Post by Deleted on Dec 27, 2014 2:09:22 GMT -5
Desperado (Personal Log)
Well, this wasn't a therapy session, per se, but the song did come up on my MP3 player as I continued down I-90 deep into the heart of Upstate New York, to my old stomping grounds. I had lived all over the place in Upstate New York, before my stepfather took us to the Mid-Atlantic region, where I lived in Maryland, Delaware, Virginia, and New Jersey, before my mom and him split and I came back to Cow Country in New York.
Being that I lived in a totally different part of the U.S., and I wasn't a total hick, I didn't quite fit in where we wound up relocating. I was amazed that my parents found each other in this place, where I swear everyone is everyone's cousin. Yeah, some serious inbreeding going on around here, hence why the Native American population is dwindling, because Whitey and the Natives are starting to bang each other more regularly. That, and Native Americans around here are rich as fuck. I have Native American blood in me, but not enough for qualification of benefits when the casino came in. However, I still lived around it, and my father got benefits, though he used it mostly to fund his dope plantation. Hence why he stayed in New York rather than become, and I quote "A fucking freak show in professional wrestling!" I wonder if he would approve of me still wrestling despite my obvious handicap.
Anyways, being a kid not receiving benefits while living on the res was kind of fucked up, and the res kids started rubbing it in our faces, until one day, we kicked the shit out of them and took their money. We then worked out a deal where they kick us some money, drugs, or whatever they had on the side in exchange that we not only stop kicking the shit out of them, but we'd also beat the fuck out of whoever fucked with their side enterprises. We became known in the reservations as the "Breeds". We had run into trouble in our local larger municipality named Utica. I know, ugly fucking name. Anyways, we had some trouble in that area with black guys running some nasty shit and becoming competition. Enter myself and my best friend growing up Gary Buchannan, and we became known as the "glorious Boys", glorious George and glorious Gary. Hell, when I broke into professional wrestling making $5 to entertain my father and his friends in various altered states. Gary and I would beat the hell out of a guy, isolate him in a corner, taunt his partner, make the referee work, then really give that poor fuck a glorious Beatdown. Basically we were Native American-backed goombas who went to war to protect our turf. Under our guidance as warlords, we managed to push the Crips and Bloods, both always at war with each other, out of Utica as far as their drug games were concerned.
Looking back, I would've given zero fucks, but being that I was basically on my own at home with nothing to speak of in the refrigerator, I said fuck starving, I need the money, so we went to war. Over drugs, no less. Meth, to be precise. I mean, eww... I always feel gross after I use that shit. It helped that I was able to get through college on it, being budgeted and all, but it was nasty, and the detox for meth is overshadowed only by a heroin detox. But burning it all down was only going to get me killed. Do I wonder why I work so hard to pay for my past sins? Fuck no, I don't. But this is my cross to bear, I suppose.
Things were looking great for us, both in and out of the ring, until some filthy rat fuck dimed on me when I was working a side deal involving some weed. I dropped it back that yeah, I dealt with that prick, and he should probably get some protection, but not from me. They laughed it off, until the full weight of the Breeds came crashing down, literally, on his chest. He went to the ER with collapsed lungs, multiple lacerations, and insect bites on his entire body. That fucking guy wished he was dead when we were done with his filthy rat carcass, but I took one on the chin, and I got sent to go live further upstate on some kiddie convict camping trip for a year. Most of the others there were from Rochester, Buffalo, and Syracuse. Fortunately I wasn't the only Native or Breed in the camp. By the end of the camp, we were known as the most violent group within the campgrounds, but it was just a show of dominance when the black kids bowed up. Granted, we were outnumbered, but when the fuck did that ever stop us Injuns from fighting?
We were all put in a high security part of the camp, where the "handlers" were much more quick to hand out punishments. We were kids in the middle of nowhere being trusted by guys who are up here for two weeks straight with no pussy around, and these are 10 to 16 year-old boys? I've heard the term heard to describe a woman's ass to be "like a 10 year-old boy", but I always thought that sounded pretty fucking gay. But when the rape begins, well, hearing your ass described in such a way when you fight back makes you really hate that terminology. Fortunately, most of us at the camp were released because of some allegations of sexual misconduct with the detainees, which coincided with the murder of a camp "handler". I had found that with this guy, I didn't get sick, but I didn't go psychotic on him, either. I had just pressed the toothbrush that was sharpened to a fine point into his ear, and continued to apply pressure until I could no longer retrieve the brush from his ear. They could never get any good DNA or fingerprints off of the toothbrush that was not Handler Carista's own, so I got away with it. Furthermore, I was one of several young men whose sentence was commuted as a result of my exposure to Carista, after it came out that he was a pedophile who used to mess with young boys and girls in his home, and had done so for years. It was a complete and utter embarrassment to the State of New York that they allowed such a gross oversight on their behalf that they also paid out settlements to some of the kids, but my parents were too lazy or proud to take any money from the state. I don't get my parents at all...
Well, the enterprise fell apart when I went to jail, and despite my early return, we couldn't get the project off of the ground. So I wrestled for the summer and winter, until my falling out with my parents prompted me to leave home and go to Florida. Its strange how everything is so familiar, despite the fact that I have not called this place home since 1999. Not much had changed. A few shops closed down here and there, and a new house here and there as well, but otherwise, everything as I had left it. Not much changes around here. I pulled my motorcycle into the Oneida Indian Reservation, and made my way to the service station. Snow clean up hadn't made their way to the station yet, but I managed to pull my Harley up to the pumps with little issues. I began to fill it up, when a service attendant came out. Yeah, I had just pulled up to the full service island. Oops. I got off my steel horse and told the guy to watch my bike, and maybe clean the windshield, and we could call it good.
I then went inside of the convenience store, and the place was more of a cigarette outlet than it was a convenience store. I got myself a cup of coffee and asked for two cans of Grizzly Mint and two packs of Camel Non-Filtered cigarettes. I got the Grizzly, but the cigarettes were unavailable. Then I realized that all the cigarettes were not the usual brands. I asked for non-filtered cigarettes, and I got a bag of tobacco with a pack of rolling papers. I didn't bother arguing, as I chuckled at the last time I used to roll cigarettes, which was back in Africa in 2004. I did it because the locals would steal our cigarettes. My system of smoking in Africa discouraged the theft of my tobacco. It still happened, but not nearly as much as it did to the other guys. I stepped outside and started to roll a smoke, while I watch the attendant wipe down my bike with a dry towel as he sang along to a random modern rock song. They all sound the same to me, these days. Nothing like the classics for this guy...
I chuckled to myself as I light the cigarette and drink the coffee, as I remember both attendants from high school. Both of them receiving benefits from the reservation, but letting their lives rot away in this little shack. Yeah, no thank you. I got out when I could, and I didn't look back, until now. Why did I even bother? These two were nothing special in school. Hell, the guy scraping bugs off of my windshield probably didn't graduate, if I remember correctly. The girl inside the store? Yeah, my brother knocked her up once, and they aborted it. I heard she got knocked up again in high school, but that's between her and her God. She really let herself slide...
I was almost done with my coffee before Simple Steve came over to inform me that he managed to dry off my seats and clean the bug shield. He gave me the final prices and I toss him an extra $20 for his troubles. Like he really needed it. I almost solicited him for some weed, but I didn't know how that would go. Nobody seemed to recognize me from my days here. Of course, now I have no hair, when I used to have the wildest hair in high school. Yeah, Jeff Hardy and I used to use the same stylist. See why I didn't fit into cow country? See why my stepfather thought I was gay? I didn't give a shit, and I loved punching out these country bumpkin assholes who thought that the woods belonged to them. That was the benefit of growing up both in the country and the city, you get wise to the ways of the world super fucking quick. Hence why I walk without fear in this world, because I understand the laws of man and nature, and can bend those laws to my will.
I tossed my empty coffee cup and fired up my Harley. I got on the bike and continued down the road. The farm wasn't too far now. I figured another four miles out of town and I'll be there. I just hope the hills don't have too much ice on them. The hills around here wouldn't let nothing but the hardiest of vehicles up some of these roads built on hills. Hell, Gravity Fest is held here. Its an event when a bunch of X-Gamer wannabees take their skateboards, rollerblades, and their luge boards down a hill that goes down at a 45 degree angle for over a mile and a half. Taking a bicycle down it really makes for a few "oh shit" moments as you careen as fast as you can without using too much braking action while avoiding oncoming traffic. It is also one of the most dreaded roads to use going down during the winter, and has claimed several lives over the years. To include a few of my classmates.
I managed to make it up the hills while avoiding the big hill, and I pulled up to the farm, where several younger men were standing in front of the barn. I recognized the tall bulky blonde kid as my cousin, who turned 21 sometime this year. As I pulled up, all of the guys started walking towards me, before suddenly halting, realizing I'm not who they think I am. I turned off the bike and set it down, as I removed my helmet and glasses. My cousin then goes...
Simon: Holy shit. Deuce! What the fuck are you doing up here?
Gonzo: What's up, fucker? Long time, no see! What are you doing with yourself?
Simon: When I'm not working here, I tour doing arm wrestling. I'm pretty fucking good. I'm the light-heavyweight champ in New York State.
Gonzo: How does that pay?
Simon: Not bad! I cleared 60 grand this year, and that was while I took time off because of a car accident for three months. What about you? Still working for the government? Or are you back in the ring?
Gonzo: I've been back in the ring for a while. Where have you been? Here, check this out...
I pull out my WCF United States Championship belt out of my saddlebags, and I hand it over to Simon, as he says...
Simon: You're Gonzo Deuce Murdock? Well fuck, man. Your father would be spinning in his grave, not using the family name...
Gonzo: I got into some shit, and I had to lay low. Remember, the government sometimes puts me into hairy situations that foreign governments take personally. I can't just be showing my ass out there with the family name like I used to. Too many people have died because of it.
Simon: Oh, I understand, but my father and your father? Forget it. They're like "If I wanted people to call you Sexy Simon, I'd have fucking named you Sexy Simon Murdock, you arrogant fucker!"
Gonzo: It could be worse, you could've had your sexuality questioned. What the fuck is wrong with these old men?
Simon: Fuck if I know. Hey, do you remember Johnny D? Tom the Terrible's kid? Well, that's him, standing next to my friends Jonas and Kyle.
Gonzo: Johnny turned into a big fucker, didn't he? I remember he used to follow me everywhere. Well, one time he followed me into the woods, and I lost him inside. When I left figuring he would leave me alone for the rest of the day, I come out of the woods, to find him waiting for me. Fucking kid was hard to shake.
Simon: How else do you think we learned how to track?
Johnny: Yeah, I remember that. You and Gary would always leave my ass behind. It fucking sucked.
Gonzo: You were constantly breaking our shit. You were the reason we didn't get to keep nice things. You and my cousin Louie were always breaking shit. Why do you think Louie and I were always fighting?
Johnny: I thought it was over bitches. Weren't you always fighting him over some chick?
Gonzo: Yeah, once. Son of a bitch hit me with a car, too. Is that motherfucker around here?
Johnny: His cracker ass is in Florida dying slowly of Melanoma. He can stay there, too. Breeds want to skin his ass alive for what he did before he left.
Gonzo: Wow, I ain't heard that in a long time. Someone got the Breeds up and running?
Simon: It never shut down, it just changed management. I do some work from time to time.
Gonzo: Why? You're getting benefits! Why the fuck are you working for the goddamn Breeds?
Johnny: Its not just those who got left off the tribal list, but now the tribe is starting to go corporate, and its starting to leave some people behind that were very important in the foundation of the casino and the other enterprises. Some of those people, to include Simon's mom's family, have started fighting back with organization.
Gonzo: Well, good luck with that. I'm just here to use the loft for training. All the ladders are still up there?
Simon: Last I knew. And if you need any help, myself and Johnny were your father's last students.
Gonzo: My father died seven years ago. How much do you honestly remember from the time you were 15?
Simon initiated a grapple, which I broke, as I grabbed on to his arm and began twisting it, bringing him into a position where he was facing the ground. He went to his knees, as I straddled his twisted arm, as I bring the heel of my boot to his face, stopping it short of the target, before I sit down on his arm, bringing him to the ground. Once he was face-down, I maneuvered myself into a position where I could engage a chicken wing on Simon, to which he started to flail around, as I'm certain he remembers how my father used to apply the same move to him, as he did to me. After that nostalgia act, I brought him to his feet while maintaining the chicken wing, before setting him up for a Russian leg sweep. Simon's head bounced off the snow, as I rolled over on to him, as I taunt him with open hands to his face, saying...
Gonzo: I see that arm wrestling is working out for you just fine. Maybe you should just stick to that.
Simon: Ahh... Son of a...
Johnny: You think you can do that to me?
Gonzo: Try it, big boy...
Johnny went to lock up with me, but I faked a lock up, and immediately slipped his grasp, taking him from behind, and raising him off the ground for a belly to back suplex, which I followed up with a forearm smash to his chest and neck, before rolling him into a headlock/sleeper hold combo. He was in dire straits, as he couldn't move, and I was cutting off his blood flow. I let him go before he passed out and caused major damage, as I got to my feet, saying...
Gonzo: I'll be alright training by myself. Thanks. But before I do, I need to catch some sleep. Is the house open?
Simon: Yeah, Great-Grandma is in there somewhere. I'm sure she'll let you sleep somewhere.
Gonzo: Great-Grandma's still alive? What is she? 96?
Simon: Yeah. And she's still doing good. Still does her gardening and all that stuff.
Gonzo: What about your place? I really don't want to talk to her about my last 15 years, because that's probably the first thing she's going to ask me. And I know how she felt about me joining the military.
Simon: We got our kids there.
Gonzo: You guys have kids?
Three of the four guys nodded their heads, while the fourth looked at them like they were nuts. I must've been that guy growing up, I imagine. I just shake my head as I say...
Gonzo: You, the one without kids. What's your name?
Jonas: Jonas.
Gonzo: You got a quiet place nearby?
Jonas: There's a space heater and a bed up in the loft. I take chicks up there sometimes.
Gonzo: You found my old spot. Didn't know if it’s still being used or not. I guess so. Alright. I'm going up there to crash out. Is there kerosene up there for the heater?
Jonas: Yeah. It should be good.
Gonzo: Alright. I'll catch up with you guys later...
I grabbed my bags from the Harley, and I took my stuff up into the hayloft. It was just how I remember it. It was a cleared space that was heated by a few space heaters. The loft was so huge, you could play full-court basketball in there, and the place had become more state of the art since the last time I was here. More weights were here, and a few machines. And there were even a few beds on the side of the loft. I dropped my bag near a bunk, and found a heater and dragged it close to my bunk. I light it and set it for optimal heating conditions, before I unroll my sleeping bag and I tuck myself into it. It wasn't freezing cold, but I was tired and I needed to protect myself as best as I could against the cold. It took a little bit, but I eventually drifted off to sleep...
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The Good, The Bad, and The Roy... (Dream Sequence)
Journal Entry: December 21, 1867
It had been a long time since I had picked up my guns, but things were not going well with the mining operations, and I needed to do something in order to survive. My reserves were drying up despite the fact that my leg was not going to ever heal proper. That wasn't going to stop the feds from hiring me on as a U.S. Marshall in my adopted location of El Paso, Texas, The Wild Arm of Texas! So now I was given the information on several local and other prominent outlaws in the Wild West, to include the King Family Gang. He had looked for Chelsea Armstrong and The Pack wanted posters, but there were none to be found...
Months before, when I started working as a bounty hunter, I had heard tale of Chelsea Armstrong and The Pack involved in a major town wide war for supremacy and the right to face the so-called Best Gunman in the West, ICE King. I had unwittingly entered the tournament as I entered town, and managed to gun down three men, to include a brother of ICE, Zombie King. During the war, I never encountered Steve King, though he outlasted me, as I was found and picked apart by the very people that I had come to hunt. I had taken down one of their numbers earlier on, after engaging in a brawl with a giant man inside of a bar, which I won, thanks to my spurs raking through the large dumb man's jugular.
I was summarily executed after essentially spitting in the face of Chelsea, but not before planting one of my finely-crafted leather boots into her face. My artificial foot, no less. I had lost my foot at sea during the Civil War, when a loose cannon claimed my foot. I hid it well with a stump and a cowboy boot. During my time in the naval service, I had dueled with hundreds of men, by pistol and cutlass, killing several men during boarding parties and beach raids. Dueling pistols was something I was untouchable at. Not even the Commissioned Officers would dare challenge me because I was so blindingly fast and accurate. But when the war ended, I had decided not to stay on and gain commission. I instead opted to head West, perhaps dig into the ground and see if I find anything interesting. I did well, but every once in awhile, in the early days, I was challenged often for what I had gained through various means, both legitimate and illegitimate. I would sometimes strong-arm people, others I would cheat outright when estimating land values. I remember what it was like growing up with nothing, and I'll be fucked if I leave money on the table, or I put too much money on the table.
Somehow I had survived a point-blank execution. For all the hoop-la about these six, they were not able to get the job done. They were sloppy in execution, were constantly tripping over each other, and eventually they all fell to my hand, one by one. Sure, they attacked me one final time, and left me for dead, but I survived, and they ran before I could extract my vengeance against them all.
Because of my abilities with firearms, I was offered a chance to win a nationally recognized shooting title, which I entered in and won. And I had defeated several prominent gunfighters for the award, to include Pack Member Alex "Noodles" Richards, The Kaz, a wild kid from Texas, and Roy Speede, better known as "The Silver Kid". So I got a chance at a little revenge against The Pack, but they looked beat, like the world had kicked them a new asshole in lieu of me having to keep doing it for the rest of my life. I wasn't as fast as I used to be, as these guys were so fast, that I would blink and miss them. It wasn't like Alex, who would stand there and take it, but he'd shoot at you with high caliber bullets. No, I just learned that over time its not how fast you hit the guy, but rather, its where you hit them is what counts. I had taken out their legs, made them immobile, and ripe for the pickings. I just had to wait them out, make them waste their energy and bullets, before I had my way with them. Perhaps that is not what they were looking for when it came to a gun fighting champion, but that is what they got.
And now I've got some assholes challenging me for my title. They want to take on a goddamn U.S. Marshall and a Medal of Honor Winner in the Civil War? I don't think these boys know what they've quite bitten off. Sure, maybe you've grabbed on to my tail and have given it a good yank. But just remember, there's teeth on the other end, and I will bite your ass and make you regret the day all of you fuckers crossed my path."
I put my pen back where it belonged, and put the journal away after I allowed for the ink to dry with some sawdust. I'd looked inside of the jail cell to a prisoner named Justin Cash, who came riding into town, drunk, and demanding a gunfight with this new "radio star" Joseph P. Flash, Esq. Long story short, he wound up barking up the wrong tree, and now he was in the dog house, or in this case, jail. Silly bastard. I laugh at his silly misfortunes.
I had wondered what the next few days were going to bring. I knew that there were some men coming into town to deal with me, after I had filled some of the King Boys' men full of lead and sent them back to their owners with bleeding holes. And nobody was going to question my authority as the Marshall of this part of these United States. And it was going to become a necessary nuisance to potentially bring on help, should Steve ever be bothered to leave San Francisco or ICE be bothered to leave his log cabin in Wisconsin. Zombie had made it clear that he was coming for me and for my title as the fastest draw in the West.
Whatever. He had a long way to travel to get here. Hell, there were other threats to worry about, like "The Silver Kid" hanging around outside of town. Sure, he hadn't started any trouble in town, but he was dangerously close to stoking my ire...
And that was when the District Marshall, a fellow by the name of E. Price, came in with Pastor Joe, a fellow Marshall who once upon a time took the Lord's Word on the road, but now serves for Law and Order. As he came into my office, in followed The Silver Kid, to which I didn't make any fuss, but I kept at least one of my hands close to my guns. Marshall Price then says...
Price: Good day, Marshall. How have things been?
Double D: Odd. Like a calm before a storm. Speaking of storms, what's that shit you picked up on your heel there, Joe?
Price: I'm here to say that you've got a case. Ever hear of Zombie King?
Double D: Sure do! I riddled his ass with some bullets a few months back in that warzone of a town. Thought he became worm food. What's that got to do with Silver Kid in my office and jail?
Price: No, but he's been in prison up until a few days ago, when he broke out. He's heading this way, and he's been raising a ton of hell on his way here. I know Silver from my old days, and I thought he could back you up, considering this is the King Gang we're talking about.
Double D: Why can't you guys help? They may have back-up.
Joe: I would, My Son, but I'm afraid that I have an old friend to attend to from my days of wicked behavior. However, should I be afforded the opportunity to bless you with my presence, I will.
Double D: Thanks, Pastor. But what about you, Eric?
Price: I've got an errant preacher running about, spreading falsehoods, and worshipping false prophets, while robbing folks blind. I'm handling this one myself. My own past sins come to haunt me.
Double D: Oh I understand, but you're going to leave me him? I beat his ass sideways weeks ago!
Silver Kid: I'm standing right here...
Double D: I beat your ass weeks ago, and I need someone who's going to outlast an old hand like myself if we have a shot at beating the offspring of Victor Buddy King.
Silver Kid: I'll outlast you in this fight, I guarantee it.
Double D: I'll have to see it to believe it. I like your spirit, but if you get in my way, or you even think of drawing down on me, you'll never dance another step with any saloon Sally ever again. Do you catch my drift, Mr. Silver? And if you push the envelope, I'll make you useless to a women, as well.
Price: Speaking of women, since he's gotten out, he's done nothing but target doctors for medicinal cocaine and brothels for hookers. When they tell him to pay up, he shoots up the place. If the doctor's are around, he'll shoot the doctor if they interfere.
Double D: So basically all he wants are hookers and some funky Doctor medicine? What the hell kind of driving force is that?
Price: He drugs up the hookers, gets them addicted, and they help him on his robberies for cash or more drugs. Mostly women, but he does like the occasional male.
Double D: So he occasionally goes Nancy? How queer!
Joe: Hellfire for Zombie's soul!
Silver Kid: He likes it up the butt! Ha ha! Boudle butt! Boudle butt!
Double D: Shut up, kid! Now remember, the only kind of cocaine they had back in these days is the liquid kind that you injected, like the shit Sherlock Holmes did.
Silver Kid: Were Sherlock Holmes novels even written at this time?
Double D: Fuck if I know. All I know about are drugs. Speaking of which, do any of you have any laudanum? I really need something for the stump. Someday I'll catch that dragon, baby. And what a ride it will be...
Price: Thank God there weren't any drug laws in place back then, and it was commonplace for law enforcement to be outright and open drunks while on the job.
Double D: I know, right?! PERFECT FUCKING JOB FOR ME!
Silver Kid: So can we go chase down Zombie King?
Double D: Sure, after I let this asshole out of jail. As long as he adheres to what Mayor Lerch handed down to me...
I went over to the cell and started making enough racket to awaken the dead, as I yelled...
Double D: HEY HEY, MR. CASH!!! TIME TO WAKE UP!!! WAKEY, WAKEY, NO EGGS AND BACON FOR YOU!!! WAKE UP!!! RISE AND SHINE, ST. VALENTINE!!!
The man in the cell groaned, as he turned around, and said...
Mr. Cash: You tell the Mayor I'm staying until I get my title! YOU TELL HIM WHAT I SAID!
Double D: That's too fucking bad. Well, I'm going to be gone for a few days, and since you insist on staying here, I guess you might starve to death while I'm gone. Just hold down the fort while I'm gone, then...
Mr. Cash: No! You can't leave me in here like that!!!
Double D: Oh, don't worry. I'm not going to leave town without letting the mayor know. He'll probably just transfer you in town, where the kids can have their way with you in the racks. And there's a big retarded boy nicknamed "Destroyer" who might want to ride the pony in the stocks. Have fun with that!
The man in the cell started shouting, but I paid him no mind, as myself and this newly-formed posse stepped out into the streets, as Mayor Lerch came to us as we started to saddle up. He then says...
Mayor Lerch: I heard you intend to go chase the King Family Gang.
Double D: Yes, sir. And I do intend to do a little misbehaving.
Mayor Lerch: What about Cash? Is he still in your jail? What do you intend to do about him?
Double D: I got a great idea! Why don't you deal with him yourself? Give him a title shot you know he will never win. Or shoot him in his cell. He's your problem now!
I let out a Western yell that cowboys made before they took off on horses, and the rest of the guys followed. It wasn't too long that we had our first encounter, when Eric departed ways with the group to deal with the warped preacher, however, it wasn't too far down the road that we encountered another outlaw legend turned Fed, who is only known to the rest of the world as Mr. Fly. He didn't speak, but we all knew his story.
Once upon a time, him and Steve King once ran wild in the West here, taking what they wanted, when they wanted, and met little resistance while doing just that. Later on, however, Steve turned on Fly, left him for dead, and joined the King Family Gang, ascending to one of the top positions within the gang, while Fly was forced to turn to the government for help. I understood the resentment of having to work for the government after it has taken everything away from you. To go to it for help after doing without the government for years? Now that had to sting.
We accepted him wordlessly into the fold, and it stayed that way for days. Eventually Pastor Joe had encountered word that Digger had made his way in another direction from where the Vapor Kings came from, and he took off to pursue the lead, as we pressed on. We finally encountered Victor Buddy King, and his sons, engaged in a firefight with two shooters. Upon further review, we found that it was the Robin Hood-like outlaw known as Cairo, and his recent sidekick, The Kaz. I had encountered The Kaz during the shootout that I had won, and had endured a heavy rain of gunfire from him. He was good, but he was impatient, and he didn't know when to make his shots count.
Myself, Mr. Fly, and The Silver Kid had a fairly good opening shot against Victor King, and we all took aim at our selected targets. The King Gang was just having a good time, as they randomly fired a surplus of ordinance at Cairo and The Kaz. I pulled out my Sharps rifle from my time serving with the Leathernecks, and I laid aim at the chubby bastard directing his "children" to do his dastardly deeds.
I had wind, elevation, and distance. I cracked a grin as I pulled the trigger, as the bullet left the barrel of the rifle, travelling over 200 yards before lodging itself deep into the belly of that bag of hot wind. I could see him cough up blood from that distance, as the fight was suddenly knocked out from their sails. Mr. Fly and The Silver Kid joined, as the Kings were suddenly in a world of danger. Several of Victor King's children fell to our gunfire, though none of them were our primary targets. We had learned that they had scattered, while the fodder covered their retreat. Mr. Fly pursued Steven King's course, while Cairo pursued the trail of ICE, hell-bent on taking his title from him. The Kaz left to pursue other opportunities, knowing that he could not face ICE with Cairo. Gunfighter rules.
I continued my pursuit of Zombie, who was the only person I had a poster for, and I finally found a nearby town with a saloon. There was at least one whore around wherever there happened to be a bar, and I found her. When I asked her name, she said it was Marina. When I inquired about her customers for the evening, she stated that she had remained fresh for the evening, and hinted that she wouldn't mind allowing me to be the one who gets a shot at her peach first. I really did want to drive the plough, but while the field looked nice, I could sense the rot within the field. I kept my plough in the barn and told her to fuck off.
I then went to the town doctor, to enquire about the safety of his medical supplies, to include his surgical aids. The doctor allowed me to look for myself, to see that some of his cocaine had indeed been stolen recently. The Silver Kid and I looked at each other, before we doubled back to the saloon to the side inn where most of the rooms usually come with a whore. It wasn't long before we found the room with Zombie in it, as his distinctive voice says...
Zombie King: Oh yeah! Shove that needle further into my penis! HONEY BADGER HAS LIFTOFF!!! COCAINE IN THE PENIS, AND NOW I'M GOING TO BLOW HONEY BADGER COCAINE LOADS ALL OVER YOUR SUPER-AWESOME TITS!!!
Marina: OH GOD!!! YOUR HONEY BADGER COCAINE PENIS IS SO SMALL!!! I can't feel a thing!
Zombie King: NEITHER CAN I!!!
Now, I was laughing my ass off, but The Silver Kid must've not had a sense of humor about these sorts of things. He burst right in and he started shooting up the place. He had lit into everything in the room. I stayed in the hall, as Silver killed them in cold blood. I pulled my tobacco pouch out and rolled a cigarette, lighting it with a match, as Roy got done shooting. He comes out and says...
Silver Kid: It's done. Go on in and verify.
Double D: Did you shoot the whore, too?
Silver Kid: She's of little consequence, now.
Double D: You didn't have to shoot the whore. We could've waited until he was done, and then shot him. What the hell, kid!
Silver Kid: And now you got a problem with the way I operate? Fuck you, old timer! I ought to take your damn title!
Double D: Take your best...
He moved for his guns, but I was faster. I had both of my guns out, and I riddled his body with four bullets, a bullet for each of his limbs. I kept my guns on him, as he screamed in agony. Silver laid on the ground yelling obscenities at me, as I say...
Double D: At least I didn't make you useless to a woman. You'll live...
I made my way for the door, as Roy continued to scream, unable to do much of anything else. I walked out of the room, which was now covered in blood, and went to my horse. My job was done here, and everyone knew who did it. Well, Roy actually killed Zombie, but in such a reckless way that he should go to prison. That is, if there is any justice in this world. As I left town, I had only one thing on my mind...
What to do next?
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Family Tradition... (Public Blog)
I was back in The Barn, where you could hear, if you were the Thurston's next door, generation after generation of wrestlers come from inside of that barn at first a sniveling little cry-baby getting twisted up, to walking out of that barn ready to do some twisting of your own. That was part of the reason why it saddened me that I was able to work my cousin over so quickly. Where the hell did his wrestling skills go? Our ancestors are spinning in their graves if he considers "arm wrestling" a combat sport.
As far back as Grandpa could recall, all of us were either fighters in the ring, soldiers on the field of honor, or both. Grandpa was born in 1916 in Ireland, though he came to the United States as a child less than a year old. He was orphaned at the age of six, when his mother died of dysentery, and his father had disappeared years before. Later in his life, when he investigated his family's arrival at Ellis Island, the occupation his father put down as job in Ireland was "Prizefighter".
Grandpa lived in the orphanage until he was 10, when he was old enough to get a job delivering milk from farms. As he grew larger, he found himself to be blessed with a tremendous jaw and a thunderous left hand, and made lots of money on the side as a pit fighter, before getting called to service for World War II. He was at the initial invasion of Normandy for the first part of the war, until he found himself reassigned to the Japanese front, where he was captured and held as a prisoner of war, until he found a way to escape. Upon his return to friendly territory, he was shipped back to the United States, where he saw the war end three months after his escape. He had been held captive for a year and a half.
He stayed in the Army after the war, and continued to participate in smokers, and becoming a well known boxer in the military boxing circles. He then fought later on in Korea, which later played a significant role in his death, as his legs were frozen in an avalanche during a daring operation to destroy communication lines leading into China for the North Koreans. He was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for digging his way out, and saving four others caught in the avalanche, to include an enemy officer. However, the frostbite damage to his legs along with the development of Type II Diabetes ended his military career by 1955. During his military career, he was married on four different occasions, to include a woman prior to his draft selection. With these four women, he had produced 10 children, all born between the years of 1937 and 1963. He returned to the ring after he left the military service, and continued to compete until a stroke rendered him unable to work in 1983. He passed away four years later due to complications from pneumonia. Of his 10 children, four of them were boys, and all of them had a career in either the military, law enforcement, and in the case of his Japanese son, the martial arts, and later, professional wrestling. My father was the only one who actually wrestled with Grandpa.
And on my mom's side, well, that went a little further. My Great-Grandfather was born in the United States, but his mother and father were born in Sweden and Norway, respectively, and had produced 12 children to work the family farm. However, when Great-Great Grandfather Sven Jorgenson was called to fight in World War I, he went with his chin up, and came back with a handful of medals and the blood-stained weapons of his enemies. However, his heroics came at a price, for himself and his family.
After the war, my Great-Great-Grandfather came home an alcoholic and with a severe case of PTSD, and went from a mild-mannered farmer to a psychotic wreck. This prompted my Great-Grandfather to leave when he was old enough, and he stayed gone for several years, before returning a millionaire and purchasing his own farm. How he became a millionaire is still under speculation by the family, as he never revealed how he came into so much money. He raised three children, to include my Grandfather, who would later serve in Korea himself, though he didn't suffer nearly as much as his father before him. My Grandfather would later get involved in computer engineering, and had made himself a millionaire as well. He would later become the father of twin girls, one of which is my mother. Before I was born, my mother had served in the Army, but was discharged upon her pregnancy. So yes, even my Mom probably has more combat experience than most of the fuckers in the WCF.
If there was a standard to be had in the family, then I have exceeded it several times over. The Next Generation will have their work cut out for them to surpass my accomplishments on the field of battle. In all, I've held over 25 different titles, to include four World Titles. I've won more medals than some of my relatives have won combined, and some of those medals are very difficult to win. I never won the Medal of Honor, but I've been nominated, which is way more than what the average Joe accomplishes in his military career.
However, now was NOT the time to rest on my laurels, accomplishments, and best moments. I rolled myself up out of bed, and attached my foot on the ground next to my other boot, before I start moving to the wrestling bag in the middle of the ring. It was covered in dust, as in it hadn't been touched in months, or perhaps years. I pick up the bag and I slap it, watching the dust rise in the air from the violent force of the blow. I picked up the bag, and it was a struggle. It seemed to weigh more now than it did before, and that was difficult to imagine, but I wrapped my arms around it and flung it into the air, landing a belly to belly suplex. I pick it up again, and this time I lift it over my shoulders for a power slam in the middle of the ring. I repeat this over and over again, with different throws, slams, and suplexes each time I get the bag upright. Simon, Johnny, and Jonas came in I assume about 20 minutes into the workout. And yes, its a workout. You try tossing around a 200-plus pound bag for several minutes and see if its hard work or not.
They came up to the ring and watched, as I continued to work the bag. After several minutes, I end my assault on the bag, as the three of them look on. I then say...
Gonzo: Okay, who feels froggy?
Johnny slams his hands on the canvas, as he rolls himself into the ring. Johnny was shorter than me by about an inch, but he easily outweighed me by 50 pounds. I then looked out at Jonas and Simon, as I say...
Gonzo: That was a trick question. ALL OF YOU FEEL FROGGY! GET YOUR ASSES IN THE RING!
The sudden raise of volume, combined with the forcefulness of how he said it prompted the other two to get into the ring in a hurry, as I say...
Gonzo: We're going to need a few ladders. We still got those ladders, yes?
Simon: Yeah, they're downstairs.
Gonzo: Go get them. My next match is a title defense in a Ladder Match.
Simon: A ladder match? Are you insane?
Gonzo: What are you talking about? I rock at ladder matches! About the only time I can justify flying through the air.
Simon: You're not 21 anymore...
Gonzo: Neither are you. You're 22 now...
Simon: Seriously, I saw your last ladder match. How you made it out of there in one piece is beyond me.
Gonzo: Yeah, but I still won, Just like I'm going to win this match. Now go get the damn ladders and quit telling me what is good and bad for me.
Simon: I'm just saying you're getting too old for these kinds of matches.
Gonzo: Yeah? Well, I'm still young enough to kick your ass. And we're going to learn that all day long. Just like you fuckers will learn how to use a ladder in a match today! So lets get some fucking ladders, let's do some fucking training, and let's learn some shit today about how to fuck some shit up with ladders!
Johnny: Fuck yeah! I'm down! I'm going to go grab a ladder.
Jonas: Me, too.
Simon: Alright. But if we do this, can you get us contracts?
Gonzo: One step at a time. You don't like the farm anymore? Arm-wrestling not cutting it for you?
Simon: No, its not. Arm wrestling is fun, and its paying the bills, but I'm a Murdock, and I belong in a wrestling ring.
Gonzo: What about your mom? I'm sure she doesn't come from the Warrior caste.
Simon: No, my mom has never worn a cast, let alone been a warrior... Why are you talking about casts?
Gonzo: Never mind... Did I take all the intelligence from this family?
Simon: I don't know. I got a big penis, so that keeps me happy.
I just shake my head at that last statement, as I just say...
Gonzo: Let's just go get ladders.
Simon: Right... So are you sticking around for Christmas?
I pretend I didn't hear him as we both get out of the ring to go get some ladders, as the scene ends with Johnny and Jonas making it back with ladders of their own...
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TELEVISION TIME!!! (ONE)
I managed to wince through Christmas with the family, or about half of the day, before I had to listen to my uncle and grandfather badmouth modern professional wrestling and me for perpetuating it. Never mind that I still wrestle conservatively in comparison to most of my colleagues, and that I do it at a level that neither of them had made it to, and I'm doing it with an artificial body part. My father could've done it, but he didn't want to be labeled a "freak". I say fuck it. Be what you're supposed to be. If "freak" is what you are, then be what you are. Everyone else is just a jealous fuck and they can all go eat a dick.
Once it rolled past noon, and the livestock was fed, I was back on the road, but this time with no detours. Onward to Beaver Stadium in University Park, Pennsylvania. Hopefully this stadium has a fucking top on it, because the ride down was full of shitty weather and worse drivers. There was a few times that I had to break off the rap...
Once I managed to pull my 1979 Ford Mustang into the parking lot, I realized that I need to keep a better suited winter vehicle in New York, rather than my project car from when I was 16 years old. I may have had an easier ride with my motorcycle than this shit. So I pulled the car up next to the bus, and out comes my lawyer to greet me. He gestures for me to get the fuck into the bus quickly, because the wind is starting to pick up. I get my ass inside double-fast and see that the bus has no other occupants, save for my driver Michael, who is passed out on the rack above the cockpit. I turned to Z and say...
Gonzo: Where the fuck is everyone else?
Lazlo: Television. And you're late.
Gonzo: Fucking car. Not meant to be driven out in this shit. I had to change out the tires. Hence why it smells like a rubber plant in the back of my car. I'm not leaving Radials behind! That car was built to race!
Lazlo: Whatever. So where did you spend Christmas?
Gonzo: New York, believe it or not. My father's family, what's left of it, spent it together. It was great, until my uncle and grandfather started giving me shit for the direction professional wrestling has gone.
Lazlo: Yeah, well, my father's not doing too well. Shit is really bad at home. I'm surprised she didn't ask me for a divorce, but at least the girls and I did were able to fix things.
Gonzo: Do you love your wife?
Lazlo: I don't know... We were arranged, after all. I love her because she's the mother of my children, but do I love the whole package? Flaws and all?
Gonzo: You need to answer that before you do anything else. Either way, if you need the time off, just say so, and I'll get Michael to drive you to the airport. Hell, I'm surprised you lasted this long on the road.
Lazlo: So am I. I thought I would never undertake something like this again, but this was almost like deployment, only nobody is shooting at us, and vice versa. I think I might take some time off, and get my ass back in shape. Would you take me as a tag partner?
Gonzo: That could be a stretch. By all means, drop the weight, but as far as getting into the ring at 32? For the first time? You have big mountains to climb with little time to do it.
Lazlo: That, and I'd still have to handle not only your affairs, but mine as well. Speaking of which, I haven't really spoken to Eric about anything for One. He's got a match, but is he going to be able to accompany you to the ring?
Gonzo: Hell if I know. All I know about Jeff Purse is he likes to play with puppets and is a religious fanatic. Eric's grown a little office soft, but I'm sure he can manage against Jeff Purse. Former World Champion or not.
Lazlo: And what about Roy Speede? He seems to be getting closer and closer with Eric and Joe. You know him and Joe attacked Jayson Price, and kept kicking him in the balls, but they kept calling it pussy, and...
Gonzo: Dude, you're not making any sense. Roy signed with Armageddon Inc. last week. Where were you? I signed as a witness and everything. And then I watched Axe Cop. Axe Cop looks kind of like you...
Lazlo: Yeah, and that's why I don't grow a mustache.
Gonzo: You mean you don't want to grow a mustache like this with me? I know I look a little like Officer Rod Farva, but you and your Ramathorn mustache, we could totally roll out on "Bus Ramrod", and the bitches would dig it.
Lazlo: Maybe, but I don't want to look like a terrorist. All the terrorists have facial hair. You ever notice that? From Saddam's mustache to bin Laden's beard. No, thank you.
Gonzo: Dude, that's so not true! We totally took down those Chechen Muslims without the facial hair in Serbia that one time!
Lazlo: Yeah, I think you burned off all of their hair with a flame thrower.
Gonzo: No, that was AFTER they were identified and their tattoos were removed for proof of kill. THEN I torched them.
Lazlo: I never saw them when they were not on fire. Anyways, just be careful around Roy. I don't trust him. Between the annoying shit he says, and his father being who he is, I wouldn't trust him. I'd strike first.
Gonzo: Good thing that's my call to make. Anything on the Zombie front?
Lazlo: I was going to catch it, but I got sidetracked. I don't know what he has said or done. Hell, I don't know what you've done since you left the hospital! WHAT THE FUCK!!!
Gonzo: I needed time away from you guys. But it seemed like they stayed around. I had some really fucking weird dreams, man...
Lazlo: You need to lay off the drugs.
Gonzo: Other than weed, I've been clean since I got out of the hospital. No acid, or coke, or even painkillers, except for when I was training. Showed my cousin and his friends how to use a ladder in a match. Right down to the sickest bumps off of the ladder.
Lazlo: I hope you didn't take too many bumps.
Gonzo: How else am I going to train? Sure, they were amateurs in comparison to Roy and Zombie, but its better than no training at all. And no matter what you do, you really cannot cheat gravity.
Lazlo: Okay, so you're clean, but having weird dreams. So what's new? Hey, we've got to hustle for televison, man...
Gonzo: You know what? Fuck television today. Just get your damn phone out, and I'll do something right here and now for them. Better yet, find that sniveling worm Hank Brown. Have him do an interview right here and now.
Lazlo: I may be able to get something set up right now. He called me earlier, but as per your instructions, I ignored the call.
Gonzo: Call him back. Tell him if he brings me any of his buddy-buddy shit with the Vapor Kings, I'm going to kick his ass out just as easily as I brought him on the bus.
Lazlo: Man, you know what a little bitch Hank is! All you got to do is give him some attention and... Hello? Hank? How much of that did you hear? Little bitch, eh? Well, Gonzo wants you to bring your bitch-ass on the bus... What the fuck else for? He's organized an orgy in your honor, or didn't you hear? Yes, a goddamn interview! You fucking numbskull!!! Fine, I'm sure he has something here to make it worth your while. How do you feel about slightly expired heroin?
Gonzo: What the fuck?
Lazlo: Okay, sounds good. Yeah, we're out at the bus. Bring a camera crew... Okay. See you in a few minutes...
Lazlo hangs up the phone with a smile on his face, as I just say...
Gonzo: Did you just offer him heroin to give me an interview?
Lazlo: Yeah, and he took it! Who knew he was an old junkie? I knew there was something wrong with him.
Gonzo: No shit. Well, I guess I'll have me a beer while I wait. What do we got?
Lazlo: No beer, but we do have some rum and some Coke.
Gonzo: Set us up...
We waited for about a half-hour, and we had gone through several rum and Cokes by that time. When Hank finally walked in, and they set up, I was well on my way to getting fucked up, and I had no intention of stopping, regardless if this was being filmed for the world to see. Fuck it, let them see me drunk!
Hank starts saying words, but with his voice, I just kind of tuned it out and kept drinking. I finished off the drink and asked Z to make another, when Hank looks at me impatiently, as I say...
Gonzo: Dude, did we just start?
Hank: Yes. I asked how you were doing after the surgery?
Gonzo: I'm doing great! Got a good drink in my hand, my best friend over there. Surgery went off without a hitch, and I recovered just fine. I have one more visit with the doctor, who should be in tomorrow, to give me the official clearance to wrestle Roy Speede and Zombie McMorris for the United States Title in a Ladder Match right here on Sunday night. At One.
Hank: Well, that takes care of a few questions. First, I'll ask questions about how you feel so far in your title reign...
Gonzo: What title reign? I have the belt, but I haven't defended it, yet. But knowing that I went through 15 other guys to get the title? In one of the more anticipated events of the year? Hell, that was pretty damn sweet. Especially since I initiated the whole damn thing when I tore Jay Omega's leg off. Talk about a happy accident, there.
Hank: Now in that tournament, you faced Roy Speede in the finals for the Classic and the US Title win. And he was at the top of his game. Yet you managed to bring him down and you walked away with the win. Now we're in a ladder match, where pin falls and submissions do not win you the belt. This would seem like a situation designed for Roy to be favored. Are you concerned about your odds against Roy Speede?
Gonzo: No, and I'll tell you why. My first big title ever won was thanks to a ladder. Ladders have yet to let me down in the 15 years I've been climbing them. It's funny, because my uncle and my grandfather, both former professional boxers and wrestlers, were giving me so much shit for being what is wrong with professional wrestling in a "gimmick match" like a Ladder match. Well, I do pretty fucking awesome in this "gimmick match", and I tend to stick to what I know. And I know my ladders pretty fucking well.
Hank: Was that before or after you lost your foot?
Gonzo: I'll have you know I won a ladder match before I came to the WCF. For a title, a few months before I came here. Not bad for a rehab assignment. And this match will be no different. I will piss excellence in this match, just as I have with every other ladder match in my career prior to this one.
Hank: So how do you feel about Roy Speede?
Gonzo: He's the fucking guy in my way, again. He's stated publically that he intends to make sure that Zombie never touches the strap, or any Vapor King, for that matter. But I know he wants the title for himself, and he'll step on me to get it. Well, I intend that neither one of these asshats get their dick-beating hands on my United States title! CAUSE I AM THE CHAMPION, MY FRIEND...
AND I'LL KEEP ON FIGHTING, TO THE END...
CAUSE I AM THE CHAMPION, I AM THE CHAMPION!!!
NO TIME FOR THESE LOSERS, CAUSE I AM THE CHAMPION... OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA!!! WOOOOOOOO!
Hank: Wow, that was random... So...
Gonzo: Bottom line is Roy Speede couldn't get the job done, and I think in less than two months time, he has not managed to gather the tools to get it done this time, either. I've said it now, and I'll say it again, his time will come when he's well past this little feud, title chase, or whatever you want to call it. But the young man, and I say that with truthful respect, does not have what it takes to get past me. He put up a hell of a fight last time, and I'm sure I'll get another one again, but in this match, I walk away with that title held over my head. And that goes for Zombie, too.
Hank: Speaking of Zombie, he's said...
Gonzo: I could give two shits in a windstorm what that cum-dumpster of a mouth has to say about me. It's "Honey Badger, this" and "Honey Badger, that"! NOBODY GIVES A SHIT WHAT THE HONEY BADGER THINKS! OR YOUR CRACKER-ASS JEWISH HONKY STEPMONKEY OF A FATHER! BOTTOM LINE, I FUCKED YOU UP BEFORE, AND I'M LOOKING FORWARD TO GIVING YOU YOUR VERY OWN LOVE LETTER, STRAIGHT FROM MY FUCKING HEART, AND ALL OVER YOUR FUCKING FACE!!! YOU HEAR ME, YOU COCK-JOCKEY ASSHATS?! THE WORLD IS GOING TO WATCH YOU ALL DIE AS WE ALL GO SCORCHED EARTH ON YOUR MOTHERFUCKING ASSES!!! HOW DOES IT FEEL TO KNOW YOU'RE ABOUT TO DIE?! AND THERE'S NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT?
I mean, hell, you come into this match, saying you weren't allowed in the WCF Classic, or any other Vapor King, for that matter. And then I win it, and you take your frustrations out on me. What? You don't have the testicular fortitude to take that issue up with who it really needs to be taken up with? Seth? Okay, that's too easy. But me? You want to bark up my tree? Well, you're fucking with the wrong tree, because my tree contains nothing but ugly, and it has since 1983. I may not be the most graceful guy here, or the strongest, but by fucking God, I'm the toughest and the meanest son of a bitch in this match, and probably in all of the WCF! You guys want to beat me down in the middle of the ring? Okay, I got your asses. God knows you saved his ass when you interfered in the match, and everyone knows you fucktards were lucky in that clusterfuck of a match. But that match, or any match before that, had no implications on it like this match does. This match shortens, and in some cases, ends careers. So who's career ends here?
Hank: Hell, you're lucky to be wrestling in regular matches, let alone a ladder match. Why did you agree to this match?
Gonzo: I didn't agree to this match, I requested it. Here, look at the television. This'll be the reason why I requested the ladder match...
I clicked the remote, and there I was on the screen. I was much younger, and much smaller. I was 17 at the time, and wrestling against a much larger man for the right to retain the World Title in a place I graced with my presence called Brutal Wrestling Federation back in 2000. The big spot in the match came when I gave Frankenstein a hurricanranna off the top of the ladder while grabbing the World Title from the steel ring at the same time. Hank winced at the end result of that one, as Frankenstein hit the ropes, then went over to the outside of the ring. This was the match that got me blackballed for a few years.
The next match was a match for the Tag Team Titles back in 2007. It was myself and Cameron King, The Avant Garde, against Chris Carlson and Tucker Matthews, The Young Republicans. The spot showed was where I grabbed the steel ring holding the steel ring with the Tag Team belts on the ring, while I swung around, and clocked my opponents with several Chuck Norris Specials while hanging in midair. I managed to hang on to the ring for three minutes, while my partner got the ladder set up for us to both grab the titles at the same time.
The final match actually happened this May, in a seasonal federation called Pro Wrestling Elite, and the title on the line was the Anarchy Title. One spot showed was when I put one of my three opponents in a Phantom Itch, with the ladder. This maneuver managed to break the leg of Fate, a long-standing rival with who I had very terrible luck against, until this night. Among other highlights was when I used my Norris-Van Damme Connection to connect with everyone else in the match at the same time. That was a pretty wild moment. The winning moment came, however, when my ladder was knocked from under me, I had a hold of the title, and Sanders grabbed my foot. Well, he grabbed the wrong foot, and it came off, while I dangled in the air with the title in my grasp. The snaps eventually gave, and I crashed back down on Sanders, who still had my foot in his hand. I grabbed my foot from him, slammed him over the head with it, and put my foot back on before getting to my feet to celebrate.
I press the clicker, and the television turns off, as I say...
Gonzo: And that's just a drop in the bucket compared to what else I can do in a Ladder Match. Those were just shots for my opponents to get familiar with.
Hank: Whatever happened to your tag partner? He reminds me of the Dynamite Kid.
Gonzo: Unfortunately, he's dead. Opiate addiction is a motherfucker. But as you can see in that last match, this hasn't been my first rodeo with artificial parts. And that match had four participants, and all of us former World Champions in the PWE and other locations. As I said, I'm not worried about the match itself.
Hank: Well, let's recap. You're fine from surgery, and you should be cleared for this match. You've made your feelings known about both Roy Speede and Zombie McMorris. You've even discussed your confidence in your ability to function in a match like this, and have even showed us proof that you can function in a match like this despite your handicap. Do you have anything else to say about the match?
Gonzo: Yeah I do. Roy, Z-Mac, I would like to congratulate both of you for becoming my very first challengers for the United States Title. I worked pretty fucking hard to get it. Taking it off the last champ was the easy part, but putting it on me was another story, but here it sits, either on my shoulder or around my waist. And on top of that, you are both walking into MY world in a vain attempt to take what I worked hard to take for myself. Damn fools, the both of you.
Roy, I keep hearing you talk about how it is imperative that the title does not reach Vapor King hands. Trust me, I understand better than most. And I have no intention of letting go of the title that allows me to represent what America has always stood for, which is fighting not only for our best interests, but also fighting the evil that resides all around us. And while your heart might be in the right place, I don't think you grasp the concept of what is going on here. I do, because I used to BE that evil. Yes, once upon a time, I took delight in watching others suffer while a select few held the reigns of an entire company. Trust me when I tell you I understand what is at stake. Feel fortunate that I understand what it takes to destroy the evil that will be sharing the ring with us, because I don't think you quite do.
And you, Zombie... Again, I have to ask what gives you the right to come barking up my tree? What have you REALLY done in the last few months to warrant another US Title shot? Let's see... Oh, I kicked your ass at War... And there's the fact that you just LOST the Television title not too long ago... Oh, I see, you're half of the Tag Team Champs? Yeah, that don't concern me or the US Title. So there's your fucking answer as to why you, a Vapor King, did NOT deserve a spot in the tournament. And even if you were put in, say, in the first round, when I took Ryan Blake by the legs and forced him to quit, well, the only difference in that match would've been you in the place of Ryan Blake. Yes, that is how confident I am that I, the United States Champion, am in stating that I'm a WAY FUCKING BETTER WRESTLER THAN YOU WILL EVER BE! OH, YOU KICKED STEVE ORBIT'S ASS? WHAT DOES THAT TELL ME ABOUT HIM? AND NATURAL "ICE" BECKMAN? MORE LIKE NATURAL "LIGHT" BECKMAN!
The only reason why the Vapor Kings are successful is because they are snakes, and they fight like snakes. Well, I've got plenty of experience with snakes. Most people think that you send a honey badger or a mongoose after a snake. Nonsense! You want to kill a snake? You send in a snake, and I'm a motherfucking King Snake about to lay some fucking atomic bombs on your cracker-asses. That's right, I called Orbit, and the rest of you whitey devils, cracker-ass motherfuckers! Do something about it! I'll tell you what to do. Pack up your tents, and get the fuck out of the WCF, and I won't hurt you any further. I'll leave you alone. But after this match, if you so much as breathe in my direction, I'll take no pleasure in it, but I will bend you over and fuck you all in front of the whole world, just like you've been doing to everyone else since your formation. I'll send you all back to wherever it is you came from with your balls in a sling, you got it?
So both of you, welcome to my first title defense, and the beginning of a reign that will be remembered for a very long time. And it will be a reign that will be marked with blood. YOUR blood, and mine. Because I'll do almost anything to keep what I've fought for. I've done it all of my life, and at One, it will be no different. So come on, I'm ready for you, and I've been looking forward to this. As for the rest of you, who will survive, and what will be left of you? We'll find out, as my reign commences in short order.
I'll see you both in the ring. I'll be the one reigning supreme at the end of the match. Count on it.
Well, this wasn't a therapy session, per se, but the song did come up on my MP3 player as I continued down I-90 deep into the heart of Upstate New York, to my old stomping grounds. I had lived all over the place in Upstate New York, before my stepfather took us to the Mid-Atlantic region, where I lived in Maryland, Delaware, Virginia, and New Jersey, before my mom and him split and I came back to Cow Country in New York.
Being that I lived in a totally different part of the U.S., and I wasn't a total hick, I didn't quite fit in where we wound up relocating. I was amazed that my parents found each other in this place, where I swear everyone is everyone's cousin. Yeah, some serious inbreeding going on around here, hence why the Native American population is dwindling, because Whitey and the Natives are starting to bang each other more regularly. That, and Native Americans around here are rich as fuck. I have Native American blood in me, but not enough for qualification of benefits when the casino came in. However, I still lived around it, and my father got benefits, though he used it mostly to fund his dope plantation. Hence why he stayed in New York rather than become, and I quote "A fucking freak show in professional wrestling!" I wonder if he would approve of me still wrestling despite my obvious handicap.
Anyways, being a kid not receiving benefits while living on the res was kind of fucked up, and the res kids started rubbing it in our faces, until one day, we kicked the shit out of them and took their money. We then worked out a deal where they kick us some money, drugs, or whatever they had on the side in exchange that we not only stop kicking the shit out of them, but we'd also beat the fuck out of whoever fucked with their side enterprises. We became known in the reservations as the "Breeds". We had run into trouble in our local larger municipality named Utica. I know, ugly fucking name. Anyways, we had some trouble in that area with black guys running some nasty shit and becoming competition. Enter myself and my best friend growing up Gary Buchannan, and we became known as the "glorious Boys", glorious George and glorious Gary. Hell, when I broke into professional wrestling making $5 to entertain my father and his friends in various altered states. Gary and I would beat the hell out of a guy, isolate him in a corner, taunt his partner, make the referee work, then really give that poor fuck a glorious Beatdown. Basically we were Native American-backed goombas who went to war to protect our turf. Under our guidance as warlords, we managed to push the Crips and Bloods, both always at war with each other, out of Utica as far as their drug games were concerned.
Looking back, I would've given zero fucks, but being that I was basically on my own at home with nothing to speak of in the refrigerator, I said fuck starving, I need the money, so we went to war. Over drugs, no less. Meth, to be precise. I mean, eww... I always feel gross after I use that shit. It helped that I was able to get through college on it, being budgeted and all, but it was nasty, and the detox for meth is overshadowed only by a heroin detox. But burning it all down was only going to get me killed. Do I wonder why I work so hard to pay for my past sins? Fuck no, I don't. But this is my cross to bear, I suppose.
Things were looking great for us, both in and out of the ring, until some filthy rat fuck dimed on me when I was working a side deal involving some weed. I dropped it back that yeah, I dealt with that prick, and he should probably get some protection, but not from me. They laughed it off, until the full weight of the Breeds came crashing down, literally, on his chest. He went to the ER with collapsed lungs, multiple lacerations, and insect bites on his entire body. That fucking guy wished he was dead when we were done with his filthy rat carcass, but I took one on the chin, and I got sent to go live further upstate on some kiddie convict camping trip for a year. Most of the others there were from Rochester, Buffalo, and Syracuse. Fortunately I wasn't the only Native or Breed in the camp. By the end of the camp, we were known as the most violent group within the campgrounds, but it was just a show of dominance when the black kids bowed up. Granted, we were outnumbered, but when the fuck did that ever stop us Injuns from fighting?
We were all put in a high security part of the camp, where the "handlers" were much more quick to hand out punishments. We were kids in the middle of nowhere being trusted by guys who are up here for two weeks straight with no pussy around, and these are 10 to 16 year-old boys? I've heard the term heard to describe a woman's ass to be "like a 10 year-old boy", but I always thought that sounded pretty fucking gay. But when the rape begins, well, hearing your ass described in such a way when you fight back makes you really hate that terminology. Fortunately, most of us at the camp were released because of some allegations of sexual misconduct with the detainees, which coincided with the murder of a camp "handler". I had found that with this guy, I didn't get sick, but I didn't go psychotic on him, either. I had just pressed the toothbrush that was sharpened to a fine point into his ear, and continued to apply pressure until I could no longer retrieve the brush from his ear. They could never get any good DNA or fingerprints off of the toothbrush that was not Handler Carista's own, so I got away with it. Furthermore, I was one of several young men whose sentence was commuted as a result of my exposure to Carista, after it came out that he was a pedophile who used to mess with young boys and girls in his home, and had done so for years. It was a complete and utter embarrassment to the State of New York that they allowed such a gross oversight on their behalf that they also paid out settlements to some of the kids, but my parents were too lazy or proud to take any money from the state. I don't get my parents at all...
Well, the enterprise fell apart when I went to jail, and despite my early return, we couldn't get the project off of the ground. So I wrestled for the summer and winter, until my falling out with my parents prompted me to leave home and go to Florida. Its strange how everything is so familiar, despite the fact that I have not called this place home since 1999. Not much had changed. A few shops closed down here and there, and a new house here and there as well, but otherwise, everything as I had left it. Not much changes around here. I pulled my motorcycle into the Oneida Indian Reservation, and made my way to the service station. Snow clean up hadn't made their way to the station yet, but I managed to pull my Harley up to the pumps with little issues. I began to fill it up, when a service attendant came out. Yeah, I had just pulled up to the full service island. Oops. I got off my steel horse and told the guy to watch my bike, and maybe clean the windshield, and we could call it good.
I then went inside of the convenience store, and the place was more of a cigarette outlet than it was a convenience store. I got myself a cup of coffee and asked for two cans of Grizzly Mint and two packs of Camel Non-Filtered cigarettes. I got the Grizzly, but the cigarettes were unavailable. Then I realized that all the cigarettes were not the usual brands. I asked for non-filtered cigarettes, and I got a bag of tobacco with a pack of rolling papers. I didn't bother arguing, as I chuckled at the last time I used to roll cigarettes, which was back in Africa in 2004. I did it because the locals would steal our cigarettes. My system of smoking in Africa discouraged the theft of my tobacco. It still happened, but not nearly as much as it did to the other guys. I stepped outside and started to roll a smoke, while I watch the attendant wipe down my bike with a dry towel as he sang along to a random modern rock song. They all sound the same to me, these days. Nothing like the classics for this guy...
I chuckled to myself as I light the cigarette and drink the coffee, as I remember both attendants from high school. Both of them receiving benefits from the reservation, but letting their lives rot away in this little shack. Yeah, no thank you. I got out when I could, and I didn't look back, until now. Why did I even bother? These two were nothing special in school. Hell, the guy scraping bugs off of my windshield probably didn't graduate, if I remember correctly. The girl inside the store? Yeah, my brother knocked her up once, and they aborted it. I heard she got knocked up again in high school, but that's between her and her God. She really let herself slide...
I was almost done with my coffee before Simple Steve came over to inform me that he managed to dry off my seats and clean the bug shield. He gave me the final prices and I toss him an extra $20 for his troubles. Like he really needed it. I almost solicited him for some weed, but I didn't know how that would go. Nobody seemed to recognize me from my days here. Of course, now I have no hair, when I used to have the wildest hair in high school. Yeah, Jeff Hardy and I used to use the same stylist. See why I didn't fit into cow country? See why my stepfather thought I was gay? I didn't give a shit, and I loved punching out these country bumpkin assholes who thought that the woods belonged to them. That was the benefit of growing up both in the country and the city, you get wise to the ways of the world super fucking quick. Hence why I walk without fear in this world, because I understand the laws of man and nature, and can bend those laws to my will.
I tossed my empty coffee cup and fired up my Harley. I got on the bike and continued down the road. The farm wasn't too far now. I figured another four miles out of town and I'll be there. I just hope the hills don't have too much ice on them. The hills around here wouldn't let nothing but the hardiest of vehicles up some of these roads built on hills. Hell, Gravity Fest is held here. Its an event when a bunch of X-Gamer wannabees take their skateboards, rollerblades, and their luge boards down a hill that goes down at a 45 degree angle for over a mile and a half. Taking a bicycle down it really makes for a few "oh shit" moments as you careen as fast as you can without using too much braking action while avoiding oncoming traffic. It is also one of the most dreaded roads to use going down during the winter, and has claimed several lives over the years. To include a few of my classmates.
I managed to make it up the hills while avoiding the big hill, and I pulled up to the farm, where several younger men were standing in front of the barn. I recognized the tall bulky blonde kid as my cousin, who turned 21 sometime this year. As I pulled up, all of the guys started walking towards me, before suddenly halting, realizing I'm not who they think I am. I turned off the bike and set it down, as I removed my helmet and glasses. My cousin then goes...
Simon: Holy shit. Deuce! What the fuck are you doing up here?
Gonzo: What's up, fucker? Long time, no see! What are you doing with yourself?
Simon: When I'm not working here, I tour doing arm wrestling. I'm pretty fucking good. I'm the light-heavyweight champ in New York State.
Gonzo: How does that pay?
Simon: Not bad! I cleared 60 grand this year, and that was while I took time off because of a car accident for three months. What about you? Still working for the government? Or are you back in the ring?
Gonzo: I've been back in the ring for a while. Where have you been? Here, check this out...
I pull out my WCF United States Championship belt out of my saddlebags, and I hand it over to Simon, as he says...
Simon: You're Gonzo Deuce Murdock? Well fuck, man. Your father would be spinning in his grave, not using the family name...
Gonzo: I got into some shit, and I had to lay low. Remember, the government sometimes puts me into hairy situations that foreign governments take personally. I can't just be showing my ass out there with the family name like I used to. Too many people have died because of it.
Simon: Oh, I understand, but my father and your father? Forget it. They're like "If I wanted people to call you Sexy Simon, I'd have fucking named you Sexy Simon Murdock, you arrogant fucker!"
Gonzo: It could be worse, you could've had your sexuality questioned. What the fuck is wrong with these old men?
Simon: Fuck if I know. Hey, do you remember Johnny D? Tom the Terrible's kid? Well, that's him, standing next to my friends Jonas and Kyle.
Gonzo: Johnny turned into a big fucker, didn't he? I remember he used to follow me everywhere. Well, one time he followed me into the woods, and I lost him inside. When I left figuring he would leave me alone for the rest of the day, I come out of the woods, to find him waiting for me. Fucking kid was hard to shake.
Simon: How else do you think we learned how to track?
Johnny: Yeah, I remember that. You and Gary would always leave my ass behind. It fucking sucked.
Gonzo: You were constantly breaking our shit. You were the reason we didn't get to keep nice things. You and my cousin Louie were always breaking shit. Why do you think Louie and I were always fighting?
Johnny: I thought it was over bitches. Weren't you always fighting him over some chick?
Gonzo: Yeah, once. Son of a bitch hit me with a car, too. Is that motherfucker around here?
Johnny: His cracker ass is in Florida dying slowly of Melanoma. He can stay there, too. Breeds want to skin his ass alive for what he did before he left.
Gonzo: Wow, I ain't heard that in a long time. Someone got the Breeds up and running?
Simon: It never shut down, it just changed management. I do some work from time to time.
Gonzo: Why? You're getting benefits! Why the fuck are you working for the goddamn Breeds?
Johnny: Its not just those who got left off the tribal list, but now the tribe is starting to go corporate, and its starting to leave some people behind that were very important in the foundation of the casino and the other enterprises. Some of those people, to include Simon's mom's family, have started fighting back with organization.
Gonzo: Well, good luck with that. I'm just here to use the loft for training. All the ladders are still up there?
Simon: Last I knew. And if you need any help, myself and Johnny were your father's last students.
Gonzo: My father died seven years ago. How much do you honestly remember from the time you were 15?
Simon initiated a grapple, which I broke, as I grabbed on to his arm and began twisting it, bringing him into a position where he was facing the ground. He went to his knees, as I straddled his twisted arm, as I bring the heel of my boot to his face, stopping it short of the target, before I sit down on his arm, bringing him to the ground. Once he was face-down, I maneuvered myself into a position where I could engage a chicken wing on Simon, to which he started to flail around, as I'm certain he remembers how my father used to apply the same move to him, as he did to me. After that nostalgia act, I brought him to his feet while maintaining the chicken wing, before setting him up for a Russian leg sweep. Simon's head bounced off the snow, as I rolled over on to him, as I taunt him with open hands to his face, saying...
Gonzo: I see that arm wrestling is working out for you just fine. Maybe you should just stick to that.
Simon: Ahh... Son of a...
Johnny: You think you can do that to me?
Gonzo: Try it, big boy...
Johnny went to lock up with me, but I faked a lock up, and immediately slipped his grasp, taking him from behind, and raising him off the ground for a belly to back suplex, which I followed up with a forearm smash to his chest and neck, before rolling him into a headlock/sleeper hold combo. He was in dire straits, as he couldn't move, and I was cutting off his blood flow. I let him go before he passed out and caused major damage, as I got to my feet, saying...
Gonzo: I'll be alright training by myself. Thanks. But before I do, I need to catch some sleep. Is the house open?
Simon: Yeah, Great-Grandma is in there somewhere. I'm sure she'll let you sleep somewhere.
Gonzo: Great-Grandma's still alive? What is she? 96?
Simon: Yeah. And she's still doing good. Still does her gardening and all that stuff.
Gonzo: What about your place? I really don't want to talk to her about my last 15 years, because that's probably the first thing she's going to ask me. And I know how she felt about me joining the military.
Simon: We got our kids there.
Gonzo: You guys have kids?
Three of the four guys nodded their heads, while the fourth looked at them like they were nuts. I must've been that guy growing up, I imagine. I just shake my head as I say...
Gonzo: You, the one without kids. What's your name?
Jonas: Jonas.
Gonzo: You got a quiet place nearby?
Jonas: There's a space heater and a bed up in the loft. I take chicks up there sometimes.
Gonzo: You found my old spot. Didn't know if it’s still being used or not. I guess so. Alright. I'm going up there to crash out. Is there kerosene up there for the heater?
Jonas: Yeah. It should be good.
Gonzo: Alright. I'll catch up with you guys later...
I grabbed my bags from the Harley, and I took my stuff up into the hayloft. It was just how I remember it. It was a cleared space that was heated by a few space heaters. The loft was so huge, you could play full-court basketball in there, and the place had become more state of the art since the last time I was here. More weights were here, and a few machines. And there were even a few beds on the side of the loft. I dropped my bag near a bunk, and found a heater and dragged it close to my bunk. I light it and set it for optimal heating conditions, before I unroll my sleeping bag and I tuck myself into it. It wasn't freezing cold, but I was tired and I needed to protect myself as best as I could against the cold. It took a little bit, but I eventually drifted off to sleep...
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The Good, The Bad, and The Roy... (Dream Sequence)
Journal Entry: December 21, 1867
It had been a long time since I had picked up my guns, but things were not going well with the mining operations, and I needed to do something in order to survive. My reserves were drying up despite the fact that my leg was not going to ever heal proper. That wasn't going to stop the feds from hiring me on as a U.S. Marshall in my adopted location of El Paso, Texas, The Wild Arm of Texas! So now I was given the information on several local and other prominent outlaws in the Wild West, to include the King Family Gang. He had looked for Chelsea Armstrong and The Pack wanted posters, but there were none to be found...
Months before, when I started working as a bounty hunter, I had heard tale of Chelsea Armstrong and The Pack involved in a major town wide war for supremacy and the right to face the so-called Best Gunman in the West, ICE King. I had unwittingly entered the tournament as I entered town, and managed to gun down three men, to include a brother of ICE, Zombie King. During the war, I never encountered Steve King, though he outlasted me, as I was found and picked apart by the very people that I had come to hunt. I had taken down one of their numbers earlier on, after engaging in a brawl with a giant man inside of a bar, which I won, thanks to my spurs raking through the large dumb man's jugular.
I was summarily executed after essentially spitting in the face of Chelsea, but not before planting one of my finely-crafted leather boots into her face. My artificial foot, no less. I had lost my foot at sea during the Civil War, when a loose cannon claimed my foot. I hid it well with a stump and a cowboy boot. During my time in the naval service, I had dueled with hundreds of men, by pistol and cutlass, killing several men during boarding parties and beach raids. Dueling pistols was something I was untouchable at. Not even the Commissioned Officers would dare challenge me because I was so blindingly fast and accurate. But when the war ended, I had decided not to stay on and gain commission. I instead opted to head West, perhaps dig into the ground and see if I find anything interesting. I did well, but every once in awhile, in the early days, I was challenged often for what I had gained through various means, both legitimate and illegitimate. I would sometimes strong-arm people, others I would cheat outright when estimating land values. I remember what it was like growing up with nothing, and I'll be fucked if I leave money on the table, or I put too much money on the table.
Somehow I had survived a point-blank execution. For all the hoop-la about these six, they were not able to get the job done. They were sloppy in execution, were constantly tripping over each other, and eventually they all fell to my hand, one by one. Sure, they attacked me one final time, and left me for dead, but I survived, and they ran before I could extract my vengeance against them all.
Because of my abilities with firearms, I was offered a chance to win a nationally recognized shooting title, which I entered in and won. And I had defeated several prominent gunfighters for the award, to include Pack Member Alex "Noodles" Richards, The Kaz, a wild kid from Texas, and Roy Speede, better known as "The Silver Kid". So I got a chance at a little revenge against The Pack, but they looked beat, like the world had kicked them a new asshole in lieu of me having to keep doing it for the rest of my life. I wasn't as fast as I used to be, as these guys were so fast, that I would blink and miss them. It wasn't like Alex, who would stand there and take it, but he'd shoot at you with high caliber bullets. No, I just learned that over time its not how fast you hit the guy, but rather, its where you hit them is what counts. I had taken out their legs, made them immobile, and ripe for the pickings. I just had to wait them out, make them waste their energy and bullets, before I had my way with them. Perhaps that is not what they were looking for when it came to a gun fighting champion, but that is what they got.
And now I've got some assholes challenging me for my title. They want to take on a goddamn U.S. Marshall and a Medal of Honor Winner in the Civil War? I don't think these boys know what they've quite bitten off. Sure, maybe you've grabbed on to my tail and have given it a good yank. But just remember, there's teeth on the other end, and I will bite your ass and make you regret the day all of you fuckers crossed my path."
I put my pen back where it belonged, and put the journal away after I allowed for the ink to dry with some sawdust. I'd looked inside of the jail cell to a prisoner named Justin Cash, who came riding into town, drunk, and demanding a gunfight with this new "radio star" Joseph P. Flash, Esq. Long story short, he wound up barking up the wrong tree, and now he was in the dog house, or in this case, jail. Silly bastard. I laugh at his silly misfortunes.
I had wondered what the next few days were going to bring. I knew that there were some men coming into town to deal with me, after I had filled some of the King Boys' men full of lead and sent them back to their owners with bleeding holes. And nobody was going to question my authority as the Marshall of this part of these United States. And it was going to become a necessary nuisance to potentially bring on help, should Steve ever be bothered to leave San Francisco or ICE be bothered to leave his log cabin in Wisconsin. Zombie had made it clear that he was coming for me and for my title as the fastest draw in the West.
Whatever. He had a long way to travel to get here. Hell, there were other threats to worry about, like "The Silver Kid" hanging around outside of town. Sure, he hadn't started any trouble in town, but he was dangerously close to stoking my ire...
And that was when the District Marshall, a fellow by the name of E. Price, came in with Pastor Joe, a fellow Marshall who once upon a time took the Lord's Word on the road, but now serves for Law and Order. As he came into my office, in followed The Silver Kid, to which I didn't make any fuss, but I kept at least one of my hands close to my guns. Marshall Price then says...
Price: Good day, Marshall. How have things been?
Double D: Odd. Like a calm before a storm. Speaking of storms, what's that shit you picked up on your heel there, Joe?
Price: I'm here to say that you've got a case. Ever hear of Zombie King?
Double D: Sure do! I riddled his ass with some bullets a few months back in that warzone of a town. Thought he became worm food. What's that got to do with Silver Kid in my office and jail?
Price: No, but he's been in prison up until a few days ago, when he broke out. He's heading this way, and he's been raising a ton of hell on his way here. I know Silver from my old days, and I thought he could back you up, considering this is the King Gang we're talking about.
Double D: Why can't you guys help? They may have back-up.
Joe: I would, My Son, but I'm afraid that I have an old friend to attend to from my days of wicked behavior. However, should I be afforded the opportunity to bless you with my presence, I will.
Double D: Thanks, Pastor. But what about you, Eric?
Price: I've got an errant preacher running about, spreading falsehoods, and worshipping false prophets, while robbing folks blind. I'm handling this one myself. My own past sins come to haunt me.
Double D: Oh I understand, but you're going to leave me him? I beat his ass sideways weeks ago!
Silver Kid: I'm standing right here...
Double D: I beat your ass weeks ago, and I need someone who's going to outlast an old hand like myself if we have a shot at beating the offspring of Victor Buddy King.
Silver Kid: I'll outlast you in this fight, I guarantee it.
Double D: I'll have to see it to believe it. I like your spirit, but if you get in my way, or you even think of drawing down on me, you'll never dance another step with any saloon Sally ever again. Do you catch my drift, Mr. Silver? And if you push the envelope, I'll make you useless to a women, as well.
Price: Speaking of women, since he's gotten out, he's done nothing but target doctors for medicinal cocaine and brothels for hookers. When they tell him to pay up, he shoots up the place. If the doctor's are around, he'll shoot the doctor if they interfere.
Double D: So basically all he wants are hookers and some funky Doctor medicine? What the hell kind of driving force is that?
Price: He drugs up the hookers, gets them addicted, and they help him on his robberies for cash or more drugs. Mostly women, but he does like the occasional male.
Double D: So he occasionally goes Nancy? How queer!
Joe: Hellfire for Zombie's soul!
Silver Kid: He likes it up the butt! Ha ha! Boudle butt! Boudle butt!
Double D: Shut up, kid! Now remember, the only kind of cocaine they had back in these days is the liquid kind that you injected, like the shit Sherlock Holmes did.
Silver Kid: Were Sherlock Holmes novels even written at this time?
Double D: Fuck if I know. All I know about are drugs. Speaking of which, do any of you have any laudanum? I really need something for the stump. Someday I'll catch that dragon, baby. And what a ride it will be...
Price: Thank God there weren't any drug laws in place back then, and it was commonplace for law enforcement to be outright and open drunks while on the job.
Double D: I know, right?! PERFECT FUCKING JOB FOR ME!
Silver Kid: So can we go chase down Zombie King?
Double D: Sure, after I let this asshole out of jail. As long as he adheres to what Mayor Lerch handed down to me...
I went over to the cell and started making enough racket to awaken the dead, as I yelled...
Double D: HEY HEY, MR. CASH!!! TIME TO WAKE UP!!! WAKEY, WAKEY, NO EGGS AND BACON FOR YOU!!! WAKE UP!!! RISE AND SHINE, ST. VALENTINE!!!
The man in the cell groaned, as he turned around, and said...
Mr. Cash: You tell the Mayor I'm staying until I get my title! YOU TELL HIM WHAT I SAID!
Double D: That's too fucking bad. Well, I'm going to be gone for a few days, and since you insist on staying here, I guess you might starve to death while I'm gone. Just hold down the fort while I'm gone, then...
Mr. Cash: No! You can't leave me in here like that!!!
Double D: Oh, don't worry. I'm not going to leave town without letting the mayor know. He'll probably just transfer you in town, where the kids can have their way with you in the racks. And there's a big retarded boy nicknamed "Destroyer" who might want to ride the pony in the stocks. Have fun with that!
The man in the cell started shouting, but I paid him no mind, as myself and this newly-formed posse stepped out into the streets, as Mayor Lerch came to us as we started to saddle up. He then says...
Mayor Lerch: I heard you intend to go chase the King Family Gang.
Double D: Yes, sir. And I do intend to do a little misbehaving.
Mayor Lerch: What about Cash? Is he still in your jail? What do you intend to do about him?
Double D: I got a great idea! Why don't you deal with him yourself? Give him a title shot you know he will never win. Or shoot him in his cell. He's your problem now!
I let out a Western yell that cowboys made before they took off on horses, and the rest of the guys followed. It wasn't too long that we had our first encounter, when Eric departed ways with the group to deal with the warped preacher, however, it wasn't too far down the road that we encountered another outlaw legend turned Fed, who is only known to the rest of the world as Mr. Fly. He didn't speak, but we all knew his story.
Once upon a time, him and Steve King once ran wild in the West here, taking what they wanted, when they wanted, and met little resistance while doing just that. Later on, however, Steve turned on Fly, left him for dead, and joined the King Family Gang, ascending to one of the top positions within the gang, while Fly was forced to turn to the government for help. I understood the resentment of having to work for the government after it has taken everything away from you. To go to it for help after doing without the government for years? Now that had to sting.
We accepted him wordlessly into the fold, and it stayed that way for days. Eventually Pastor Joe had encountered word that Digger had made his way in another direction from where the Vapor Kings came from, and he took off to pursue the lead, as we pressed on. We finally encountered Victor Buddy King, and his sons, engaged in a firefight with two shooters. Upon further review, we found that it was the Robin Hood-like outlaw known as Cairo, and his recent sidekick, The Kaz. I had encountered The Kaz during the shootout that I had won, and had endured a heavy rain of gunfire from him. He was good, but he was impatient, and he didn't know when to make his shots count.
Myself, Mr. Fly, and The Silver Kid had a fairly good opening shot against Victor King, and we all took aim at our selected targets. The King Gang was just having a good time, as they randomly fired a surplus of ordinance at Cairo and The Kaz. I pulled out my Sharps rifle from my time serving with the Leathernecks, and I laid aim at the chubby bastard directing his "children" to do his dastardly deeds.
I had wind, elevation, and distance. I cracked a grin as I pulled the trigger, as the bullet left the barrel of the rifle, travelling over 200 yards before lodging itself deep into the belly of that bag of hot wind. I could see him cough up blood from that distance, as the fight was suddenly knocked out from their sails. Mr. Fly and The Silver Kid joined, as the Kings were suddenly in a world of danger. Several of Victor King's children fell to our gunfire, though none of them were our primary targets. We had learned that they had scattered, while the fodder covered their retreat. Mr. Fly pursued Steven King's course, while Cairo pursued the trail of ICE, hell-bent on taking his title from him. The Kaz left to pursue other opportunities, knowing that he could not face ICE with Cairo. Gunfighter rules.
I continued my pursuit of Zombie, who was the only person I had a poster for, and I finally found a nearby town with a saloon. There was at least one whore around wherever there happened to be a bar, and I found her. When I asked her name, she said it was Marina. When I inquired about her customers for the evening, she stated that she had remained fresh for the evening, and hinted that she wouldn't mind allowing me to be the one who gets a shot at her peach first. I really did want to drive the plough, but while the field looked nice, I could sense the rot within the field. I kept my plough in the barn and told her to fuck off.
I then went to the town doctor, to enquire about the safety of his medical supplies, to include his surgical aids. The doctor allowed me to look for myself, to see that some of his cocaine had indeed been stolen recently. The Silver Kid and I looked at each other, before we doubled back to the saloon to the side inn where most of the rooms usually come with a whore. It wasn't long before we found the room with Zombie in it, as his distinctive voice says...
Zombie King: Oh yeah! Shove that needle further into my penis! HONEY BADGER HAS LIFTOFF!!! COCAINE IN THE PENIS, AND NOW I'M GOING TO BLOW HONEY BADGER COCAINE LOADS ALL OVER YOUR SUPER-AWESOME TITS!!!
Marina: OH GOD!!! YOUR HONEY BADGER COCAINE PENIS IS SO SMALL!!! I can't feel a thing!
Zombie King: NEITHER CAN I!!!
Now, I was laughing my ass off, but The Silver Kid must've not had a sense of humor about these sorts of things. He burst right in and he started shooting up the place. He had lit into everything in the room. I stayed in the hall, as Silver killed them in cold blood. I pulled my tobacco pouch out and rolled a cigarette, lighting it with a match, as Roy got done shooting. He comes out and says...
Silver Kid: It's done. Go on in and verify.
Double D: Did you shoot the whore, too?
Silver Kid: She's of little consequence, now.
Double D: You didn't have to shoot the whore. We could've waited until he was done, and then shot him. What the hell, kid!
Silver Kid: And now you got a problem with the way I operate? Fuck you, old timer! I ought to take your damn title!
Double D: Take your best...
He moved for his guns, but I was faster. I had both of my guns out, and I riddled his body with four bullets, a bullet for each of his limbs. I kept my guns on him, as he screamed in agony. Silver laid on the ground yelling obscenities at me, as I say...
Double D: At least I didn't make you useless to a woman. You'll live...
I made my way for the door, as Roy continued to scream, unable to do much of anything else. I walked out of the room, which was now covered in blood, and went to my horse. My job was done here, and everyone knew who did it. Well, Roy actually killed Zombie, but in such a reckless way that he should go to prison. That is, if there is any justice in this world. As I left town, I had only one thing on my mind...
What to do next?
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Family Tradition... (Public Blog)
I was back in The Barn, where you could hear, if you were the Thurston's next door, generation after generation of wrestlers come from inside of that barn at first a sniveling little cry-baby getting twisted up, to walking out of that barn ready to do some twisting of your own. That was part of the reason why it saddened me that I was able to work my cousin over so quickly. Where the hell did his wrestling skills go? Our ancestors are spinning in their graves if he considers "arm wrestling" a combat sport.
As far back as Grandpa could recall, all of us were either fighters in the ring, soldiers on the field of honor, or both. Grandpa was born in 1916 in Ireland, though he came to the United States as a child less than a year old. He was orphaned at the age of six, when his mother died of dysentery, and his father had disappeared years before. Later in his life, when he investigated his family's arrival at Ellis Island, the occupation his father put down as job in Ireland was "Prizefighter".
Grandpa lived in the orphanage until he was 10, when he was old enough to get a job delivering milk from farms. As he grew larger, he found himself to be blessed with a tremendous jaw and a thunderous left hand, and made lots of money on the side as a pit fighter, before getting called to service for World War II. He was at the initial invasion of Normandy for the first part of the war, until he found himself reassigned to the Japanese front, where he was captured and held as a prisoner of war, until he found a way to escape. Upon his return to friendly territory, he was shipped back to the United States, where he saw the war end three months after his escape. He had been held captive for a year and a half.
He stayed in the Army after the war, and continued to participate in smokers, and becoming a well known boxer in the military boxing circles. He then fought later on in Korea, which later played a significant role in his death, as his legs were frozen in an avalanche during a daring operation to destroy communication lines leading into China for the North Koreans. He was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for digging his way out, and saving four others caught in the avalanche, to include an enemy officer. However, the frostbite damage to his legs along with the development of Type II Diabetes ended his military career by 1955. During his military career, he was married on four different occasions, to include a woman prior to his draft selection. With these four women, he had produced 10 children, all born between the years of 1937 and 1963. He returned to the ring after he left the military service, and continued to compete until a stroke rendered him unable to work in 1983. He passed away four years later due to complications from pneumonia. Of his 10 children, four of them were boys, and all of them had a career in either the military, law enforcement, and in the case of his Japanese son, the martial arts, and later, professional wrestling. My father was the only one who actually wrestled with Grandpa.
And on my mom's side, well, that went a little further. My Great-Grandfather was born in the United States, but his mother and father were born in Sweden and Norway, respectively, and had produced 12 children to work the family farm. However, when Great-Great Grandfather Sven Jorgenson was called to fight in World War I, he went with his chin up, and came back with a handful of medals and the blood-stained weapons of his enemies. However, his heroics came at a price, for himself and his family.
After the war, my Great-Great-Grandfather came home an alcoholic and with a severe case of PTSD, and went from a mild-mannered farmer to a psychotic wreck. This prompted my Great-Grandfather to leave when he was old enough, and he stayed gone for several years, before returning a millionaire and purchasing his own farm. How he became a millionaire is still under speculation by the family, as he never revealed how he came into so much money. He raised three children, to include my Grandfather, who would later serve in Korea himself, though he didn't suffer nearly as much as his father before him. My Grandfather would later get involved in computer engineering, and had made himself a millionaire as well. He would later become the father of twin girls, one of which is my mother. Before I was born, my mother had served in the Army, but was discharged upon her pregnancy. So yes, even my Mom probably has more combat experience than most of the fuckers in the WCF.
If there was a standard to be had in the family, then I have exceeded it several times over. The Next Generation will have their work cut out for them to surpass my accomplishments on the field of battle. In all, I've held over 25 different titles, to include four World Titles. I've won more medals than some of my relatives have won combined, and some of those medals are very difficult to win. I never won the Medal of Honor, but I've been nominated, which is way more than what the average Joe accomplishes in his military career.
However, now was NOT the time to rest on my laurels, accomplishments, and best moments. I rolled myself up out of bed, and attached my foot on the ground next to my other boot, before I start moving to the wrestling bag in the middle of the ring. It was covered in dust, as in it hadn't been touched in months, or perhaps years. I pick up the bag and I slap it, watching the dust rise in the air from the violent force of the blow. I picked up the bag, and it was a struggle. It seemed to weigh more now than it did before, and that was difficult to imagine, but I wrapped my arms around it and flung it into the air, landing a belly to belly suplex. I pick it up again, and this time I lift it over my shoulders for a power slam in the middle of the ring. I repeat this over and over again, with different throws, slams, and suplexes each time I get the bag upright. Simon, Johnny, and Jonas came in I assume about 20 minutes into the workout. And yes, its a workout. You try tossing around a 200-plus pound bag for several minutes and see if its hard work or not.
They came up to the ring and watched, as I continued to work the bag. After several minutes, I end my assault on the bag, as the three of them look on. I then say...
Gonzo: Okay, who feels froggy?
Johnny slams his hands on the canvas, as he rolls himself into the ring. Johnny was shorter than me by about an inch, but he easily outweighed me by 50 pounds. I then looked out at Jonas and Simon, as I say...
Gonzo: That was a trick question. ALL OF YOU FEEL FROGGY! GET YOUR ASSES IN THE RING!
The sudden raise of volume, combined with the forcefulness of how he said it prompted the other two to get into the ring in a hurry, as I say...
Gonzo: We're going to need a few ladders. We still got those ladders, yes?
Simon: Yeah, they're downstairs.
Gonzo: Go get them. My next match is a title defense in a Ladder Match.
Simon: A ladder match? Are you insane?
Gonzo: What are you talking about? I rock at ladder matches! About the only time I can justify flying through the air.
Simon: You're not 21 anymore...
Gonzo: Neither are you. You're 22 now...
Simon: Seriously, I saw your last ladder match. How you made it out of there in one piece is beyond me.
Gonzo: Yeah, but I still won, Just like I'm going to win this match. Now go get the damn ladders and quit telling me what is good and bad for me.
Simon: I'm just saying you're getting too old for these kinds of matches.
Gonzo: Yeah? Well, I'm still young enough to kick your ass. And we're going to learn that all day long. Just like you fuckers will learn how to use a ladder in a match today! So lets get some fucking ladders, let's do some fucking training, and let's learn some shit today about how to fuck some shit up with ladders!
Johnny: Fuck yeah! I'm down! I'm going to go grab a ladder.
Jonas: Me, too.
Simon: Alright. But if we do this, can you get us contracts?
Gonzo: One step at a time. You don't like the farm anymore? Arm-wrestling not cutting it for you?
Simon: No, its not. Arm wrestling is fun, and its paying the bills, but I'm a Murdock, and I belong in a wrestling ring.
Gonzo: What about your mom? I'm sure she doesn't come from the Warrior caste.
Simon: No, my mom has never worn a cast, let alone been a warrior... Why are you talking about casts?
Gonzo: Never mind... Did I take all the intelligence from this family?
Simon: I don't know. I got a big penis, so that keeps me happy.
I just shake my head at that last statement, as I just say...
Gonzo: Let's just go get ladders.
Simon: Right... So are you sticking around for Christmas?
I pretend I didn't hear him as we both get out of the ring to go get some ladders, as the scene ends with Johnny and Jonas making it back with ladders of their own...
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TELEVISION TIME!!! (ONE)
I managed to wince through Christmas with the family, or about half of the day, before I had to listen to my uncle and grandfather badmouth modern professional wrestling and me for perpetuating it. Never mind that I still wrestle conservatively in comparison to most of my colleagues, and that I do it at a level that neither of them had made it to, and I'm doing it with an artificial body part. My father could've done it, but he didn't want to be labeled a "freak". I say fuck it. Be what you're supposed to be. If "freak" is what you are, then be what you are. Everyone else is just a jealous fuck and they can all go eat a dick.
Once it rolled past noon, and the livestock was fed, I was back on the road, but this time with no detours. Onward to Beaver Stadium in University Park, Pennsylvania. Hopefully this stadium has a fucking top on it, because the ride down was full of shitty weather and worse drivers. There was a few times that I had to break off the rap...
Once I managed to pull my 1979 Ford Mustang into the parking lot, I realized that I need to keep a better suited winter vehicle in New York, rather than my project car from when I was 16 years old. I may have had an easier ride with my motorcycle than this shit. So I pulled the car up next to the bus, and out comes my lawyer to greet me. He gestures for me to get the fuck into the bus quickly, because the wind is starting to pick up. I get my ass inside double-fast and see that the bus has no other occupants, save for my driver Michael, who is passed out on the rack above the cockpit. I turned to Z and say...
Gonzo: Where the fuck is everyone else?
Lazlo: Television. And you're late.
Gonzo: Fucking car. Not meant to be driven out in this shit. I had to change out the tires. Hence why it smells like a rubber plant in the back of my car. I'm not leaving Radials behind! That car was built to race!
Lazlo: Whatever. So where did you spend Christmas?
Gonzo: New York, believe it or not. My father's family, what's left of it, spent it together. It was great, until my uncle and grandfather started giving me shit for the direction professional wrestling has gone.
Lazlo: Yeah, well, my father's not doing too well. Shit is really bad at home. I'm surprised she didn't ask me for a divorce, but at least the girls and I did were able to fix things.
Gonzo: Do you love your wife?
Lazlo: I don't know... We were arranged, after all. I love her because she's the mother of my children, but do I love the whole package? Flaws and all?
Gonzo: You need to answer that before you do anything else. Either way, if you need the time off, just say so, and I'll get Michael to drive you to the airport. Hell, I'm surprised you lasted this long on the road.
Lazlo: So am I. I thought I would never undertake something like this again, but this was almost like deployment, only nobody is shooting at us, and vice versa. I think I might take some time off, and get my ass back in shape. Would you take me as a tag partner?
Gonzo: That could be a stretch. By all means, drop the weight, but as far as getting into the ring at 32? For the first time? You have big mountains to climb with little time to do it.
Lazlo: That, and I'd still have to handle not only your affairs, but mine as well. Speaking of which, I haven't really spoken to Eric about anything for One. He's got a match, but is he going to be able to accompany you to the ring?
Gonzo: Hell if I know. All I know about Jeff Purse is he likes to play with puppets and is a religious fanatic. Eric's grown a little office soft, but I'm sure he can manage against Jeff Purse. Former World Champion or not.
Lazlo: And what about Roy Speede? He seems to be getting closer and closer with Eric and Joe. You know him and Joe attacked Jayson Price, and kept kicking him in the balls, but they kept calling it pussy, and...
Gonzo: Dude, you're not making any sense. Roy signed with Armageddon Inc. last week. Where were you? I signed as a witness and everything. And then I watched Axe Cop. Axe Cop looks kind of like you...
Lazlo: Yeah, and that's why I don't grow a mustache.
Gonzo: You mean you don't want to grow a mustache like this with me? I know I look a little like Officer Rod Farva, but you and your Ramathorn mustache, we could totally roll out on "Bus Ramrod", and the bitches would dig it.
Lazlo: Maybe, but I don't want to look like a terrorist. All the terrorists have facial hair. You ever notice that? From Saddam's mustache to bin Laden's beard. No, thank you.
Gonzo: Dude, that's so not true! We totally took down those Chechen Muslims without the facial hair in Serbia that one time!
Lazlo: Yeah, I think you burned off all of their hair with a flame thrower.
Gonzo: No, that was AFTER they were identified and their tattoos were removed for proof of kill. THEN I torched them.
Lazlo: I never saw them when they were not on fire. Anyways, just be careful around Roy. I don't trust him. Between the annoying shit he says, and his father being who he is, I wouldn't trust him. I'd strike first.
Gonzo: Good thing that's my call to make. Anything on the Zombie front?
Lazlo: I was going to catch it, but I got sidetracked. I don't know what he has said or done. Hell, I don't know what you've done since you left the hospital! WHAT THE FUCK!!!
Gonzo: I needed time away from you guys. But it seemed like they stayed around. I had some really fucking weird dreams, man...
Lazlo: You need to lay off the drugs.
Gonzo: Other than weed, I've been clean since I got out of the hospital. No acid, or coke, or even painkillers, except for when I was training. Showed my cousin and his friends how to use a ladder in a match. Right down to the sickest bumps off of the ladder.
Lazlo: I hope you didn't take too many bumps.
Gonzo: How else am I going to train? Sure, they were amateurs in comparison to Roy and Zombie, but its better than no training at all. And no matter what you do, you really cannot cheat gravity.
Lazlo: Okay, so you're clean, but having weird dreams. So what's new? Hey, we've got to hustle for televison, man...
Gonzo: You know what? Fuck television today. Just get your damn phone out, and I'll do something right here and now for them. Better yet, find that sniveling worm Hank Brown. Have him do an interview right here and now.
Lazlo: I may be able to get something set up right now. He called me earlier, but as per your instructions, I ignored the call.
Gonzo: Call him back. Tell him if he brings me any of his buddy-buddy shit with the Vapor Kings, I'm going to kick his ass out just as easily as I brought him on the bus.
Lazlo: Man, you know what a little bitch Hank is! All you got to do is give him some attention and... Hello? Hank? How much of that did you hear? Little bitch, eh? Well, Gonzo wants you to bring your bitch-ass on the bus... What the fuck else for? He's organized an orgy in your honor, or didn't you hear? Yes, a goddamn interview! You fucking numbskull!!! Fine, I'm sure he has something here to make it worth your while. How do you feel about slightly expired heroin?
Gonzo: What the fuck?
Lazlo: Okay, sounds good. Yeah, we're out at the bus. Bring a camera crew... Okay. See you in a few minutes...
Lazlo hangs up the phone with a smile on his face, as I just say...
Gonzo: Did you just offer him heroin to give me an interview?
Lazlo: Yeah, and he took it! Who knew he was an old junkie? I knew there was something wrong with him.
Gonzo: No shit. Well, I guess I'll have me a beer while I wait. What do we got?
Lazlo: No beer, but we do have some rum and some Coke.
Gonzo: Set us up...
We waited for about a half-hour, and we had gone through several rum and Cokes by that time. When Hank finally walked in, and they set up, I was well on my way to getting fucked up, and I had no intention of stopping, regardless if this was being filmed for the world to see. Fuck it, let them see me drunk!
Hank starts saying words, but with his voice, I just kind of tuned it out and kept drinking. I finished off the drink and asked Z to make another, when Hank looks at me impatiently, as I say...
Gonzo: Dude, did we just start?
Hank: Yes. I asked how you were doing after the surgery?
Gonzo: I'm doing great! Got a good drink in my hand, my best friend over there. Surgery went off without a hitch, and I recovered just fine. I have one more visit with the doctor, who should be in tomorrow, to give me the official clearance to wrestle Roy Speede and Zombie McMorris for the United States Title in a Ladder Match right here on Sunday night. At One.
Hank: Well, that takes care of a few questions. First, I'll ask questions about how you feel so far in your title reign...
Gonzo: What title reign? I have the belt, but I haven't defended it, yet. But knowing that I went through 15 other guys to get the title? In one of the more anticipated events of the year? Hell, that was pretty damn sweet. Especially since I initiated the whole damn thing when I tore Jay Omega's leg off. Talk about a happy accident, there.
Hank: Now in that tournament, you faced Roy Speede in the finals for the Classic and the US Title win. And he was at the top of his game. Yet you managed to bring him down and you walked away with the win. Now we're in a ladder match, where pin falls and submissions do not win you the belt. This would seem like a situation designed for Roy to be favored. Are you concerned about your odds against Roy Speede?
Gonzo: No, and I'll tell you why. My first big title ever won was thanks to a ladder. Ladders have yet to let me down in the 15 years I've been climbing them. It's funny, because my uncle and my grandfather, both former professional boxers and wrestlers, were giving me so much shit for being what is wrong with professional wrestling in a "gimmick match" like a Ladder match. Well, I do pretty fucking awesome in this "gimmick match", and I tend to stick to what I know. And I know my ladders pretty fucking well.
Hank: Was that before or after you lost your foot?
Gonzo: I'll have you know I won a ladder match before I came to the WCF. For a title, a few months before I came here. Not bad for a rehab assignment. And this match will be no different. I will piss excellence in this match, just as I have with every other ladder match in my career prior to this one.
Hank: So how do you feel about Roy Speede?
Gonzo: He's the fucking guy in my way, again. He's stated publically that he intends to make sure that Zombie never touches the strap, or any Vapor King, for that matter. But I know he wants the title for himself, and he'll step on me to get it. Well, I intend that neither one of these asshats get their dick-beating hands on my United States title! CAUSE I AM THE CHAMPION, MY FRIEND...
AND I'LL KEEP ON FIGHTING, TO THE END...
CAUSE I AM THE CHAMPION, I AM THE CHAMPION!!!
NO TIME FOR THESE LOSERS, CAUSE I AM THE CHAMPION... OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA!!! WOOOOOOOO!
Hank: Wow, that was random... So...
Gonzo: Bottom line is Roy Speede couldn't get the job done, and I think in less than two months time, he has not managed to gather the tools to get it done this time, either. I've said it now, and I'll say it again, his time will come when he's well past this little feud, title chase, or whatever you want to call it. But the young man, and I say that with truthful respect, does not have what it takes to get past me. He put up a hell of a fight last time, and I'm sure I'll get another one again, but in this match, I walk away with that title held over my head. And that goes for Zombie, too.
Hank: Speaking of Zombie, he's said...
Gonzo: I could give two shits in a windstorm what that cum-dumpster of a mouth has to say about me. It's "Honey Badger, this" and "Honey Badger, that"! NOBODY GIVES A SHIT WHAT THE HONEY BADGER THINKS! OR YOUR CRACKER-ASS JEWISH HONKY STEPMONKEY OF A FATHER! BOTTOM LINE, I FUCKED YOU UP BEFORE, AND I'M LOOKING FORWARD TO GIVING YOU YOUR VERY OWN LOVE LETTER, STRAIGHT FROM MY FUCKING HEART, AND ALL OVER YOUR FUCKING FACE!!! YOU HEAR ME, YOU COCK-JOCKEY ASSHATS?! THE WORLD IS GOING TO WATCH YOU ALL DIE AS WE ALL GO SCORCHED EARTH ON YOUR MOTHERFUCKING ASSES!!! HOW DOES IT FEEL TO KNOW YOU'RE ABOUT TO DIE?! AND THERE'S NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT?
I mean, hell, you come into this match, saying you weren't allowed in the WCF Classic, or any other Vapor King, for that matter. And then I win it, and you take your frustrations out on me. What? You don't have the testicular fortitude to take that issue up with who it really needs to be taken up with? Seth? Okay, that's too easy. But me? You want to bark up my tree? Well, you're fucking with the wrong tree, because my tree contains nothing but ugly, and it has since 1983. I may not be the most graceful guy here, or the strongest, but by fucking God, I'm the toughest and the meanest son of a bitch in this match, and probably in all of the WCF! You guys want to beat me down in the middle of the ring? Okay, I got your asses. God knows you saved his ass when you interfered in the match, and everyone knows you fucktards were lucky in that clusterfuck of a match. But that match, or any match before that, had no implications on it like this match does. This match shortens, and in some cases, ends careers. So who's career ends here?
Hank: Hell, you're lucky to be wrestling in regular matches, let alone a ladder match. Why did you agree to this match?
Gonzo: I didn't agree to this match, I requested it. Here, look at the television. This'll be the reason why I requested the ladder match...
I clicked the remote, and there I was on the screen. I was much younger, and much smaller. I was 17 at the time, and wrestling against a much larger man for the right to retain the World Title in a place I graced with my presence called Brutal Wrestling Federation back in 2000. The big spot in the match came when I gave Frankenstein a hurricanranna off the top of the ladder while grabbing the World Title from the steel ring at the same time. Hank winced at the end result of that one, as Frankenstein hit the ropes, then went over to the outside of the ring. This was the match that got me blackballed for a few years.
The next match was a match for the Tag Team Titles back in 2007. It was myself and Cameron King, The Avant Garde, against Chris Carlson and Tucker Matthews, The Young Republicans. The spot showed was where I grabbed the steel ring holding the steel ring with the Tag Team belts on the ring, while I swung around, and clocked my opponents with several Chuck Norris Specials while hanging in midair. I managed to hang on to the ring for three minutes, while my partner got the ladder set up for us to both grab the titles at the same time.
The final match actually happened this May, in a seasonal federation called Pro Wrestling Elite, and the title on the line was the Anarchy Title. One spot showed was when I put one of my three opponents in a Phantom Itch, with the ladder. This maneuver managed to break the leg of Fate, a long-standing rival with who I had very terrible luck against, until this night. Among other highlights was when I used my Norris-Van Damme Connection to connect with everyone else in the match at the same time. That was a pretty wild moment. The winning moment came, however, when my ladder was knocked from under me, I had a hold of the title, and Sanders grabbed my foot. Well, he grabbed the wrong foot, and it came off, while I dangled in the air with the title in my grasp. The snaps eventually gave, and I crashed back down on Sanders, who still had my foot in his hand. I grabbed my foot from him, slammed him over the head with it, and put my foot back on before getting to my feet to celebrate.
I press the clicker, and the television turns off, as I say...
Gonzo: And that's just a drop in the bucket compared to what else I can do in a Ladder Match. Those were just shots for my opponents to get familiar with.
Hank: Whatever happened to your tag partner? He reminds me of the Dynamite Kid.
Gonzo: Unfortunately, he's dead. Opiate addiction is a motherfucker. But as you can see in that last match, this hasn't been my first rodeo with artificial parts. And that match had four participants, and all of us former World Champions in the PWE and other locations. As I said, I'm not worried about the match itself.
Hank: Well, let's recap. You're fine from surgery, and you should be cleared for this match. You've made your feelings known about both Roy Speede and Zombie McMorris. You've even discussed your confidence in your ability to function in a match like this, and have even showed us proof that you can function in a match like this despite your handicap. Do you have anything else to say about the match?
Gonzo: Yeah I do. Roy, Z-Mac, I would like to congratulate both of you for becoming my very first challengers for the United States Title. I worked pretty fucking hard to get it. Taking it off the last champ was the easy part, but putting it on me was another story, but here it sits, either on my shoulder or around my waist. And on top of that, you are both walking into MY world in a vain attempt to take what I worked hard to take for myself. Damn fools, the both of you.
Roy, I keep hearing you talk about how it is imperative that the title does not reach Vapor King hands. Trust me, I understand better than most. And I have no intention of letting go of the title that allows me to represent what America has always stood for, which is fighting not only for our best interests, but also fighting the evil that resides all around us. And while your heart might be in the right place, I don't think you grasp the concept of what is going on here. I do, because I used to BE that evil. Yes, once upon a time, I took delight in watching others suffer while a select few held the reigns of an entire company. Trust me when I tell you I understand what is at stake. Feel fortunate that I understand what it takes to destroy the evil that will be sharing the ring with us, because I don't think you quite do.
And you, Zombie... Again, I have to ask what gives you the right to come barking up my tree? What have you REALLY done in the last few months to warrant another US Title shot? Let's see... Oh, I kicked your ass at War... And there's the fact that you just LOST the Television title not too long ago... Oh, I see, you're half of the Tag Team Champs? Yeah, that don't concern me or the US Title. So there's your fucking answer as to why you, a Vapor King, did NOT deserve a spot in the tournament. And even if you were put in, say, in the first round, when I took Ryan Blake by the legs and forced him to quit, well, the only difference in that match would've been you in the place of Ryan Blake. Yes, that is how confident I am that I, the United States Champion, am in stating that I'm a WAY FUCKING BETTER WRESTLER THAN YOU WILL EVER BE! OH, YOU KICKED STEVE ORBIT'S ASS? WHAT DOES THAT TELL ME ABOUT HIM? AND NATURAL "ICE" BECKMAN? MORE LIKE NATURAL "LIGHT" BECKMAN!
The only reason why the Vapor Kings are successful is because they are snakes, and they fight like snakes. Well, I've got plenty of experience with snakes. Most people think that you send a honey badger or a mongoose after a snake. Nonsense! You want to kill a snake? You send in a snake, and I'm a motherfucking King Snake about to lay some fucking atomic bombs on your cracker-asses. That's right, I called Orbit, and the rest of you whitey devils, cracker-ass motherfuckers! Do something about it! I'll tell you what to do. Pack up your tents, and get the fuck out of the WCF, and I won't hurt you any further. I'll leave you alone. But after this match, if you so much as breathe in my direction, I'll take no pleasure in it, but I will bend you over and fuck you all in front of the whole world, just like you've been doing to everyone else since your formation. I'll send you all back to wherever it is you came from with your balls in a sling, you got it?
So both of you, welcome to my first title defense, and the beginning of a reign that will be remembered for a very long time. And it will be a reign that will be marked with blood. YOUR blood, and mine. Because I'll do almost anything to keep what I've fought for. I've done it all of my life, and at One, it will be no different. So come on, I'm ready for you, and I've been looking forward to this. As for the rest of you, who will survive, and what will be left of you? We'll find out, as my reign commences in short order.
I'll see you both in the ring. I'll be the one reigning supreme at the end of the match. Count on it.