to overthrow a government that he viewed as being a "heartless and bloodthirsty leviathan that feeds off the souls of our children." Bobby's words, not mine. Cairo has never been a fan of authority, of course, but he became particularly enraged at the political establishment after finding himself the target of baseless accusations of sexual assault that ultimately sank his presidential campaign. Cairo, no stranger to political groups that operate somewhere between the fringe and The Twilight Zone, sought any means of attack that he could find against those who had done him wrong. Cairo was especially eager to uncover secrets that would discredit those who he believed had discredited him.
Cairo's wishes were apparently fulfilled when he received a hot tip from one of his sources regarding a secret military silo located in the New Mexico desert where chemical and nuclear weapons were being unlawfully stockpiled. Cairo was well aware that the presence of such a base on American soil would violate any number of international treaties and would prove to be a major embarrassment for the administration if the media got wind of it. However, despite the usual reliability of his source, Cairo did not find it to be prudent that he should run with such a story unless he knew for certain that it was true. Taking an unconfirmed rumor to the press or attempting to blackmail an enemy with it can be as foolhardy as going into a gunfight with an unloaded pistol. Cairo decided to make the trip to New Mexico in order to confirm the base's existence and to determine the express purpose of its operation, while gathering evidence of both. Cairo, recognizing the danger of such a mission, opted not to involve any of his friends or "business associates" in the venture. If Bobby Cairo was going to bring down the government that he despised, he was going to do it on his own... or he was going to die trying.
Using a custom designed all-terrain vehicle to navigate his path through the seemingly endless labyrinth of desert, Cairo ventured into the Cockapooni with an arsenal of weapons that make Al Qaeda look like your average Georgia backwoods militia. This motherfucker, the ATV mind you not Cairo himself, was loaded with anti-aircraft missiles, fifty-caliber machine gun decks, radar jammers, and a battering ram, among other goodies. Not to mention it came stocked with rocket thrusters for speed and flight capability and anti-tank armor to protect against attack. Did I mention that it was powered entirely by the sun? Pretty handy when you're in a fucking desert. The primary flaw of such a refined piece of American machinery is that it requires the operator to actually occupy the vehicle in order to experience the full benefit of its accommodations. This was not an issue for the first few days of Bobby's trek across the desert sands, when the vehicle practically guided itself while Bobby rested in the plush lounge area chugging obscenely indulgent cocktails of rum and sometimes vodka origin.
Upon drawing within fifty kilometers of the military base, Cairo decided to make the remainder of the trip on foot, perhaps because he was drunk, or perhaps because he wished to be as discreet as possible while approaching the base. Or maybe, just maybe, Bobby Cairo thought he was invincible? Whatever Cairo's motivations were, he stowed the ATV dubbed "Killer Bobbo 69er" in a cave located beneath a rocky ledge and activated its cloaking device. Cairo then continued his journey on foot, bringing with him fully automatic assault weapons, improvised explosive devices, a veritable litany of grenades, the latest developments in body armor, crazy-looking military knives with giant serrated blades and about fifty-million other different functions, a tent specially designed to sustain its inhabitants in desert conditions, and enough food, water and ebony ass porn to last him for well over a week. Of course Cairo also brought night vision goggles, infrared surveillance equipment and digital video and photographic devices to record his much-needed and desired evidence of the base and its function. How did Bobby carry all of this stuff? Simple. He got Steve Orbit's mom to carry it for him after he plowed the bitch in her asshole. "Poo Guinea" that, motherfucker.
As Cairo neared the perimeter of the base, he dedicated several hours of his much precious time to locating an adequately shrouded area to set up camp and perform his surveillance activities. Cairo then spent the next few days snapping photos and rolling film like a TMZ snoop outside of Amanda Bynes's house. Bobby gathered some incredibly damning evidence too, evidence that would nail the disgusting and hateful "Georgia" W. Bush administration with their Dick Cheney, their Donald Rumsfeld and their Cunnilingus Rice. Nail them right in their assholes, like Bobby nailed Steve Orbit's mom. Bobby Cairo was living large, spying on the United States military from his clandestine desert hideout, on the cusp of exorcising his demons, namely the burden of his failures at WAR and in the presidential election. All who had questioned him, condemned him, laughed in his face, and stabbed him in the back were about to get their just desserts. Bobby Cairo was about to become the most powerful man in the free world!
However, Bobby Cairo's glorious rise to political juggernaut was simply not destined to be, not yet anyway. Bobby was shot in the chest three times with armor piercing bullets while attempting to scale the fence of the black site military compound. Despite the fact that Cairo was near-death, the MP's insisted on handcuffing Cairo and shackling his ankles before allowing him to receive medical attention. In the throes of death, Cairo began imploring the MP's to inform his mother that he loved her and to feed his pet goldfish Herman - his perception of reality so distorted from excruciating pain that he must have believed the MP's to be guardian angels. They laughed in his face, talked a whole lot of shit about his mama, just as Bobby Cairo would talk shit about Steve Orbit's mom lo these many years later, and dropped Cairo's ass off in the infirmary like they were dropping a sack of shit into a twenty-ton septic tank.
It is arguable that Cairo's defeat to Skyler Striker at WAR was a lower low than his being shackled to a gurney at the Rotersdam (pronounced "Rot? Hers? Damn!") Military Base hospital. At least this pain and humiliation was partly deserved due to his inexplicable stupidity and outright audacity. Bobby could hear the taunts of the MP's and the crudely misshapen nurses with their cloven hooves: "How dare you think for yourself, motherfucker? This is America! You do what WE tell you to do! You're either with us or you're with the terrorists! Are you a terrorist, boy? WELL, ARE YA!" Cairo would sometimes interrupt their stream of consciousness-style rants by offering to shove his thickness down their respective throats so that he might have some peace and quiet. More often than not they would impolitely decline by thwacking him in the face with the butt of their rifles - or in the case of the nurses, punching him in the cock.
"Well, this certainly sucks." /CreepingDeath.exe
After being granted less than two weeks to recover from life-threatening gunshot wounds to the chest, Bobby Cairo is transported from the infirmary to a prison cell, presumably at the same Rotersdam Military Base that he attempted to breach. (Oh, is that where Bobby came up with the name for his finisher, the Security Breach? I thought it was because of the way that he anally "breaches" Orbit's mom every night. That's my bad, yo!) Cairo can't be sure that he's being imprisoned in the very same facility that he unlawfully compromised, but he's aware that it matters little. He has not officially been charged with a crime, nor is he likely to be anytime soon. FISA and the USA PATRIOT Act allow the higher-ups in the government to indefinitely detain Cairo as an "enemy combatant" and that is precisely what they're going to do. Cairo sighs a little. He knows that he has a long road ahead of him in order to regain his freedom. Suicide is an option, of course, but Bobby Cairo is driven by the knowledge that if he dies it will be without a WAR victory on his WCF resume. This is a fact that he cannot abide. He cannot allow his final appearance in WAR to be a pinfall defeat at the unscrupulous hands of Skyler Striker, that Australian pissant. No, just no, absolutely not.
What's more is the fact that Cairo does not want to die in this tiny, dimly lit cell like some kind of a subhuman wretch who isn't worth the dignity of a proper cremation and a funeral service with thousands of mournful spectators. It is a less than humble thought from a less than humble man, but it is partly what drives Cairo to survive. That and the wanting to win WAR thing. "Oh, if only you could see me now, mama. What a fool I've been. What a fool to think that I could do this on my own. If only I had more guns and explosives. Then I could make these fools pay. Father, know that I am sorry. I wanted so badly to slaughter every last one of these soulless mongrels for the hell that they made you and Biohazard endure when they sent you to Vietnam. Love, your son, Bobby Cairo." Cairo transmitted these messages telepathically and he is certain that his parents received them. They likely believed that their son was communicating with them from beyond the grave, but that's OK. For all intents and purposes Bobby Cairo was no longer a man among the living, and he would not be again for a very long time.
Months pass. Violent interrogations take place on a daily and nightly basis. Cairo is fed awful food - a gruel of some kind, and that nasty orange drink that they give to schoolchildren and mental patients. Not Sunny Delight, mind you - it tastes more like a bootleg Tang. This barbarous treatment reminds Cairo of what Winston Smith endured in George Orwell's "Nineteen Eighty-Four", a book that shaped Cairo's worldview as a young boy growing up in a working-class neighborhood in Hartford, Connecticut. The image of Cairo's face is painted in irrespective light, curtailed by shadow. We see a disheveled Cairo, malnourished, beaten, bruised and unkempt, injected with mind-altering substances, namely the so-called "truth serum". Cairo has been biding his time, feeding the military officials fairytales about a far-right conspiracy to obtain chemical and nuclear weapons and overthrow the government. Cairo promises to tell them everything, in due time.
The hardships that Cairo experiences on a daily basis (unmitigated torture including testicular abuse, the lack of proper sustenance and exercise, a vile stench of feces and urine that permeates his nostrils), make it difficult for Cairo to keep his story straight. At times Cairo pledges allegiance to "Adolf Histler" (spelling intentional). At other times he sings the praises of Walt Disney and Charlton Heston. Even Osama bin Laden gets some love from Cairo, just to rile the upper echelon military thugs-slash-commanding officers. Cairo knows that it's a dangerous game - just as he tempted fate in his feud against Skyler Striker, he stakes his life on the line every time he issues his false confessions to the military brass. If they catch him in a lie or if they believe that Cairo is no longer of use to their counter-terrorism efforts, then he will become just another pile of bones in the Cockapooni Desert.
Even with this understanding Cairo does not waver, because wavering is for cowards and the politicians who bear their names. Anarchist, communist, conspiracy theorist, terrorist - Cairo wore the names like badges of honor, medals of commendation on his nonexistent military uniform. He began accusing the officers of outrageous heresies: "Harris, didn't I see you at the meeting in Berlin? Yes, we talked about blowing up Air Force One, if my memory serves. Adams, I distinctly recall meeting you in Moscow. We drank til our hearts content while basking in the glory of Stalin's regime. Then you sold me that enriched uranium to give to the Iranians." Oh, Cairo was sowing his oats. Despite feeling battered and broken as the result of his regular beatings, he began ejaculating while alone in his cell as if he had never skipped a beat. The thickness was alive and well, even as the rest of Cairo's body was suffering.
Though Bobby's spirits had improved, and the possibility of one day rejoining the WCF roster and claiming victory in the match that proved his greatest nemesis seemed at least faintly hopeful, Cairo knew that his time was running out.
"I can't sleep or I'll fall off the cliff. Mother, Father, stay with me. Sing me a prayer and I will see you home soon."
A belligerent and hateful voice beckons: "Cairo! Interrogation time, maggot!"
"Oh, you'll get yours, Patterson. You and your faggot buddy Harrelson, too."
Two US Army-branded Gestapo thugs strong-arm Cairo's frail body into the noncushioned metal chair in the interrogation room. There is only a single light in the room. It hangs above an equally unwelcoming sterile metal table, though it is nearly as bright as the New Mexico sun, and it shines directly into Cairo's wary eyes. Sitting opposite Cairo is Five-Star Army General William S. Holden. Holden, or "Franky" as his friends call him, is an old white bigot with gray hair who's served in the Army since about the Eisenhower administration. He's a real hateful, scheming, power-hungry son of a bitch. You know the type. Never met a black man he didn't think was a nigger. Thinks all Jews are kikes, too. Bobby Cairo's got Jew blood in his veins. Probably some black man too if the thickness is any indication.
Cairo appears to be drifting into a state of half-sleep, half-masturbation as the light shines too brightly into his eyes for him to even be able to identify his surroundings. Holden clears his throat. Bobby promptly withdraws his hands from his tan prison bottoms.
Holden clears his phlegm-filled throat. Based on the sheer amount of phlegm that necessitated clearing from his throat, one can presume that the man has recently consumed a large brisket sandwich and washed it down with a cold beer. "Do you enjoy beating your meat in my presence, Bobby?"
"I apologize, Franky. I thought you were Jessica Alba." Cairo flashes that snarky, too-cool-for-school grin of his. This prompts a stiff punch to the jaw from Patterson. Blood gushes from Cairo's mouth like pussy juice from Alba's cunt when the thickness is gettin it in.
Holden smiles sadistically. He tries his damnedest to stifle his bellyful of laughter - and brisket sandwich. "Are you high, son?"
Cairo spits a mouthful of blood onto the metal sheen of the table. "Of course. I'm high on Allah, my brotha. As-salamu alaykum... nigga."
Holden practically jumps to his feet in a furor. "You speak this insolence to me, Cairo?! I could kill you right now and no one would ever be the wiser!"
Cairo calmly retorts, nary a trace of emotion on his bloodied and beaten face, the scraggly jaw that slopes in a state of disrepair. "I don't think you will kill me, Franky. You need me. I'm your source. I got the information that you need to supplant the vast right-wing conspiracy that riddles this great nation with its, what did you call it? Insolence? Yeah, that's what we'll call it. 'Insolence.' Now give me a cigarette. I want a fucking Newport!"
Cairo jumps to his feet and catches a size ten boot to the jaw for his troubles. The impact of the kick knocks Cairo back into his chair. Bobby's profusely bloodied mouth gushes even more of his plasma. Holden, firmly entrenched in evil, contorts his face so that it appears like that of a Gila monster. The sadistic smile returns to his horrifying facade. "Oh yes, Mr. Cairo. About that 'information'. None of the leads that you've provided for us have panned out. We tortured--uh, interrogated each of the officers that you named as your accomplices and, needless to say, they gave us no verifiable information. All that turned up was some nonsense about, uh..." Holden scowls at the official military donk-uments on the table in front of him. "It says here that Patterson described some nonsense about flaming globes of Sigmund and radioactive mangoes?" Holden turns his scowl to Patterson. "You been smoking that ganja, boy?"
Patterson, terrified, shuffles in his stiletto heels--er, combat boots. "Of course not, sir! Never! I don't even know what that shit is, sir!"
Holden shakes his head in disgust. "Fairy--er, uh, good job, Patterson. And sorry about waterboarding you. Now, Cairo, it seems to me that your continued existence is utterly useless to the United States Army. Unless you start providing us with tangible information that we can use to bring down this 'vast Reich-wing conspiracy' that you describe, then I will personally chop off your dick and watch you bleed out."
Cairo nods his head in supreme understanding, his face looking completely fucked up like something from a horror movie. "I see. And the status of my Newport?"
Holden lets loose with an outpouring of uproarious laughter and fist-slamming upon the table. "Oh, Cairo, you fucking Jew. I'm going to enjoy butchering you. Patterson! Harrelson! Absolve this motherfucker of the privilege of breathing!"
Patterson and Harrelson nod their respective faggot heads. "Gladly." Cairo is severely beaten but not killed... not yet anyway. As Cairo sits in his meager cell and contemplates his life, the conquest of WAR crosses his mind yet again. WAR has never seemed so far away for the future Godfather of Professional Wrestling, yet simultaneously so close at hand. Cairo knows that he will make his move soon. He must. The time is of the essence.
As Cairo lays his head onto his stiff, unforgiving prison mattress, his eyes catch a glimpse of a tiny lifeform crawling under his cell door. It is a beetle, a common every day beetle. Cairo watches as the insect makes its rounds, mesmerized as the beetle crawls along the floor, cornering the perimeter of the cement walls as if searching for something greater than itself. An exit? An entrance? An answer to its beetle prayers? Maybe the beetle is a figment of Cairo's imagination, indeed a metaphor for his own struggle, his search for purpose. Cairo has really lost his fucking mind if he's contemplating the actions of a godforsaken beetle. Yet Cairo cannot turn away. How could he? This is his first non-violent or demeaning interaction with another living being in nearly a year.
The beetle has nearly completed its circuit around the cell and appears to be headed on its way out through the same doorway that it entered from. As it rounds the final corner, the beetle unwittingly disturbs a spiderweb. The spider belligerently rumbles down from its perch on high of the web and confronts the beetle. The beetle throws a haymaker with its lead leg that connects with the spider's jaw and wobbles it. The spider, undaunted, wraps all eight of its legs around the beetle's body and attempts to bite through the beetle's protective shell. The beetle, apparently unharmed by the spider's attack, pushes off and frees itself from the spider's grip, signaling a stalemate between the two distinct and separate species. Just as soon as their conflict began, it ends. The beetle crawls under the door, exiting the cell without further fanfare. The spider returns to the cozy confines of its web. Cairo sighs and further contemplates his life. Is he the beetle or the spider? Hell, maybe he's the web, frail though resilient and serving a greater purpose than his own immediate needs. Cairo once again lowers his head upon his mattress. This time he drifts to sleep.
The golden yellow sun radiates unyielding heat as it illuminates the Cockapooni Desert of New Mexico like a window into Hell. A panoramic gaze reveals the presence of cacti, scorpions, Gila monsters, rattlesnakes, El Chupacabra, and a smattering of human skeletal remains from an uncertain date and unknown cause of death. Perhaps they were drunken college kids who took a meandering detour through the desert and found themselves suddenly and irrevocably unable to cope with the impossibly harsh conditions? After all, there is nary a drop of water to be found out here, much less shelter from the sweltering heat. Or perhaps these unfortunate souls were degenerate gambling junkies who failed to pay up at one of the shadier Albuquerque gaming establishments? Maybe. Or maybe these fuck-faces were simply dumb enough to cross Bobby Cairo's path on his way to WAR? Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner, Charlie! That'll teach those bitches not to bite down on the head when they're giving The Godfather a blowjob.
A particularly ornery-looking rattlesnake slithers through the eye sockets of one of the human skulls. The eyes of the snake appear lifeless and unfocused, yet the brain of the serpentine beast is methodical, always calculating its next move, biding its time before lashing out at a future meal with its lethal fangs. Such is the cold, predatory mindset that this hellish terrain necessitates if one wishes to survive. Kill or be killed. Hell is war and war is hell. "WAR is hell." The words tumble from Bobby Cairo's tongue like soft serve from an ice cream cone on a hot summer day. Bobby cruises down the New Mexico desert highway in his vintage 1976 Cadillac Eldorado, known affectionately as Tina Machina. While thinking about the match that awaits him on Sunday and contemplating various scenarios and outcomes, Cairo peers across the sands that stretch as far as the eye can see on either side of the paved road. These desert flats are intimately personal to Bobby Cairo. The man nearly realized his dream out here. And then? He nearly died out here.
OK, Fly, Orbit, FPV, Logan, Twilight, and the rest. Buckle up. We're going on another journey down memory lane, Bobby Cairo-style. The year was Two-Thousand-and-Eight. Five years before Phoenix, Arizona played host to WAR XII, the Cockapooni Desert played host to a very different kind of war, a war where pinfalls and submissions were not recognized, but crimes against the state most certainly were. Just when you think you know a WCF superstar, just when you think you've recognized the limits of his ambitions and capabilities, he goes and does something crazy like dropping out of his bid for the United States presidency and declaring all-out war against the federal government. If ever there was a man who failed to recognize his own inherent limitations it would be Bobby Cairo. If ever there was a man who placed his warped sense of idealism before his regard for self-preservation, that would also be Bobby Cairo.
It should come as a surprise to no one that back in Two-Thousand-and-Eight Bobby Cairo fancied himself as a one-man army, destined to overthrow a government that he viewed as being a "heartless and bloodthirsty leviathan that feeds off the souls of our children." Bobby's words, not mine. Cairo has never been a fan of authority, of course, but he became particularly enraged at the political establishment after finding himself the target of baseless accusations of sexual assault that ultimately sank his presidential campaign. Cairo, no stranger to political groups that operate somewhere between the fringe and The Twilight Zone, sought any means of attack that he could find against those who had done him wrong. Cairo was especially eager to uncover secrets that would discredit those who he believed had discredited him.
Cairo's wishes were apparently fulfilled when he received a hot tip from one of his sources regarding a secret military silo located in the New Mexico desert where chemical and nuclear weapons were being unlawfully stockpiled. Cairo was well aware that the presence of such a base on American soil would violate any number of international treaties and would prove to be a major embarrassment for the administration if the media got wind of it. However, despite the usual reliability of his source, Cairo did not find it to be prudent that he should run with such a story unless he knew for certain that it was true. Taking an unconfirmed rumor to the press or attempting to blackmail an enemy with it can be as foolhardy as going into a gunfight with an unloaded pistol. Cairo decided to make the trip to New Mexico in order to confirm the base's existence and to determine the express purpose of its operation, while gathering evidence of both. Cairo, recognizing the danger of such a mission, opted not to involve any of his friends or "business associates" in the venture. If Bobby Cairo was going to bring down the government that he despised, he was going to do it on his own... or he was going to die trying.
Using a custom designed all-terrain vehicle to navigate his path through the seemingly endless labyrinth of desert, Cairo ventured into the Cockapooni with an arsenal of weapons that make Al Qaeda look like your average Georgia backwoods militia. This motherfucker, the ATV mind you not Cairo himself, was loaded with anti-aircraft missiles, fifty-caliber machine gun decks, radar jammers, and a battering ram, among other goodies. Not to mention it came stocked with rocket thrusters for speed and flight capability and anti-tank armor to protect against attack. Did I mention that it was powered entirely by the sun? Pretty handy when you're in a fucking desert. The primary flaw of such a refined piece of American machinery is that it requires the operator to actually occupy the vehicle in order to experience the full benefit of its accommodations. This was not an issue for the first few days of Bobby's trek across the desert sands, when the vehicle practically guided itself while Bobby rested in the plush lounge area chugging obscenely indulgent cocktails of rum and sometimes vodka origin.
Upon drawing within fifty kilometers of the military base, Cairo decided to make the remainder of the trip on foot, perhaps because he was drunk, or perhaps because he wished to be as discreet as possible while approaching the base. Or maybe, just maybe, Bobby Cairo thought he was invincible? Whatever Cairo's motivations were, he stowed the ATV dubbed "Killer Bobbo 69er" in a cave located beneath a rocky ledge and activated its cloaking device. Cairo then continued his journey on foot, bringing with him fully automatic assault weapons, improvised explosive devices, a veritable litany of grenades, the latest developments in body armor, crazy-looking military knives with giant serrated blades and about fifty-million other different functions, a tent specially designed to sustain its inhabitants in desert conditions, and enough food, water and ebony ass porn to last him for well over a week. Of course Cairo also brought night vision goggles, infrared surveillance equipment and digital video and photographic devices to record his much-needed and desired evidence of the base and its function. How did Bobby carry all of this stuff? Simple. He got Steve Orbit's mom to carry it for him after he plowed the bitch in her asshole. "Poo Guinea" that, motherfucker.
As Cairo neared the perimeter of the base, he dedicated several hours of his much precious time to locating an adequately shrouded area to set up camp and perform his surveillance activities. Cairo then spent the next few days snapping photos and rolling film like a TMZ snoop outside of Amanda Bynes's house. Bobby gathered some incredibly damning evidence too, evidence that would nail the disgusting and hateful "Georgia" W. Bush administration with their Dick Cheney, their Donald Rumsfeld and their Cunnilingus Rice. Nail them right in their assholes, like Bobby nailed Steve Orbit's mom. Bobby Cairo was living large, spying on the United States military from his clandestine desert hideout, on the cusp of exorcising his demons, namely the burden of his failures at WAR and in the presidential election. All who had questioned him, condemned him, laughed in his face, and stabbed him in the back were about to get their just desserts. Bobby Cairo was about to become the most powerful man in the free world!
However, Bobby Cairo's glorious rise to political juggernaut was simply not destined to be, not yet anyway. Bobby was shot in the chest three times with armor piercing bullets while attempting to scale the fence of the black site military compound. Despite the fact that Cairo was near-death, the MP's insisted on handcuffing Cairo and shackling his ankles before allowing him to receive medical attention. In the throes of death, Cairo began imploring the MP's to inform his mother that he loved her and to feed his pet goldfish Herman - his perception of reality so distorted from excruciating pain that he must have believed the MP's to be guardian angels. They laughed in his face, talked a whole lot of shit about his mama, just as Bobby Cairo would talk shit about Steve Orbit's mom lo these many years later, and dropped Cairo's ass off in the infirmary like they were dropping a sack of shit into a twenty-ton septic tank.
It is arguable that Cairo's defeat to Skyler Striker at WAR was a lower low than his being shackled to a gurney at the Rotersdam (pronounced "Rot? Hers? Damn!") Military Base hospital. At least this pain and humiliation was partly deserved due to his inexplicable stupidity and outright audacity. Bobby could hear the taunts of the MP's and the crudely misshapen nurses with their cloven hooves: "How dare you think for yourself, motherfucker? This is America! You do what WE tell you to do! You're either with us or you're with the terrorists! Are you a terrorist, boy? WELL, ARE YA!" Cairo would sometimes interrupt their stream of consciousness-style rants by offering to shove his thickness down their respective throats so that he might have some peace and quiet. More often than not they would impolitely decline by thwacking him in the face with the butt of their rifles - or in the case of the nurses, punching him in the cock.
"Well, this certainly sucks." /CreepingDeath.exe
After being granted less than two weeks to recover from life-threatening gunshot wounds to the chest, Bobby Cairo is transported from the infirmary to a prison cell, presumably at the same Rotersdam Military Base that he attempted to breach. (Oh, is that where Bobby came up with the name for his finisher, the Security Breach? I thought it was because of the way that he anally "breaches" Orbit's mom every night. That's my bad, yo!) Cairo can't be sure that he's being imprisoned in the very same facility that he unlawfully compromised, but he's aware that it matters little. He has not officially been charged with a crime, nor is he likely to be anytime soon. FISA and the USA PATRIOT Act allow the higher-ups in the government to indefinitely detain Cairo as an "enemy combatant" and that is precisely what they're going to do. Cairo sighs a little. He knows that he has a long road ahead of him in order to regain his freedom. Suicide is an option, of course, but Bobby Cairo is driven by the knowledge that if he dies it will be without a WAR victory on his WCF resume. This is a fact that he cannot abide. He cannot allow his final appearance in WAR to be a pinfall defeat at the unscrupulous hands of Skyler Striker, that Australian pissant. No, just no, absolutely not.
What's more is the fact that Cairo does not want to die in this tiny, dimly lit cell like some kind of a subhuman wretch who isn't worth the dignity of a proper cremation and a funeral service with thousands of mournful spectators. It is a less than humble thought from a less than humble man, but it is partly what drives Cairo to survive. That and the wanting to win WAR thing. "Oh, if only you could see me now, mama. What a fool I've been. What a fool to think that I could do this on my own. If only I had more guns and explosives. Then I could make these fools pay. Father, know that I am sorry. I wanted so badly to slaughter every last one of these soulless mongrels for the hell that they made you and Biohazard endure when they sent you to Vietnam. Love, your son, Bobby Cairo." Cairo transmitted these messages telepathically and he is certain that his parents received them. They likely believed that their son was communicating with them from beyond the grave, but that's OK. For all intents and purposes Bobby Cairo was no longer a man among the living, and he would not be again for a very long time.
Months pass. Violent interrogations take place on a daily and nightly basis. Cairo is fed awful food - a gruel of some kind, and that nasty orange drink that they give to schoolchildren and mental patients. Not Sunny Delight, mind you - it tastes more like a bootleg Tang. This barbarous treatment reminds Cairo of what Winston Smith endured in George Orwell's "Nineteen Eighty-Four", a book that shaped Cairo's worldview as a young boy growing up in a working-class neighborhood in Hartford, Connecticut. The image of Cairo's face is painted in irrespective light, curtailed by shadow. We see a disheveled Cairo, malnourished, beaten, bruised and unkempt, injected with mind-altering substances, namely the so-called "truth serum". Cairo has been biding his time, feeding the military officials fairytales about a far-right conspiracy to obtain chemical and nuclear weapons and overthrow the government. Cairo promises to tell them everything, in due time.
The hardships that Cairo experiences on a daily basis (unmitigated torture including testicular abuse, the lack of proper sustenance and exercise, a vile stench of feces and urine that permeates his nostrils), make it difficult for Cairo to keep his story straight. At times Cairo pledges allegiance to "Adolf Histler" (spelling intentional). At other times he sings the praises of Walt Disney and Charlton Heston. Even Osama bin Laden gets some love from Cairo, just to rile the upper echelon military thugs-slash-commanding officers. Cairo knows that it's a dangerous game - just as he tempted fate in his feud against Skyler Striker, he stakes his life on the line every time he issues his false confessions to the military brass. If they catch him in a lie or if they believe that Cairo is no longer of use to their counter-terrorism efforts, then he will become just another pile of bones in the Cockapooni Desert.
Even with this understanding Cairo does not waver, because wavering is for cowards and the politicians who bear their names. Anarchist, communist, conspiracy theorist, terrorist - Cairo wore the names like badges of honor, medals of commendation on his nonexistent military uniform. He began accusing the officers of outrageous heresies: "Harris, didn't I see you at the meeting in Berlin? Yes, we talked about blowing up Air Force One, if my memory serves. Adams, I distinctly recall meeting you in Moscow. We drank til our hearts content while basking in the glory of Stalin's regime. Then you sold me that enriched uranium to give to the Iranians." Oh, Cairo was sowing his oats. Despite feeling battered and broken as the result of his regular beatings, he began ejaculating while alone in his cell as if he had never skipped a beat. The thickness was alive and well, even as the rest of Cairo's body was suffering.
Though Bobby's spirits had improved, and the possibility of one day rejoining the WCF roster and claiming victory in the match that proved his greatest nemesis seemed at least faintly hopeful, Cairo knew that his time was running out.
"I can't sleep or I'll fall off the cliff. Mother, Father, stay with me. Sing me a prayer and I will see you home soon."
A belligerent and hateful voice beckons: "Cairo! Interrogation time, maggot!"
"Oh, you'll get yours, Patterson. You and your faggot buddy Harrelson, too."
Two US Army-branded Gestapo thugs strong-arm Cairo's frail body into the noncushioned metal chair in the interrogation room. There is only a single light in the room. It hangs above an equally unwelcoming sterile metal table, though it is nearly as bright as the New Mexico sun, and it shines directly into Cairo's wary eyes. Sitting opposite Cairo is Five-Star Army General William S. Holden. Holden, or "Franky" as his friends call him, is an old white bigot with gray hair who's served in the Army since about the Eisenhower administration. He's a real hateful, scheming, power-hungry son of a bitch. You know the type. Never met a black man he didn't think was a nigger. Thinks all Jews are kikes, too. Bobby Cairo's got Jew blood in his veins. Probably some black man too if the thickness is any indication.
Cairo appears to be drifting into a state of half-sleep, half-masturbation as the light shines too brightly into his eyes for him to even be able to identify his surroundings. Holden clears his throat. Bobby promptly withdraws his hands from his tan prison bottoms.
Holden clears his phlegm-filled throat. Based on the sheer amount of phlegm that necessitated clearing from his throat, one can presume that the man has recently consumed a large brisket sandwich and washed it down with a cold beer. "Do you enjoy beating your meat in my presence, Bobby?"
"I apologize, Franky. I thought you were Jessica Alba." Cairo flashes that snarky, too-cool-for-school grin of his. This prompts a stiff punch to the jaw from Patterson. Blood gushes from Cairo's mouth like pussy juice from Alba's cunt when the thickness is gettin it in.
Holden smiles sadistically. He tries his damnedest to stifle his bellyful of laughter - and brisket sandwich. "Are you high, son?"
Cairo spits a mouthful of blood onto the metal sheen of the table. "Of course. I'm high on Allah, my brotha. As-salamu alaykum... nigga."
Holden practically jumps to his feet in a furor. "You speak this insolence to me, Cairo?! I could kill you right now and no one would ever be the wiser!"
Cairo calmly retorts, nary a trace of emotion on his bloodied and beaten face, the scraggly jaw that slopes in a state of disrepair. "I don't think you will kill me, Franky. You need me. I'm your source. I got the information that you need to supplant the vast right-wing conspiracy that riddles this great nation with its, what did you call it? Insolence? Yeah, that's what we'll call it. 'Insolence.' Now give me a cigarette. I want a fucking Newport!"
Cairo jumps to his feet and catches a size ten boot to the jaw for his troubles. The impact of the kick knocks Cairo back into his chair. Bobby's profusely bloodied mouth gushes even more of his plasma. Holden, firmly entrenched in evil, contorts his face so that it appears like that of a Gila monster. The sadistic smile returns to his horrifying facade. "Oh yes, Mr. Cairo. About that 'information'. None of the leads that you've provided for us have panned out. We tortured--uh, interrogated each of the officers that you named as your accomplices and, needless to say, they gave us no verifiable information. All that turned up was some nonsense about, uh..." Holden scowls at the official military donk-uments on the table in front of him. "It says here that Patterson described some nonsense about flaming globes of Sigmund and radioactive mangoes?" Holden turns his scowl to Patterson. "You been smoking that ganja, boy?"
Patterson, terrified, shuffles in his stiletto heels--er, combat boots. "Of course not, sir! Never! I don't even know what that shit is, sir!"
Holden shakes his head in disgust. "Fairy--er, uh, good job, Patterson. And sorry about waterboarding you. Now, Cairo, it seems to me that your continued existence is utterly useless to the United States Army. Unless you start providing us with tangible information that we can use to bring down this 'vast Reich-wing conspiracy' that you describe, then I will personally chop off your dick and watch you bleed out."
Cairo nods his head in supreme understanding, his face looking completely fucked up like something from a horror movie. "I see. And the status of my Newport?"
Holden lets loose with an outpouring of uproarious laughter and fist-slamming upon the table. "Oh, Cairo, you fucking Jew. I'm going to enjoy butchering you. Patterson! Harrelson! Absolve this motherfucker of the privilege of breathing!"
Patterson and Harrelson nod their respective faggot heads. "Gladly." Cairo is severely beaten but not killed... not yet anyway. As Cairo sits in his meager cell and contemplates his life, the conquest of WAR crosses his mind yet again. WAR has never seemed so far away for the future Godfather of Professional Wrestling, yet simultaneously so close at hand. Cairo knows that he will make his move soon. He must. The time is of the essence.
As Cairo lays his head onto his stiff, unforgiving prison mattress, his eyes catch a glimpse of a tiny lifeform crawling under his cell door. It is a beetle, a common every day beetle. Cairo watches as the insect makes its rounds, mesmerized as the beetle crawls along the floor, cornering the perimeter of the cement walls as if searching for something greater than itself. An exit? An entrance? An answer to its beetle prayers? Maybe the beetle is a figment of Cairo's imagination, indeed a metaphor for his own struggle, his search for purpose. Cairo has really lost his fucking mind if he's contemplating the actions of a godforsaken beetle. Yet Cairo cannot turn away. How could he? This is his first non-violent or demeaning interaction with another living being in nearly a year.
The beetle has nearly completed its circuit around the cell and appears to be headed on its way out through the same doorway that it entered from. As it rounds the final corner, the beetle unwittingly disturbs a spiderweb. The spider belligerently rumbles down from its perch on high of the web and confronts the beetle. The beetle throws a haymaker with its lead leg that connects with the spider's jaw and wobbles it. The spider, undaunted, wraps all eight of its legs around the beetle's body and attempts to bite through the beetle's protective shell. The beetle, apparently unharmed by the spider's attack, pushes off and frees itself from the spider's grip, signaling a stalemate between the two distinct and separate species. Just as soon as their conflict began, it ends. The beetle crawls under the door, exiting the cell without further fanfare. The spider returns to the cozy confines of its web. Cairo sighs and further contemplates his life. Is he the beetle or the spider? Hell, maybe he's the web, frail though resilient and serving a greater purpose than his own immediate needs. Cairo once again lowers his head upon his mattress. This time he drifts to sleep.