"Woke Up Today With A Mouthful Of Blood" Mar 28, 2014 3:30:06 GMT -5
Post by jamwillystyle on Mar 28, 2014 3:30:06 GMT -5
Chapter I: "Ruminations"
(The darkest dark overwhelms the mind's eye. Total blackness. The thickest black that one ever did see. Ghosts could walk through this darkness and get lost, that's how dark it is. This is symptomatic of the world today. So many boys and girls, grown men and women of all ages and creeds, running around like chickens with their heads cut off. Take a second to think about it. Can you see the forest for the trees or did you lose the plot? You got caught in the trap of life, of circumstance. You blinked your eyes and thirty years passed. Just yesterday you were sitting with Jimmy and Joey at Chuck E. Cheese diving into the ball pit. Just kids, aimless in the brain, pure of heart, having a good time. Then you removed the blindfold. You woke up this morning and found yourself living in a trap.
You spoke, well you tried to speak. You tried to speak so loud and clear, so proud, such a good American or Canadian or... who else do we have on the roster? Australian motherfucker named Brent Alpine? You were all so proud. You were all flying so high. That concourse of life ain't never gonna drag you down. These are the lies that the lying liars tell themselves. These are the lies that you told yourself. You couldn't pull it off though. You opened your mouth to speak, to speak so boisterous and proud, and them there locusts flew out. Just a horde of locusts. And you did your best to comport yourself and strike an amiable pose. You did the best you could with what the good lord gave ya. You smiled! You were grateful for the chance to attempt speech once again, but your vocal chords had been ripped out. The blood poured out.
You dropped down on your knees to pray. God... well, God struck a fanciful pose. God said no. God said today will not be your day. God said this life ain't your life for living, boy... or girl. You didn't stand so tall and so proud then, did you? You were begging for the rites. The rites of passage. The rites of breath and thought. Pathetic creatures we are when we thought ourselves so high and mighty. Draw your next breath. Speak your next word, if you can. Or shut up and listen. Humble yourself. Drop the ego, the persona, the... bravado. A candle is lit. The darkness is illuminated. The light. The messiah. The providence. Jam Willy Jesus speaks for those who cannot or will not speak for themselves. Cloaked in a shroud, yeah. Cloaked in such unfathomable hate and violence, the Jesus speaks to us all.)
JWJ: "Darkness. Pervasive. All encompassing. But what is it really? I seen the ICE Beckman spitting his good shit, getting off on the good foot, making proclamations of a divine and spiritual nature. I think Natural "ICE" Beckman is the truth. But he's not the only one. WCF. WCF, think about this, please. Think for a change. Think for once in your life. Please believe me because I do not lie. I do not wish to prolong your suffering. I am your savior. I am the light. I am the truth. I am your vassal. The proletariat needs a voice because to this point, we have been neglected. Pantheon don't give a flying fuck about you and your quality of life. When Jordan Caliban starts making more sense than Corey Black and Jonny Fly, then you know it's time for Pantheon to close up shop and fly on their splendiforous jets back to their solid gold mansions in Denmark and New York City, and the City of Brotherly Love."
(Jam Willy Jesus licks his chops, the candlelight held high for all to see, all to nestle in its warmth.)
JWJ: "What we are witnessing right now in WCF is a necessary gangland brouhaha. The old guard, the Jonny Fly's and Corey Black's and Jay Price's, all these motherfuckers that have gotten rich off the blood of the poor, they're about to be put out to pasture. I strike a posture for the underdog. I stand here and I declare myself as the voice of the people, with all due respect to Stacy Robinson. I speak the only truth and the only light that needs to be known, the only truth and light that can be rectified in a world gone mad. I see Doc Henry, I look him dead in the eye and I see the poor man's Pantheon. I see a motherfucker who ain't been told that it's time to run back to Hollywood Hills and stop pretending to stand for something that he ain't."
(Willy scowls. He's fed up to here--TO HERE!-- with the bullshit that gets passed off as truth on a weekly basis with this WCF Network and all involved programming from Slam to Wednesday Night and the house shows that apparently transpire because people reference them in promos from time to time.)
JWJ: "I look at you, Doc, and I see the epitome of the horse manure that occupies the hierarchy of WCF. I taste..."
(Willy fiddles with his fingers on his tongue, a-rat-a-tat-tat.)
JWJ: "I taste that not so sweet sugar coating. My brain begins to swell."
(Willy toggles his fingertips on the temples of his forehead.)
JWJ: "I upchuck, Doc. I vomit. I become physically ill. What you purport to represent, the people that you align with, the desires and ambitions that you proclaim, they ring foul in my lexicon, boy."
(Willy scowls before the candlelight, the only light that you see in Jam Willy's version of the universe.)
JWJ: "Do you understand life and death, Doc? Do you understand the absurdity of this world? We stand so tall and so proud, pretending that the Christ died for our sins so that we could parade in our finest wears. We pretend that material wealth places us above those who weren't quite so fortunate or quite so bright. Those with lesser amounts of money in their bank account just aren't as smart as us, right? That's the grift, Doc? You'll have to explain it to me. I'm kinda shit poor in my own right. I'll be lucky to pay my rent with the peanuts that Lerch puts into my paycheck."
(Willy smiles. That sardonic grin spreads across his face. He don't mind making light of his own economic plight.)
JWJ: "Maybe, Doc, just maybe I didn't sell my soul. And maybe, just maybe, you did? Maybe that taste of the American pie was just too sweet for you to resist? You fell prey to the system, Doc. You fell prey to the worst part of mankind. You reasoned that you did not want to be exploited, so you became an exploiter. That brings me back to my point about the absurdity of life and death, Doc. Such a thin line separates the two. You are the wealthy American, the one, maybe two, maybe three percent of society. I don't know about the specific statistics, Doc. I just know that you're a filthy rich motherfucker. I know that I am not. I know that..."
(Jam Willy whispers so quietly that you can barely hear him.)
JWJ: "I do not wish to be like you."
(Jam Willy PROJECTS! his voice now. Now you cannot possibly miss what he says! He speaks so loud and so proud like a true patriot warmongering capitalist motherfucker! Though he is not one.)
JWJ: "I do not wish to be like you, Doc! I do not wish to live in the solid gold mansion and drive the solid gold rocket car and walk so proud and so tall with my ruby and diamond encrusted scepter like a fucking king. These are the trappings in which you so much love to indulge, Doc."
(Jam Willy taps upon his forehead with the point of his index finger. He ain't a genius but he's no dullard all the same.)
JWJ: "Doc, have you taken a recess from your orgies and séances and all these other extracirricular activities to ask yourself a simple question? What are we fighting for, Doc? Have you asked yourself that question? There's no doubt in my mind about what we're fighting for and it's not just to put on a good show for the fans. Our blood will spill in Chicago and the fans will eat that shit up, but that's not my primary motivation. I need to strike a chord, Doc. I need to send a message to your kind, these Illuminati motherfuckers in their ivory towers. I need Rupert Murdoch and the Kennedy Clan and the kidney thieves on Wall Street to understand something."
(Willy lifts his divine hands before the candlelight and cracks them knuckles into place, and you just know this North Dakota redneck motherfucker is fixing for a fight.)
JWJ: "Let me ask you another question, Doc: Are you satisfied with merely being at Explosion, competing in a match, garnering that fleeting moment in the spotlight? Me, I'm not satisfied. I never needed to see my name on the marquee. I never needed to play the dog and pony show, Doc. I never needed the theatrics. That shit didn't appeal to me. Probably because of being born in the Upper Midwest and having this working class ethos ingrained in my brain. You expressed reservations about this new wave of talent that doesn't respect the veterans. Well, I do respect you as a competitor, Doc, about as much as the lion respects the antelope. After all what is a good hunt without the victor and the victim? I hate you on a personal level. I hate what you represent. I can't wait to slit your guts at Explosion, I truly cannot, though I do respect you as a competitor. However, I am not mollified by the opportunity for fleeting fame and financial gain."
(Willy recoils and does a double take. Are there really people who would rather collect a hefty paycheck for a few minutes work instead of making a lasting impression? Yes there are and thy name is Doc.)
JWJ: "I can't relate to it, Doc. I stand on my heels and I project myself to a greater height than I am and I feel so farcical when I do, but there's people who play this same trick and feel like gods. Doc Henry is a master of this pathetic slight of hand. Your games sicken me, Doc. Pathetic. Simply pathetic. That's not the only kind of nonsense around WCF. I hear nonsense in the words that are spoken. I hear people say they want to hurt. They don't care about winning a wrestling match, they just want to hurt their opponent. This is where I split hairs with Caliban. I hear that line of drivel and I recoil."
(Willy frowns upon that candlelight. He frowns and he hocks a loogie into the darkest dark, most probably landing upon some nether region where Logan is spanking his monkey to tranny porn.)
JWJ: "I listen to that nonsense and I think that it's the weakest thing that a man can say. I hear that bullshit, which is precisely what it is, and I hear an admission of defeat. I don't look at you as being merely a man that I will hurt, Doc. I know that I will hurt you. I'm going to fuck you up beyond your wildest dreams. You will be spitting your blood and collecting your guts, Doc, you piece of shit. That's a foregone conclusion. You knew that when you signed your name upon the dotted line. You stand taller than me and heavier than me and you know that I will fuck you up because I bring the ferocity and aggression of the sea lion, a creature that terrorizes arctic locales the world over. But that's not the point, Doc. Oh, I will hurt you, Doc. Yes, I will feed you pain and humility like an all you can eat buffet, but I will also defeat you."
(The sneer upon Willy's face speaks a thousand words. This is not a man who is playing games and spewing verbal diarrhea just to hear himself talk.)
JWJ: "You fancy yourself as royalty, Doc? Ol' Doc Henry, the King of the South. That waffle legged legend of the Southern Rogue. You've built yourself quite the fanciful reputation. Built yourself up into this larger than life figure. A real hard boiled egg, huh? That don't impress me none, boy. I'll tell you something else that don't impress me: I look back on your greatest hits, your highlight reel matches, and I see these quirks. I see idiosyncrasies. I see you pulling punches against your Southern compatriots, men such as Johnny Reb, Logan and Roy Speede. I see them affording the same courtesy to you. What's a few pulled punches between friends, after all? Well I'm not your friend, Doc, and I don't pull punches. I don't take it down a notch when the circumstance warrants and the check has been cashed."
(Willy grates his fingers together, making the international symbol for "moolah".)
JWJ: "I operate at one speed in one motion, constant aggression, unyielding violence, pressing you past limits that you did not know you had. I will make you question your manhood. I will make you question your mortal worth before God in Heaven Above. I will strike down upon thee with the greatest of vengeance, Doc Henry! I am the motherfucking Son of God and you will encounter my divine wrath on Sunday night in Chicago! Doc Henry, the end is near!"
(A gust of wind fells the candlelight. Darkness shrouds our line of vision once again. The hatred. The hatred is palpable. We cannot see it. We cannot hear it. We can feel it caressing our souls. We can taste it. We can extend our hands and touch it. Doc Henry is a dead man.)
Chapter II: "The Commerce Of Killing"
(A thousand vehicles are blam, blam, blam, lined up like doting congregation members at the Home Depot parking lot in the capitalist haven of Fargo, North Dakota. Fargo is an epicenter of commerce in the Peace Garden State and Jam Willy Jesus is a man with a need for some implements of reaping and sowing. See, Jam Willy's got a plan up his sleeve. Ain't nothing been made official about this yet, but Willy's got a plan to give Doc Henry a whole lot more than he bargained for at that there Explosion pay-per-view extravaganza in Chicago, Illinois on Sunday.
Now one might ask oneself, how does one find a place to park one's vehicle in a crowded parking lot on a busy day at that same metropolitan Fargo, North Dakota Home Depot? Simple enough. Just haphazardly sprawl your Monte Carlo across three handicapped spaces like Jam Willy did. The Modern Day Messiah is a man on a mission and he stomps through the parking lot to the shopping cart pavilion and grabs himself one of them shits. Jam Willy barrels through the entranceway of the busy home improvement mart as if AC/DC was playing him on.
No need for that Evan Vayne, "NO ENTRANCE MUZAK!" tip. Jam Willy Jesus ain't a conformist, but he ain't some NONCONFORMIST!! douche neither who whines and cries when he gets put over like a million bucks. Oh. We're shooting now? Yeah we're shooting some curtain jerkin pussies like Dick Cheney was on the prowl. Welcome to Jam Willy Jesus's America.
Jam Willy peruses aisle after aisle in the Home Depot Megalo Shopping Mart, lobbing rakes and hoes (no, not the Steve Orbit variety) and pitchforks and saws (chainsaws, tablesaws, hacksaws and the like) into his cart.)
JWJ: "I need an ax. I need an ax so I can lop that motherfucking Doc Henry's head off when I'm good and ready at Explosion. Excuse me, sir!"
(Willy approaches an orange-shirted Home Depot employee name of Dave down some obscure aisle with a lot of pots for planting and bags of fertilizer and all that shit. Dave takes one look at Willy, who's real grungy looking, unscrubbed from head to toe, wearing a GWAR T-shirt and tattered jean shorts and Dickies boots. Dave takes one look at Willy and does a gag take, a spit reel and massages his scalp. Dave don't understand how a man like Jam Willy can walk out in public looking like that. Willy thinks the beaded necklace and the black leather jacket really pull the ensemble together. Oh well. He might not be a conventional looking studmuffin, but at least Jam Willy ain't wearing some weak ass orange Home Depot polo like Dave.)
JWJ: "Dave, I need a helping hand."
Dave: "We don't give out handjobs at this Home Depot, sir. You need to go to Minot for that."
(Minot being a rival capitalist haven here in the great state of North Dakota. Employees from one store like to badmouth the other. It's all about commercial competition, folks.)
JWJ: "No, motherfucker. I'm trying to buy an ax, and a pickax, and a hatchet."
(Dave takes another look at Willy's ensemble and contemplates his request. Dave is able to put one and one together rather quickly.)
Dave: "Serial killer?"
JWJ: "Nah, man. Fuck is wrong with you? I'm the Son of God. Yeah, I killed a man once but I was provoked. I need these tools because I'm about to do an 'extreme home makeover' upside Doc Henry's scatterbrained cranium."
(Dave shrugs his shoulders matter of factly.)
Dave: "I have no idea who that is."
JWJ: "Yet you can name every polesmoker who ever appeared on American Idol, you little son of a hummina."
Dave: "Sir, have you been drinking?"
JWJ: "I had a couple vodka replenishers. Three or four dozen couple. I'm good to drive and wield a pickax."
Dave: "Yes, according to North Dakota state law you are. Follow me. I'll help you find those tools."
JWJ: "You're good at finding tools ain't ya, you summina hummina?"
(Willy wheels his cart along the burnt orange directional lanes on the floor as he follows Dave, the minimum wage sales associate who started this job two weeks ago and already wants to take his punk ass out to a shed in the middle of Dicksquirt Junction and pull a Kurt Cobain.)
Dave: "OK, sir. These are all of the implements that you will need for maiming and torturing another human being. I see you've already added the Stihl chainsaw to your cart, and I am delighted to inform you that they make a wide variety of non-motorized hand tools."
(Willy is mesmerized. Never before has he seen such a wide variety of killing tools. He cricks his neck from side to side and gets down to business. He picks up the largest, sharpest ax that he can find and adds it to his cart.)
Dave: "Found something that you like?"
JWJ: "Yes, this will lop Doc's head off nice and clean."
Dave: "Excellent. I take it that you don't like this Doc fella?"
JWJ: "No, sir. He's a co-worker that I got a major bone to pick with."
(Dave nods his head in complete understanding.)
Dave: "Say no more. There's this guy Gene who works in the garden department and he's always hitting on this girl Angela. Now Angela has tits out to here--"
(The Messiah waves off this little man and his little problems and puts another one of them Stihl axes into Dave's hands.)
JWJ: "Listen, Dave, you wanna put in work? You take that ax and you find Gene and you tell him Jesus sent ya."
(It takes Dave a minute or two to come around but, boy, when he does... he's ready to get his hands dirty.)
Dave: "Thank you, Jesus! Thank you! You've turned my life around!"
JWJ: "Yes I have, and you're welcome. Now git!"
(Dave runs off to go murder his co-worker while Jam Willy selects a couple dozen more axes and hatchets from the shelves. Finding little room left in his cart, Willy decides that it's time to check out.)
JWJ: "Yeah, this should do nicely. Doc is kinda tough but he's also a pretty big pussy so I shouldn't need too many weapons to drain him of his life's blood live on pay-per-view from the sold out United Center in Chicago."
(Having gotten his fill of weapons and PPV shills out of the way, Willy wheels his cart over to one of the busy, busy, busy like a buzzing bee checkout lines and grabs a couple dozen sodas and candy bars from the display while he's there.)
JWJ: "Excuse me, miss..."
(Jam Willy calls out to the homosexual negro who is tending to the checkout line. The homo's nails are painted the same shade of orange as his smock and he's got one of them there tongue piercings because, well, you know. The homo rolls his eyes at Willy.)
Cashier: "I'm a man."
JWJ: "Well, uh, you coulda fooled me, haha. Sorry. Anyway, can you subscribe the difference to me between Diet Coke and Coke Zero?"
Cashier: "Little man, I don't have time for you. I'm trying to get this old honky mofo checked out so I can get on with my lunch break. Got an Italian stud named Antony that I'm aching to get freaky with."
(The homo winks at Willy while his lisp worms its way into Willy's brain, making him uneasy and a bit unsteady on his feet. The homo's nametag reads Chris.)
JWJ: "Hmm... Chris. Chris the homo-negro cashier."
Chris: "That's my name, honey. Don't wear it out."
(Chris swipes the credit card belonging to the old white man who's in line ahead of Willy, processing the old man's order and getting him the fuck on his way to the rest of his day. Now it's Willy's turn.)
JWJ: "Well, this is all my shit."
Chris: "Excuse you? Do you want to empty all of your 'shit' from the cart so I can scan it?"
(Chris, the sassy, dreadlocked homo-negro cashier is losing his patience with Willy.)
JWJ: "Nah, man. I don't really have time for that. Way I figure it, you can just put all this shit on my tab. I'm Jam Willy Jesus, as in the Son of God."
(Willy flashes Chris one stinker of a Caucasian grin. Chris is about ready to throw down with the Messiah.)
Chris: "Now listen here, mister, I don't care who you think you are. You're gonna have to pay for each one of those items just like any other customer. Now take them shits out of your cart so I can scan them or I'm going to call security."
(Chris lifts the phone from the dock next to his register, the phone which is connected to the PA system. Willy takes exception to Chris's tone and threatening line of dialog. He gets right in Chris's face and starts wagging his index finger like this was some Jerry Springer shit.)
JWJ: "I don't have time for these games, man. I told you, put all this stuff on my tab so I can get out of here. I need to get to Chicago so I can butcher Doc Henry and set a positive example for all of my followers. Now if you don't put these items on my tab so I can get out of here then I'm gonna do you like I'm gonna do Doc, and that ain't gonna be too much fun for you, buddy."
Chris: "White motherfucker. Blue eyed, white devil, David Koresh looking motherfucker. Who do you think you're talking to?"
JWJ: "I am a man of peace, Chris, but you are really pissing me off now. I got priors, but I ain't gonna hesitate to--"
(Chris the homo-negro cashier leaps over the counter, dreadlocks flying everywhere, and locks Jam Willy in a headlock. Jam Willy lifts Chris for a belly to back suplex and drops the homo-negro into the cart of the customer standing behind them.)
Chris: "Oh shit, my back! My back, you white devil motherfucker!"
(Willy shakes his head and looks kinda sheepishly at Chris.)
JWJ: "Well now, Chris, I told you I'm the Son of God. You're not gonna defeat me in hand to hand combat. You were foolish to even attempt that tactic with me. Now I know you're a homo but you gotta have more sense than that."
(Chris slumps into a state of unconsciousness as a predominantly Caucasian throng of Home Depot customers begin shrieking in horror at the sight of the battered homo-negro.)
Chris: "White devil motherfucker..."
(Chris finally succumbs to his injuries. Another shriek goes up in another part of the store, followed by hysterical feminine squeaks of "He killed him! Lopped his head clean off with that ax!" Jam Willy takes that as his cue to exit as the Home Depot security marshals run toward the origin of the shrieking and squeaking, the previously foreshadowed Dave/Gene murder scene.)
JWJ: "Good for you, Dave. You sent that punk a message that he'll never forget. You do them next twenty to thirty years in prison and Angela will be putty in your hands."
(Willy nonchalantly wheels his cart filled with killing instruments out to the parking lot as state troopers blow past him, no doubt on their way to corral Willy's latest apprentice, Dave.)
JWJ: "Where the hell did I park?"
(Willy scans the lot until he finds his '87 Monte Carlo and then wheels his cart over to the handicapped area that he absentmindedly occupied with said vehicle. He arrives at the precise moment that some wannabe bad ass parking lot cop is placing a ticket onto his windshield.)
JWJ: "You don't wanna do that."
(The gumshoe cop looks up and sees the GWAR T-shirt and leather jacket wearing messiah who stands before him. An angelic gleam shimmers from Willy's person in the light of day.)
Cop: "Is this your vehicle, sir?"
JWJ: "You know it's mine or else why would I be chattin to you about it? Now take a hike. I'm the Son of God. You write me a ticket and you already know where you're going when you die."
Cop: "Sir, you're a non handicapped driver yet you've taken up three handicapped spaces. Now that's a pretty serious offense."
(Willy is nonplussed and unimpressed by this beat-walking douchebag with a badge.)
JWJ: "Yeah well some guy just got decapitated in the garden department, so maybe you should be worried about that instead of writing me a ticket?"
Cop: "Say what now? Are you on drugs, sir? What's your name? Do you have ID? Are you a terrorist?"
JWJ: "Man, I don't have time for this shit."
(Willy drops Officer Douchebag with a lightning quick uppercut that lands flush to the jaw and loads his trunk full with the items from his cart.)
JWJ: "OK, I got the chainsaw for cutting off the extremities and an ax for lopping the head..."
(Willy inspects the items one last time to make sure that he has everything that he needs and then slams the trunk shut. He shoves his cart into an oncoming SUV, causing a minor accident and several thousand dollars worth of damage.)
Driver: "Hey you, fuckface, what the fuck are you doing, beard salesman looking dick!"
(Willy piles into the driver's seat of his Monte Carlo, cranks the sublime grindcore stylings of Agoraphobic Nosebleed on his stereo system and peels out, leaving all other Home Depot patrons and law enforcement personnel behind in a cloud of burnt rubber.)
Chapter III: "Tea Time With Walter"
JWJ: "You little ragamuffin, you!"
(Jam Willy playfully rubs the belly of his best friend and sole companion, Walter, a stuffed brown teddy bear. Willy is home now in his modest single room apartment, removed from the consumerist trappings of Home Depot, loaded to the gills with bottom shelf vodka and frozen macaroni cuisine. Willy has set out a tea set on his kitchen table, a set made from the finest china, a family heirloom that Willy inherited from his doting mother when she passed on. Willy doesn't drink just any tea though, no sir or ma'am. Willy drinks that toker's tea, the ganja leaves, that mind expanding elixir that only the truly enlightened partake of.
Willy happily tickles and snuggles Walter in a scene far removed from the horrors that Willy inflicts upon his opponents inside of the squared circle and, frankly, any and all who dare to oppose him.)
JWJ: "Oh yes, Walter, I already told you. You're much more bad ass than Lilith's teddy bear. Look at ya. Those big black bulging eyes of death. Why if there was a Teddy Deathmatch Championship belt you would rip the head off Lilith's teddy and shove it up his ass, yes you would, you bad mofo you!"
(Willy playfully blows fake farts onto Walter's plush belly with his mouth, losing himself in the moment. After a few more moments of these shenanigans, Willy rights himself in his seat and chugs another cup of that all-seeing and all-knowing intoxicant. Willy grins like a Cheshire cat. He sets Walter down into the chair next to him and leans back in his own seat. Willy lets his hair down, stretches his arms out and takes a deep breath in and out.)
JWJ: "Walter, Walter, Walter. These are glorious times. Judgment Day is upon us and Doc Henry is in my divine crosshairs. I cannot wait until Sunday night. I cannot wait until I expose Doc Henry for the schemer and manipulator that he is, a man who breaks his bread by cracking his whip upon the backs of the working class. Once upon a time, Doc referred to himself as 'The Devil'. It was a gimmick that he wore on his sleeve, a caricature that hit close to his heart. Doc Henry was sowing his oats, yessiree. Doc was the man! He conducted his unholy séances and orgies with women of all ethnicities and he paraded around with a championship belt that he defended maybe once or twice in its existence..."
(Willy pours himself and Walter each another glass of tea in those fine china cups.)
JWJ: "Doc Ambrose was riding tall as Confederate Champion, perennial low card fixture and sexual predator extraordinaire, luring young girls into his hotel suite with promises of unleashing 'Doc the Cock', promises upon which he could not possibly deliver. Doc was riding high, riding strong, in his own mind anyway, popping for his own gimmick because no one else would. The rest of the roster had long since had enough of Doc trying to, as Corey Black so aptly stated, 'shoehorn' his way into the main event. See, Walter, Doc did himself just fine when competing against the hapless low card functionaries such as Adam Young, Ace Lightning and, well... Ace Lightning and Adam Young. When Doc stepped into the ring against top notch competition, a 'Godfather' Bobby Cairo for example, what happened? 'Doc the Crock of Shit' got exposed real quick."
(The toker's tea has disappeared from both cups that Willy poured. Willy and Walter both have them dopey grins on their faces, a couple of crazy North Dakota dudes gettin in touch with their spiritual sides, no doubt. Willy pours two more cups of ganja juice, draining what was left in the tea pot and setting the pot aside.)
JWJ: "That's right, Walter. Doc paints pictures of himself as a real 'man's man', a Southern Rogue, a real throwback player. LIAR!"
(Walter reels back in his seat, clearly started by Willy's yell, his big black plastic eyes bulging from their plush sockets.)
JWJ: "I'm sorry, Walter. I do apologize, my friend."
(Willy lifts Walter from his seat and coddles the teddy bear in his manly bosom.)
JWJ: "Don't you worry your precious little head about mean ol' Doc Henry. Doc thinks he's the man. Thinks the New Confederacy is still riding high and that he's in the center of all the glitz and glamor that he likes to attract for himself. But it's like I said earlier, Walter: Doc Henry is just the poor man's Pantheon. He's a legend and main eventer in his mind, but he ain't headlined a card in years and that ain't about to change. Doc Henry thinks he's the man? Doc is so much the man that he couldn't get booked until the Madman from the Badlands agreed to put him out to pasture once and for all. Ol' Doc can't cut the muster against the elite level competition and, Walter, my friend, it's time for yours truly to rise to the occasion and prove that I am the best of the best, the cream of the crop that WCF has to offer."
(Once again, Willy sets Walter down on his seat, a twinkle in Willy's eyes, a pat on top of Walter's head.)
JWJ: "People, so many people, foolish people, proud people, they must of damn near forgot that Jam Willy Jesus existed. Doc Henry must have figured it was safe for him to ramble his broke down, Dixie flag waving, teenage girl chasing, millimeter peter having ass back to Slam. He must have figured that no one would bother to set him in his place. He must have figured that the coast was clear for 'The Devil' to ride unabashed, running roughshod over the weak and powerless in WCF, the way he made his fortune. Doc Henry was a mighty foolish man, Walter. Mighty foolish to turn his back on The Lord, The Modern Day Messiah, Jam Willy Jesus. See, I don't like that. I don't like that one bit. Heaven for me isn't shooting a wad of cum into a supple young vagina. Heaven for me is ridding the world of evil men like Doc Henry."
(Willy lifts his head from Walter's eyeline and gazes upon the portrait of Rasputin that hangs upon his kitchen wall, the image that brings Willy so much strength and inspiration, through the darkest times and the most uplifting times.)
JWJ: "How can I fail? I've got balls of steel, but I've got more than that. Doc Henry will see the spirit of the Son of God on Sunday night. And when he recognizes me as the savior that I am and he has that divine epiphany where his life flashes before his eyes..."
(Willy lowers his head now, gazing directly into those big black teddy bear eyes of Walter.)
JWJ: "I'm gonna lop his fucking head off with an ax like I was slicing open a watermelon. I'm gonna dedicate my victory to you, Walter. You and Oderus Urungus, fatefully departed lead intergalactic-barbarian of space metal titans GWAR."
(Willy tugs on his GWAR T-shirt, proudly displaying it to his best friend and teddy bear.)
JWJ: "We know it, Walter. We know the truth, and if Doc is honest with himself for even a split second then he knows it too. All he has to do is look inside his soul toward that Divine and Blinding Light. Ol' Doc will take one look and he'll turn away in fear. He'll recognize it, Walter. He will see that the end... THE END IS NEAR!"
(Willy cackles hysterically, his laughter filling the apartment, filling Walter's inanimate ears, lilting toward the ceiling, inverting, standing upright, shooting off like a rocket into outer space, and landing in Doc Henry's locker room at the United Center in Chicago. If Doc feels that chill up his spine, then he already knows it. He knows that he done fucked up.)