The Gurney's Peregrination

[Dr. Remus Micayle]

Potential threat detected.

- Canadian (?k?-?n?-d?-?n): A native or inhabitant of Canada, a country in North America including Newfoundland & Arctic islands. An independent state within the Commonwealth of Nations. Ottawa area 3,851,809 square miles (10,014,703 square kilometers). Population 33,476,688. Commonly regarded as scum of the earth. First Known Use: 1568.

Potential solution found.

- Flaying (?fl?-i?g): The act of beating or whipping (someone or something) in a very violent and severe way, to strip off the skin or surface of the skin. To criticize harshly. Lash. Middle English flen, from Old English fl?an; akin to Old Norse fl? to flay, Lithuanian pl?šti to tear. First Known Use: before 12th century.

Application of solution in progress.

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www.wcfwrestling.com/doctor.remus.micayle/blog/post=11

Hello ladies and gentlemen, how have you been? It’s a rather exciting week for the world all over, with the barrage of timely events that seemed to have impacted us in the last seven days. I understand that the majority of you folks do not - or cannot afford to - read the dailies, so do allow me to summarize this oddly thrilling week with you.

- Californian Rampage Stuns All
- Military Curfew In Thailand
- Shooting In Brussels Jewish Museum
- 2014 Champions League Winners: Real Madrid

Now, when I said thrilling, do not be mistaken into assuming that the events are all celebratory. True, witnessing a victory from behind in association football would cheer up any football fan (much like yours truly), but the fact of the matter is that there have been several tragic incidents that have shocked the world in recent days. My most heartfelt condolences go out to the suffering victims and families in California, Belgium, Thailand, and Atletico Madrid. Though at this current point in time we may be thousands of miles apart, your grief is mine, and as an honorable and respectable American citizen… you have my greatest sympathies.

But other than global news, one other huge announcement must be made on this blog, even though chances are that all you loyal Darwinists reading this are already aware of this since last Sunday night. Are you ready? Great.

In that case… prepare the drum roll and please welcome…

…

DOCTOR REMUS MICAYLE! ALONG WITH MARK DILLINGER… THESE TWO MEN, ALSO KNOWN AS TEAM SCIENCE… ARE YOUR NEW WCF TAG TEAM CHAMPIONS!

Excellent, excellent.

Now, I must once again remind you readers that Team Science claiming a victory over The Shadow Demons is not a large surprise on its own. Rather, it ought to be considered an overdue celebration of sorts. I have mentioned several times on my blog in the past that the WCF Tag Team Championships were our birthright, and that it should have already belonged to us at Aftermath. But due to Denise’s dreadful and downright despicable assault that resulted in a double-countout… we had no choice but to delay our coronation until last week.

But no matter! The matter, in my opinion, is settled. The Shadow Demons - Night Rider and Denise D’Evil - must be licking their wounds in defeat at this very moment. Sure, they will most definitely get a rematch in due time, but for the time being, they can do naught but to bawl loudly after a sad and pitiful attempt at post-defeat coitus. While they try their best to comprehend why they will never defeat two superior Americans such as us in their entire lives, my First Apostle and myself have a goal to meet. And it’s a noble one as that.

For too long a time, the WCF Tag Team division has been filled with vermin and miscreants. That is a fact that Dillinger and myself have noticed ever since we entered the company. Barring the occasional talent that trespasses in, most Tag Team Champions throughout the course of the federation’s history seem to be just… ‘placed’ together. It almost seems like the entire locker room is disregarding the division to be of a second-class, with many eschewing the competition entirely. This discrimination resulted in the likes of The Shadow Demons and Adam Young’s cronies dominating the wing - a more harrowing sight cannot be described, let me tell you that.

Thus! Being the great beings that we are, Mark Dillinger and myself have decided that we must increase the stature of the WCF Tag Team Championships during the time where we are champions. I understand that no king(s) can rule forever, but judging by the immense talent that seems to be inbuilt into both of us, I am not quite sure if we are truly able to be defeated by anyone in the locker room at this current point in time. Nonetheless, we are humble and pragmatic men, and the very last thing you’ll expect us to do is to be overconfident. Overconfidence leads to complacency. And complacency leads to defeat. I will not stand for Team Science earning our treasured championships and then losing them two weeks later just because of a silly mistake that could have been easily avoided if not for smugness.

After all, we are not Jayson Price.

As a former academic, I am one who can spot talent by far, far away. And from what I see, there seems to be a credible number of challengers in the Tag Team division at this current point of time. Disregarding the secondary winners of the Trios Cup Tournament (who will be awarded a title shot in given time), I predict that there will be a number of wannabe contenders for our championship titles. This I welcome - but to future contenders, you’ll do best to heed this warning. Gather your strength wisely before attempting to contact either the First Apostle or myself. If you dare so recklessly issue your challenges to men of valor such as ourselves… don’t be surprised if you end up belly-first one night in the local waters with your necks slit.

We are welcoming of challengers, but we are not pushovers.

But talk of our WCF Tag Team Championships can wait for another day. This Sunday… my focus lies elsewhere from my tag team partner. Mark Dillinger, for those of you who are curious, is going to face Pantheon’s Jeff Purse in a Tables Match. Evidently, management feels that the Three Stages Of Hell match was too brutal for one as frail and feeble as Purse. They are under the assumption that my First Apostle’s fighting style could incapacitate and even possibly kill, and they have no desire of losing a highly profitable superstar like him.

Because let’s face it. Despite my personal opinion of Purse, the fact remains that he is one of WCF’s most popular merchandise movers. If I were in their shoes, I too will not dare send an incompetent pugilist to go up against a seasoned veteran like Dillinger in such a dangerous match. The risk is simply too much.

Hence, the match stipulation has been changed somewhat, and instead of the aforementioned match, the two men are now squaring off in a Tables match. That particular bout will be going on just before my match, so for those of you who have already subscribed to Asesinato De Mayo, do remember to cheer for the First Apostle. Maybe if he has received enough applause from you uneducated savages… he’ll be more merciful and allow Purse to survive the fight with the ability to walk for the rest of his life.

But no promises though. It still depends on his mood.

For me? Well… for the casual WCF fan, you’ll be more than pleased to note that yours truly has finally been placed in a match that I have been asking for a long time. A match against someone who has been a thorn in my flesh. Someone who has been more annoying than a mosquito in the heat of summer buzzing around your face while you are in the outdoors. Someone who is so infuriating that the only way to get rid of him completely is to leave the room altogether.

Someone… named Cormack MacNeill.

Now, if you have been paying attention to WCF Sunday Slam at all during the course of the last two months, you would have realised that MacNeill and myself don’t share the same views in well… practically everything and anything on this earth. He is a scumbag. A vile fox whose main goal in life is to antagonize and agitate all those who are superior in mind, body, and soul than he is. The disrespect that Cormack has for the entire WCF roster is tremendous, and it truly astounds me that no one in the entire locker room finds his behaviour appalling. Perhaps they find his juvenile attempts at humor and discord funny. Or perhaps they are just too afraid to confront a drunk skirt-wearing Canadian. I do not know, and quite honestly, I do not care. All I know is that someone has to do something - and fast.

Needless to say, when I confronted Cormack’s insubordination in the middle of the ring, he was unhappy about it. Blows were traded, and remarks were made. I remember that day as clear as it was just five minutes ago, and I’ll be damned if I ever let it slip my mind. Can you imagine… a lowly human being ignoring what a superior nationality is telling him to do!? Do lambs ever question lions? Do gazelles dare agitate alligators? Then why is it that Cormack - a person who by all accounts is less talented, less attractive, and less of a thinker than me - refuses to listen?

Ever since our confrontation that night, I thought. I sat down and brainstormed. It took me many hours and a few sleepless nights. But then, on one rainy weekday night last week, by the good grace of Darwin… it finally made sense to me.

Cormack MacNeill behaves the way he does because he is untamed. He is ill and needs to be put down before his actions hurt other people. You must think about this situation from a purely objective point of view. Pet dogs can be docile and lovely companions of men for years, but when a stressful situation occurs - such as when they are struck by rabies - they can suddenly change into the wolves that they were so many centuries ago. If even a creature as evolutionarily advanced as the common dog is capable of sudden fits of madness and anxiety, let me pose you this question.

Why not a Canadian? Especially a Canadian who has been shunned, beaten up, and insulted by some of the most gifted and accomplished professional wrestlers on a regular basis? A man who despite his best attempts at reaching the top of his career ladder, is bound to fail at every given turn for the simple fact that he is not good enough?

I find this completely plausible. It is enough to drive anyone mad.

So, having finally deciphered this mystery, I have now come to the easy part of the situation: how best to turn the rabies-infected Cormack MacNeill back into the frail, meek lemon that we all know he is? The solution hit me as easily as I hit Denise D’Evil last week with The Formula to win my WCF Tag Team Championship.

A Stretcher match.

A Stretcher match offers me the opportunity to destroy Cormack MacNeill not just physically, but mentally as well. From what I understand through my years of studies, the way to best turn a changed person to the being he or she was once were is through the simple act of violence. And not just any violence - it must be an act of brutality and sadism so extreme that the upper limits of the human brain cannot take it, hence breaking the mental barriers of sanity. This delicate exchange will then allow the true consciousness of the human being to remerge to the surface. Which in this case… is the meek, frightened loser that I know resides in you Cormack.

Cormack, I know that we have traded barb-laced words that we cannot take back. I understand that acts of violence have been committed. But know this. I recognise the fact that whatever we did to each other is not your fault. You have been struck with a serious mental defect - perhaps due to all that piss-stained beer you like to drink - and I want you to know that I can help you.

Unfortunately for you, the only way to help one as drug-addled as yourself is for me to bash your face in, place you on the stretcher, and push you all the way across to the finish line. I don’t know how long it’ll take for me to finally get your gargantuan carcass to rest, but for you - and the rest of your miserable nation - I promise I’ll get the job done.

Even if it requires me to use a crowbar to beat you into a coma… I promise your mother that I will turn you back into the obedient, sub-intelligent varmint that I know all Canadians actually are.

Cheers to all, and best of luck to you, dear Cormack. Asesinato De Mayo won’t be pretty for you.
Remus Micayle, Ph. D.

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Scene: Romanza Gym, Mexico City, Mexico (Friday 0845hrs, 23rd May 2014)

The Romanza Gym is home to some of the best boxers on this planet. Many of the world’s finest fighters have trained here at some point or another in their life - including the likes of Juan Manuel Marquez. Here, the pugilists train the old-school way, with no need for advanced weight machines, tacky gadgets attached to the human body, or cross-fit training methods. Everyone here does their training the way some of the very best have done so since the inauguration of the sport - with nothing more than a boxing ring, punching bags, skipping ropes, and free weights. That’s the Romanza Gym for you, where there’s no room for relaxing, comfort, or luxury. The only thing that matters is will and determination to win. No more, no less.

In one of the many private training rooms in the gym, Doctor Remus Micayle is hammering away furiously at a battered punching bag in the middle of the ring. He has discarded his usual suit and tie for more practical attire, as anyone should. But even so, his vest top and track pants are still made of top quality material, as the Versace logo embroidered on both the front of the vest and the sides of his pants pay testament. Even his boxing gloves are branded - Everlast always makes the best punching equipment. Perspiration is trickling down his brow, and his body is entirely soaked with the high intensity training he has been going through since the early morning.

Micayle continues to fire shot after shot after shot at the punching bag. Left hooks, right hooks, jabs, crosses, uppercuts, and elbows fly wildly as the seconds tick by. The sheer force of his blows shakes the bag violently, rattling the steel chain that secures the training device to the roof of the room. The Scientist is on a mission today - and that is to hone the power of his strikes in time for the huge Stretcher match on Sunday. But try as he might, he just couldn’t break that physical barrier that he seems to be trapped behind.

His eyes narrowed in slight frustration, The Scientist takes a step backwards, before slamming a left hook into the punching bag will all of his might, grunting as he does so. The bag trembles in mid-air, before swaying away from him like a pendulum. Shaking his head, Micayle walks away from the punching bag, leaning his body weight on to the ring ropes closest to him, his mind absorbed with thoughts of pummeling Cormack MacNeill to within an inch of his life at Asesinato De Mayo.

A kick to the head… no! Kidney shot with glass-laced brass knuckles… nay! Hitting him with steel chair shots over and over again until he cries for his mother… nah, I doubt he has a mother to dote on him in the first place. Not with a face like that anyways. The haggis lover probably ate too many sheep organs as a young boy to develop such mutations and horrific facial deformities today. Not that I can blame him, I suppose. If he had parents who care… real AMERICAN parents… perhaps he wouldn’t have ended up the ugly rascal that he is today.

This battle with Cormack MacNeill has gone on for far too long. Ever since his first encounter with myself at March, the snarky simpleton has thought himself to be above the laws of science and fate. Sunday will end it, and he has chosen the wrong person to piss off. I am Doctor Remus Micayle. Former United States Champion, current Tag Team Champion, and all-around superstar. Despite the fact that I am by far the strongest, smartest, and most charitable human being in all of North America, I will do the dirty work on Sunday and take out the trash. Boy oh boy… won’t it be a treat for a scoundrel like that hockey lover eh? I doubt he’ll ever have the chance to trade blows with someone of my caliber in his life ever again...

Micayle shakes his head. It would not do him any good to reflect on his considerable glories at this current point in time. True, Cormack is a weakling whose only claim to fame thus far in the WCF was to create animosity between himself and professional wrestlers who are superior. However tragic his career is, the fact remains that he is still someone who can deal a punch or two in the ring. Any complacency on his part could be a fatal - or even humiliating - mistake.

First off… let’s think about his fighting capabilities in a purely objective manner. We all know that the syrup-sucker is at the very least adept in the fields of brawling. Drinking that pus-filled manure he tries to pass off as ale just makes him all the more dangerous, especially if he manages to hit that bicycle kick on me. Though I am stronger and much more agile than that blundering ape… getting hit by one could prove to be disastrous in the long run. Especially if I get struck in the head.

Hmpf, whatever. For the love of Darwin, I cannot believe that there are actually people out there who think that a busted flush like Cormack stands a chance at beating a superior human being such as myself. They say he is a good striker? Well I say that those naysayers have maggots for entrails and weasels for parents, because they cannot be more wrong! In all areas in the squared circle, everyone knows that I’m more than a match for that smelly Canadian mongrel. I am by far the best pound-for-pound striker in the WCF, with no one being able to hold even a candle to me! Punches, elbows, knees, and kicks are elementary to a fighter such as myself. Every single jab or thrust delivered to a vulnerable body part is exposing a whole new world of pain for Cormack… and I relish that fact.

Plus, I am determined to execute The Formula on that pathetic son-of-a-gun at least once on Sunday. He has yet to experience the agony of one, and that is definitely a lesson that needs to be taught to him pronto. Though if history is by any indicator… chances are that after one, his sternum would be shattered enough that I could wheel him up that ramp and to victory. But why stop there…? I could tie him up with a rope before rubbing him open with sandpaper. I could drop him headfirst onto the unforgiving steel with a Doctor Bomb. I could deliver crotch shot after crotch shot after crotch shot until he pukes up his dinner…

Micayle frowns. There are a million and one ways to destroy Cormack MacNeill, but none of which would prove effective if he was unable to summon the strength to do so. His mind flashing with the thoughts of MacNeill embarrassing him all those weeks ago with his numerous stunts, Micayle finally saw red. Neither anger nor humiliation was a normal part of his personality, and it would not do good to let this continue past Asesinato De Mayo. No more flukes. No more drowning The First Apostle and himself with green slime. No more stealing his limelight. No more Sequitus taking charge of the WCF and trying to prove a point at the expense of Doctor Remus Micayle. No more...

No more!

Growling in frustration, The Scientist strides over to the punching bag. A strange strain of pensive melancholy and pique gathered in his heart, before a surge of energy rushed through Micayle - so much energy. Gathering all the strength he has in his body, he strikes hard with a right punch, right in the center of the punching bag!

And BAM!!! The flimsy chain connecting the punching bag to the roof of Romanza Gym snaps, as the 80-pound boxing accessory flies off it. No longer able to withstand the outstanding hits of the Doctor, the bag smashes into a nearby turnbuckle, denting it before flying right out of the small ring. He pants, a sense of self-satisfaction growing in his heart as he watches the devastated boxing chain swing to-and-from, almost like a pendulum of sorts.

: Doctor Remus Micayle?

Micayle swivels his head at the unfamiliar voice as a curious face pops from behind the door. Upon seeing the Scientist, a young man - no more than twenty years of age - bounces into the room, a look of relief and happiness apparent on his unlined face. He dashes to the side of the ring, wearing a silly grin on his face as he looks up to the still-panting Doctor.

: First, ¡buenos días El profesor! I am a… journalist for FOROtv, and I am here to ask you some questions about your match this Sunday. Shall we?

Micayle raises an eyebrow at his decisiveness. Young, brash, and cocky, like so many young reporters out there in the States, expecting that a professional athlete comply with their requests for interviews at any given moment. On any other day, he would have screamed himself hoarse at the newsman to teach him a little respect and send him away. But despite his personal grudge against rude reporters, Micayle was slightly impressed at how quickly the local media was able to locate him. He turns his body about fully to face the young man.

Micayle: Well, well, you guys certainly move quickly here in Mexico. I suppose I do need to take a break from my training… so why not? Shoot.

The young man’s face breaks into a smile. He quickly rolls into the ring and walks over, taking out a voice recorder as well as a pen and notepad from the pack slung across his back as he does so. When he nears Micayle, he immediately clips on the voice recorder to his collar, before adopting a more professional tone.

FOROtv Reporter: What are your… sentimientos towards your match against señor Cormack on Sunday? Are you nervioso?

Micayle laughs, his voice sounding almost like a bark.

Micayle: Nervous? Please. I am anything but ‘nervous’ to face Cormack MacNeill on Sunday. Just take a look at a man of perfection such as myself and look at MacNeill. Let it be known to your editor that I have absolutely ZERO qualms at disfiguring, injuring, or even maiming that kilt-wearer. If you have read my blog, you would have known that I am looking forward to this match like no other match in my life. Yes, you heard that right! The thought of destroying the Maple Leaf in battle and waving the American flag in victory on Sunday is one that surpasses even my stupendous triumphs at ONE and Slam last week, where I claimed the WCF United States Championship and WCF Tag Team Championships respectively.

Micayle: If anything, that mangy cur should be the one pissing his skirt at the thought of meeting me in that ring. It’s going to be more than just a simple match between the dolt Cormack MacNeill and the marvelous, handsome, capable, and humble Doctor Remus Micayle, mind you. It’s more than just a pure grudge match. It’s even more than just a war. It’s World War III… North America style. Canada versus The United States Of America on this one. It’s time to prove once and for all that our cretinous neighbors to the north are nothing more than ugly, obtuse, vain sons of whores and snakes. And just like any other war… you know that the great U S of A shall emerge victorious. Quote me on this, señor.

FOROtv Reporter: Sí sí… I understand. Then in this case, what are the… estrategias you are looking to take to ensure la victoria?

The Scientist lowers his gaze and rubs the perspiration threatening to fall off his chin, before looking back up into the pressman’s eyes, rolling his eyes as he does so.

Micayle: It’s a Stretcher match at Asesinato De Mayo, señor. A freaking Stretcher match. Forget about witnessing one of your classic lucha libre competitions. Ignore any inclination you might have towards a technical gem for future generations to marvel at. Brush off the whispers from the smart marks on the Internet that hint that it might turn out to be a match that will shock the world at how talented the likes of The Scientist and The Skirt-Lover are at chain wrestling. In fact… if you are expecting anything other than blood, carnage, and violence… I’m afraid to inform you that you have been sorely misled.

He snorts in derision.

Micayle: I set the stipulation to be a Stretcher match for one reason, and one reason only. I’ve said it before, but here is the gist once again: I want to get Cormack MacNeill beaten until he is a sniveling mess of a man. Granted, he isn’t much of one to start by, but that’s beside the point. The Stretcher match will serve that purpose quite well, and if you deign to watch the match on Sunday… you’ll understand why. Anything and everything can be and will be a weapon, and I will be more than happy to demonstrate that on the stupid yokel. If he thinks that it’ll be a walk in the park, I’ll walk in with a smile on my face, because that’s exactly what I’m banking on him to assume. I’m fully aware of the fact that I might walk away with scars that will never fade away completely, but him? I will be surprised if he’ll be able to even walk out of the arena conscious, given his lack of preparation towards the match.

Micayle: Suffice it to say that the world will be watching a bloodbath at Asesinato De Mayo. The gloves will come off, and Cormack MacNeill will face a Scientist unlike any other. My strategy is simple: hammer away at one another until either the Canadian or myself cave in. No unnecessary grappling, no redundant technical maneuver, and certainly no high-flying. Just pure and simple brawling. Every move counts and must count, and I will ensure that there are no unnecessary risks taken to achieve that goal. Why dive off a turnbuckle and deliver a splash - while running the risk of dislocating a shoulder - when one can simply use a pair of handcuffs to trap him against the ropes, before going wild with a folding chair? I’ll never risk showboating to the audience when I can simply choke Cormack out with Darwin’s Touch and roll him across the finish line with the Stretcher. You get the gist, periodista?

The reporter finishes his scribbling.

FOROtv Reporter: Excelente… excelente! Now, my last cuestión. What will you say to señor Cormack? He is sure to watch the televisión and see this interview tonight at FOROtv. Do you have anything to say?

This time, Micayle doesn’t shirk away from the query. He takes a step forward, his voice growing louder and more menacing every second.

Micayle: Sure. Tell this to Mister Cormack MacNeill, don’t you?

Micayle takes another step towards the microphone, closing whatever personal space there is between himself and the reporter altogether. Though intimidated, the reporter holds his ground, his eyes lowered and his knees quaking at the sheer force of will Micayle seems to impose onto journalists without effort.

Micayle: You and I don’t like each other - that’s a fact. I have absolutely zero respect for you as both a professional wrestler as well as a human being. That’s a given, especially since you love showcasing the rancid fact that you hail from the Great North. Wearing that dreadful kilt you deem ring attire just makes it even worse. We all know creatures from neither Canada nor Scotland are worthy of the same standards of living as us real humans from America. Remember that you are on borrowed time. You, a moronic foreigner, dare leech off the generous finances of Seth Lerch - an honorable American running an American company? - and not even contribute to the building of our glorious wrestling empire while doing so!? Only a fool like yourself will think that no one will spot your acts of treachery and do anything about it.

Micayle: This Sunday, we trade fists in the middle of the ring in a neutral country… Mexico. Neither of us have the home turf advantage, so whatever threats and fan reactions thrown upon us means nothing. It’s going to be more than just Cormack versus Remus. It’s going to be America versus Canada, and I am more likely to admit to Jesus being a legitimate God then to let a foreign piece of trash pick up the bragging rights on Sunday. Breath in all the fresh air you can before Sunday, cadela, because after Uncle Sam is done playing with your mangled cadaver… you’ll be breathing through an air tube for the foreseeable future.

The Scientist pauses ominously to let the threat set in, before using a hand to lift up the trembling chin of the reporter so that both of their eyes meet once again.

Micayle: You got that all recorded down, periodista?

The reporter nods vigorously, his head moving so quickly that it almost seems like he was channeling the spirit of The Flash.

Micayle: Good. Now go. And don’t forget to add that bit in during your show.

FOROtv Reporter: Gracias, Gracias! Muchas gracias catedrático… muchas gracias! Have a nice day!

He quickly leaves the scene, stuffing his voice recorder and writing materials into his bag in double-quick time. This is one man who’s definitely not overly eager to remain in the company of an ill-tempered Doctor. Still frowning, Micayle watches the reporter leave the ring and run towards the door, shaking his head in dismay as the media person clumsily trips over the doorstep in his eagerness to leave Romanza Gym behind altogether. The door slams behind him with a resounding ‘THUM’.

Exhaling a soft sigh, Micayle turns back to the now-useless boxing chain, forgetting for a moment that he had destroyed the boxing equipment earlier. A frown reappearing on his face, Micayle pauses for a second to contemplate his next step, before reasserting himself. He bends down to pick up a jump rope on the ground and moves a couple of feet to the side. Now fully intent on returning his attention to training, The Second Coming Of Darwin Himself glances at the OMEGA Speedmaster Professional on his wrist and examines the amount of time he has left for the day, before looking back up and speaking to his reflection in the mirror.

Micayle: Thirty sets. Three minutes each. Go.