V: Lexington and Concord, Mexico and Babylon
May 5, 2015 15:18:53 GMT -5
Jonny Fly, Kaz, and 5 more like this
Post by Howard Black on May 5, 2015 15:18:53 GMT -5
St. Mark’s On the Campus Episcopal Perish
Lincoln, Nebraska
May 5th, 2015
Going home was a distraction, but it was a distraction Howard Black knew he had to take. As he sat on the plain wooden pew of the modest chapel, head down and hands clasped in thought, his mind could only turn over the luminous surprise and delight which had spread over the face of Sarah and Joey as he had walked through the door unannounced. Mexico was not his cup of tea enough to let himself stay away from his family after missing out on seeing them last week, and he was not terribly jet lagged when he had arrived at Epply Airport in Omaha. A friend, sworn to secrecy, had picked him up, and the enthusiasm to his return was eclipsed only by the enthusiasm which greeted the present he’d brought home for Joey: a WCF posted signed by a few of the other stars backstage. Yet this warm welcome was never intended to last long, at least not at that time. Howard now found himself sitting in the chapel of the church he knew as home.
It was a simple enough building, filled with two columns of pews stretching several rows back, plain and beaten with the wear of countless Sunday services. The church was lit with natural light filtering in through the simply detailed stained glass windows, and even the altar consisted of a simply wooden table dressed in a cloth, some esoteric receptacles, and a copy of the gospel. The only real furnishing suggesting any sense of expense or grandiosity was the great organ which sat in the choir loft above the back of the church, a monolithic brass instrument of innumerable pipes of all lengths and diameters. This, of course, was what a poor church prioritized when its location across the street from the University of Nebraska ordained it the unique pleasure of a music professor and local composer filling the position of choir director.
A door beside the altar opened, and into the room strode a man perhaps in his early 50’s or late 40’s. A pair of thick rimmed spectacles sat on the bridge of his piggish nose, framing two small but gentle brown eyes, and while time had taken the hair from his crown, he carried a thick, bristly goatee that circled a small mouth. The man’s black attire and white collar immediately identified him as the parish Deacon, and when he saw Howard, he walked down the center aisle of the church and sat next to him on the pew. His voice was kind, friendly, and alive like the voice of a friend and a father more than a figure of authority, and there was little doubt that he was pleased and excited to see Howard as any other.
Father Gerard: Well, well, Mister Black! I see the prodigal son has returned to us?
Howard looked up from his hands, smiling in return at the sight of the Deacon whom had mentored him into the Church.
Howard Black: Do I get a feast and a robe?
The joke was not funny, but Father Gerard gave a full, appreciative laugh regardless, the sort of warmth and genuineness of a man who’d laugh at any joke (provided he found it tasteful) for the sheer appreciation of its attempt. He slapped a hand on Howard’s shoulder.
Father Gerard: And how’s the career going? You’ll have to forgive me, but my wife doesn’t allow wrestling in our house.
Howard shrugged and smiled.
Howard Black: I’m alive and haven’t broken anything, so there’s that.
Another laugh; a man who loved to laugh. The cheer of Father Gerard had always been a comforting presence to Howard during some of his more troubling and trying days. When he’d first met Father Gerard, he was a freshman at the university; an agnostic raised Catholic who’d wandered from the Church perhaps five or more years before. It was those cold, lonely nights in his dorm room when the questions of faith had slowly trickled back into him, like the rain from a storm through the cracks in the roof. The separation from Sarah, the trials of carving out his place on the Huskers, and the difficulty in balancing school, athletics, and a part-time job working the tobacco counter at Jake’s Cigars downtown: these hardships and forces of alienation were what found him reflexively praying as he had a boy. He’d sought St. Mark’s despite the skepticism of his roommate, a bookish psychics major with no time, need, or understanding of religion. When he had met Father Gerard, they talked of everything: of abortion and gay marriage; of religion as a tool of political manipulation in less savory denominations; forgiveness and temptation; the beautiful poetry of Psalms which had captivated Howard even as an atheist; existentialism and scholasticism; C.S. Lewis and Friedrich Nietzsche. By the end of their time, Father Gerard had lent him a small statue of the prodigal son returning home, and Howard had not missed and Sunday or Holy Day since until he’d taken the job with the WCF.
It was only natural that this would be the second place he’d visit in Lincoln after his home, wife, and son. The creak of the old church as the wind whipped past and the musty smells of old wood and stale incense were comforting to him; this truly was his second home. After that pause of quiet reflection, Howard looked up towards Father Gerard.
Howard Black: Father, I have some questions for you.
Father Gerard just smiled, reclining back on the pew and folding his hands in his lap.
Father Gerard: Of course you do, Howard. You always do.
Howard Black: Well, I’ve been reading Revelations lately.
Father Gerard let out a deep breath, still maintaining the pleasant thin-lipped smile.
Father Gerard: Heavy stuff. Was Job not exhilarating enough for you?
This time it was Howard’s turn to laugh, the meaning of the joke meaning far more to him. Job was the name he’d taken at his confirmation; a name, he felt, of strength and dedication in the face of the greatest adversity, and a man who offered not despair or prostration in the times of trial but resolve and inquiry.
Howard Black: No. Just been thinking about it, I guess.
Father Gerard: Well… What about it?
Howard Black: So I’ve always heard that the Antichrist, the beast from the land, was supposed to be beautiful. But it doesn’t say that in the book. In fact, there’s really a lot it doesn’t say in the book that I heard. The mark of the beast on the neck, that the Antichrist is Satan, and whatnot. So, I guess, what’s real?
Father Gerard: Well… it’s sort of complicated. As you know, we’re less literal in the Anglican community, but we also follow the scripture as it is written in the book. I guess the easiest way to start is explain that the beast from the land, or “antichrist” as some call him, and the beast from the seaare largely thought of as metaphors for Rome and Nero. Now Revelations is mostly a book of numerology: seven horns, seven crowns, six-six-six and whatnot. This is all more advanced theological stuff, but six hundred and sixty-six is a direct reference to Nero: certain Hebrew letters had numerical values which, when the Hebrew spelling of “Nero” was added, would get you that number.
Now your questions about the attributes of the beast from the land are more implied than outright stated. It says in Revelations that the beast is a persuasive speaker, but more importantly that he is the ‘false prophet’. As you know, we believe Jesus is yet to return, so the false prophet is a temptation to stray from God’s love by impersonating Jesus. This means he has to come across as the real thing; we wouldn’t just trust some creepy, ugly, hunched over demon rubbing his hands together like a super villain. So this is where the idea that the false prophet is beautiful comes from because Christ is beautiful. Unless he isn’t.
The two exchanged another loud, warm laugh. Howard beamed, his eyes set firmly on the Deacon as the circuits in his brain fired and processed the information given to him.
Father Gerard: Now as for the beast of the land being Satan, this comes from the implication that the Beast of the Sea is Satan since he has the sword wound suggesting Michael struck him down in the war of the heavens. Now, as we Anglicans believe in the Trinity, this would imply that the two are a corruption of the roles of the Father and the Son. The thing is that roles can only be symbolic as they lack the unifying core of the Trinity: God. The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit are all God, but they are not one another; they are separate manifestations of a common core. Satan can never be God, thus there can no real connection on a spiritual basis: if Satan is the Beast of the Sea than he cannot also be the false prophet. This furthers the implication of imperfection in the false prophet: unlike Christ, he had to be conceived of sin.
There was a long pause between them as Howard turned over the implications of everything he’d heard. Yes, it all made sense to him now: imperfection. The impossibility to reach perfection without God and thus the ultimate hollowness and subjectivity of the term in any real sense. Energy flowed through his veins like a bolt of lightning, perhaps the hallmark of inspiration divine or not.
Howard Black: Father… is it blasphemous to appropriate the imagery and nomenclature of the enemy to fight the enemy?
Father Gerard cocked his head at this, peering curiously at Howard behind those thick spectacles which had slid down the bridge of his nose.
Father Gerard: What do you mean?
Howard’s voice rose, quickening in pace and intensity. His eyes were wide and wild with flames and sparks of the ideas he had been gestating.
Howard Black: Suppose the enemy has taken the mantle of good and perverted it? Twisted it and made a mockery of it until it’s been rendered hollowed and meaningless by blasphemy? What if the forces of good took the names and titles of evil in battle? The horsemen? The beast? The false prophet? Would this be an abomination before God?
Father Gerard raised a hand to his chin, rubbing the thick growth of hair around his mouth in contemplation. His words were slow: measured and deliberate.
Father Gerard: I think… God cares about bigger things than nomenclature as long as the cause is ultimately just.
With that, Howard sprung to his feet like lightning out of a bottle. He reached down clasping Father Gerard’s hand and shaking it vigorously as he immediately made his way to the exit with quite the spring in his step.
Howard Black: Thank you, Father! Babylon’s gonna fall, I promise you!
As the young man left, Father Gerard only gazed upon the departure with a look of curiosity and confusion. He sighed and shook his head; it was not usually a good thing when that boy had big ideas.
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American Airlines Flight 1203
Somewhere over Mexico
May 7th, 2015 6:30pm
Howard never cared for flying: it was an inordinate amount of time spent cooped up in an arduously claustrophobic box where you were forced to busy yourself somehow to take your mind off the nagging existential fear that the slightest little mechanical error would send the whole sumbitch plummeting to the ground and killing everyone instantly (if God was merciful). This particularly cynical view forced Howard into an odd mental state where he had to act divisively to nullify the odd cocktail of abject boredom and uninhibited existential dread. As a younger, single man he may’ve made a pass at a stewardess, dreams of joining the Mile High Club abound in his head, get rejected, and awkwardly ordered his overpriced Jack and Coke to assuage the pangs of despised love. As a married man and father of one, he cut straight to the overpriced drinks part at the airport bar.
His mind moved slower when he drank, but it did not prevent Howard from ruminating on the match he’d be facing the upcoming Sunday at Slam. Last week, Joey Flash had nearly cost them their place in the Trios Cup Tournament, and this week he’d have a shot at getting some payback for the slight.
Trios Cup Tournament. Didn’t they just have the Trilogy Cup Tournament? Jesus Christ, Seth.
Last week had been a boon: as he and the Sentinels had predicted, the trio of Slime, Torgo, and Dong-Wang Kim had been a warm-up. Practice. This week, they faced off against perhaps one of the most dangerous groups in the tournament: Natural ICE Beckman, Joey Flash, and “the Other Honey Badger” Zombie MacMorris. Out of the icebox and into the fire. The implications of the match, whether intended or not, was not lost on Howard, even in his inebriated state. It was almost too perfect: the parallels were disturbingly vivid. Leading the opponent stood Natural ICE Beckman, the World Champion; on Howard’s side stood his number one contender, Dune. While they had Joey Flash, Howard stood with Occulo, a man with a deep and bitter history involving Joey that manifested itself in Flash’s interference last week. That left the final two: the Honey Badgers. The original and the fake. The veteran and the rookie. It was as if ordained by God himself.
No one expects us to win. Maybe. Least, I bet they don’t. Gotta check the bookies. Is gambling legal in Mexico? Beckman will be the real threat of this group; he’s the goddamn champ for a reason, and he put on a clinic with Bobby Cairo. Wonder who PANTHEON plans on sending after him: Jayson Price, Corey Black? Guess that doesn’t really matter: we got the real number one contender on our side. Fact is Dune knows the gravity of this match more than anyone; we can’t not just lose, we can’t get stomped. This is a glimpse for what’s to come.
Don’t get me wrong; it ain’t gonna be a squash any way you cut it. But it’s also not going to end the way people are expecting. See, this is another classic David and Goliath story: Imperium forms and lays out PANTHEON, so now we’re expected to be wracking ourselves with the sort of trepidation that comes from a vicious assault leveling the self-proclaimed “Earth’s Mightiest Wrestling Stable.” Only, we aren’t scared. I don’t see power in a gang stomping; I see a bunch of cowards. I don’t see a champion in a guy that names himself after a swill beer notorious for the hangovers it induces and its propensity to be paired with Rohypnol. What I see is a guy who doesn’t take this seriously. I see another drunken frat dick-head who comes across as funny and witty but is really just another self-aggrandizing narcissist who thinks Family Guy is funny. Kinda funny, Beckman, your choice of name. Sort of suiting, don’t you think? Cheap. A product of marketing and reputation. A step below Four Loko (that “honor”’s saved for the Poondock Saints) in terms of stomach churning wretchedness, buffoonery-induced bombast, and desperate to hide the truth that its nothing short of mediocrity wrapped in an elaborate sleight-of-hands, smoke-and-mirrors neon display of what’s hip. So are you the best, Natty? Dune’s from the desert; bet he’s mighty thirsty for a taste test.
Howard tipped the Jack and Coke to his lips, trying to savor the atmosphere-dulled flavors as much as he savored the irony of mentally bashing a man for the centrism of alcohol in his gimmick as Howard proceeded to get three-sheets to the wind on a plane.
Fact is these grandstanding Legion of Doom villainous mega-factions can never last. It’s in their DNA: you get that many entitled, greedy narcissists together and sooner or later the knives turn on one another. There’s always someone calling the shots; someone who fancies themselves the brains of the operation. Maybe at first they’re content with taking the backseat and directing the show, but sooner or later it gets to them. This is their idea after all. Why don’t they get to stand on top of the mountain? Maybe the underlings start thirsting for more: “why does he get two titles and I get none? Why do I have to be supporting cast?” Same song and dance. History doesn’t repeat itself, but it’s got a nasty habit of rhyming.
And that’s where Joey Flash comes in. See, he thinks people don’t see. He thinks crowning himself “Vapor Emperor” or bringing together Imperium with himself as the head makes him look like the top dog. Except it doesn’t: we know you Joey Flash. You’re the guy who grabs the coattails, rides them to victory, and then takes the credit. You’re the one who styles himself as the big bad but always comes up short. You think you’re the schemer, but your schemes don’t work. That was shown last week: see, you thought you could take us out. It almost worked. Problem is, while Seth’s content to let the inmates run the asylum, he sure as shit doesn’t want his little gladiatorial match going off the rails. He’s the man in the clouds; the puppet master. The puppet can’t cut his strings unless the puppet master lets him. You think, Joey, that you’re the Monster trying to stick it to the Doctor, but you’re really the Monster trying to stick it to the Author.
Pretty appropriate name: Flash. It’s apt; all style and no substance. It’s a tale of sound and fury, told by an idiot, signifying nothing. Same kinda prattle that Beckman spews but without the ability to actually back it up. What Beckman can accomplish with his fist, you need a shovel or a chair. Gotta wonder what that does to you in your head. Takes a good liar to fool people, but it takes a better liar to fool yourself. I don’t think you’re that good, Joey. In fact, you’re not a good liar at all; it’s borderline cartoonish.
Grime bodied you, and you were obsessed. It was “Grime this”, “Grime that” all over Twitter. You couldn’t let it go. It doesn’t matter if you were too chicken shit to get back in the ring with Grime again and get bodied; you never missed an opportunity to take a shot at him. A safe, no consequences verbal shot sent in 140 characters or less. It was embarrassing, Joey. I felt sorry for you. Guess it makes sense by Katherine Phoenix has the hots for you: you’re a match made in obsession. So what happens now? A new red headed fish comes to the pond and it’s out with the old, in with the new? It’s one thing when Katherine jumps Eve Vega, but when Katherine gets jumped you’re headed for the hills? Predictable behavior of a self-aggrandizing sociopath. Means to an end, Joey. But what about when Imperium outlives its usefulness to you? What if it never pans out? What if the “Emperor” finds himself the odd man out without a crown? Who do you take first: Kaz, Beckman, ZMac, Cairo? We’ll see when you fail this week; when Occulo, the man you’re so terrified of that you have to try to underhand him, bodies you.
Another sip of the drink went down smooth enough, albeit encumbered by the ridiculous amount of ice cubes that airlines fill their plastic cups with, just to ensure that while you know you’re getting fucked by handing over $10 for an 8oz, one shot cocktail, they’re also fucking you without lube. This, of course, topped by the dulled taste buds which came with the altitude. Alcohol on planes served the sole purpose of getting you drunk, not to be enjoyed.
Guess that leaves the elephant in the room. This is what the people want to see, here: Howard Black versus Zombie McMorris. Honey Badger versus Honey Badger. Original versus imposter. They’ve been salivating for this since Creative was stupid enough to let me pick out a taken moniker. Hell, maybe even ZMac’s been salivating for this. Here’s where everyone’s going to get the odds swung: see, I know no one expects me to come out on top against him. He’s been here longer. He’s the original. He’s the coke-addled attack dog that Seth siccs on anyone who bothers him. The anti-hero. The loveable idiot. The badass. The many of a thousand titles.
But, then again, looks can be deceiving. You come to a place where people draw comparisons, and you’re bound to start watching the other. See, I’ve been watching ZMac. What I’ve seen is the real weak link on this team. Lotta people are real high on you ZMac. You’re this force. This legend or something. But what I see, since signing on, is 2-2. There’s something worth talking about that number; deserves scrutiny. See, those two losses are both in singles matches. First you got bodied by Chavis, then you got the floor mopped with your face by Gemini Battle. Those two wins? Tag team matches with this exact team. And the funny thing is, in both of those victories it wasn’t you who clocked the win: it was Flash or Beckman.
You want to win, you gotta play the mental game. See, a lot of people look at that title history. They look at name and reputation. They look at the accolades. They don’t dig further. They don’t see you falling, two weeks in a row, to guys without status or title history. Makes you wonder what’s the truth to the rumor; maybe the Beast on the mountain is just a dead pilot. I’m not interested in the posturing or pseudo-punk preening that comes with everything out of the ring, ZMac. You do your whole Rob Zombie, Sid Vicious, Marilyn Manson, G.G. Allen thing, whatever it is, you do, but I’m looking at data to back up the claims. I’m looking for bark to the bite. I don’t see bite; I see someone who doesn’t care.
I don’t mean “doesn’t care” like “Honey Badger doesn’t care”; I won’t dignify you with that. What I see is “doesn’t care” like “Jay Cutler don’t care”. You’re a relic, ZMac, floating around aimlessly on reputation without effort as long as it cuts a paycheck. Jay Cutler has a “rocket arm” and ZMac was once a champion. That’s why I think you’re the weak link here. It’s all Halloween, from the name “Zombie” down to the eye make-up: rubber masks and costumes to steal cheap scares from anyone dumb enough to not catch the zipper in the back. So let’s see it, “Honey Badger”. Let’s see something other than “crack, blood, vomit, cyanide, radiation, axe, death” juggalo shit from the guy not named Isaiah Chavis. Let’s step into the ring so I can put a boot in your ass and rip the stitches out of your stomach from that sword wound.
Howard killed the dregs of the drink, sitting the damp, ice filled glass onto the crumby paper napkin given to him with the drink. So back to Mexico it was; Mexico for a whole month. It wasn’t necessarily a country Howard was found of; the sheer chaos of the cramped capital kept him off his game. Everywhere you looked, tourists cackled and roamed the streets, flashing cameras and screaming children in tow. The bars were packed nightly with tequila rolling hard, and in secluded corners you may stumble across “Nickle Shot Night” where you’d get so loaded so quickly you’d wake up in some dirty Mexican police station drunk tank where you had to bribe a cop to walk or call the embassy. It was Babylon, and it was Mos Eisley: a cluttered little corner of the world where even the Devil shook his head disapprovingly at some acts.
He checked his watch, finding that he still had at least an hour left in the flight. It had been expensive to book a spur-of-the-moment flight for only a couple of days back home, but even as he turned over the financial implications of this decision, he assured that he’d made the right choice. This week was going to be a busy week: he was going immediately to shoot a PSA with Thomas Bates when he arrived, then he only had precious time to prepare for the match on Sunday. The alcohol wrapped around him thickly, rocking him back and forth like a baby towards another moment’s rest. His mind temporarily cleared of his thoughts on his opponents, he let it take him. A man with a gray wolf head sat a few seats in front of him.
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Frida’s Bar
Mexico City, Mexico
7:00 pm May 8th, 2015
Outside, the rain beat down like the snare drum of an old military tattoo as droplets writhed around on the flat cement roof, eager to slip through a crack and into the bar below. The success one droplet found would have it drip from the ceiling onto the back of the hand of Howard Black who brushed it off casually as he fingered the bottle of Dos Equis beer sitting on the bar in front of him. It was these sort of places which Howard felt his most comfortable being alone: the hole-in-the-wall and the dive bar. When he was a student at the University, he had never been one for the gaudy club-type lounges lining O Street; too loud, too bright, too crowded, and too expensive. Even while he worked the tobacco counter in one bar, he found it suffocating. No, it was the grungy little places with formica-topped tables, Karaoke on Wednesdays, and nothing more expensive than a shot of Wild Turkey 101.
Beside Howard, another wide-eyed young man sat chattering loudly and boldly. Howard kept his eyes down on the bottle as he begin to peel at the label, but the chatter was unignorable.
Man: It’s just so cool to meet you, man! My girlfriend? She doesn’t get it. Thinks we’re wasting vacation time watching you guys last Sunday. But wait until I tell her that I walked into the same bar as Howard Black!
Howard continued his work on the label of the bottle, though he kept a polite smile on his face so as not to offend or ostracize the fan. It wasn’t that he hated fans; he didn’t. He had always just been a quieter, private man. Living in the rural America can turn you one of two ways: you’re loud and showy as a testosterone-poisoned peacock covered in firecrackers… or you get quieter, more modest, and a little more work-oriented. Most became the former; Howie liked to think he was the latter. It was the moments like these, when he was alone with his back to the wall against some legion of fans that he missed David. It was unfortunate that his agent had decided to take the week off (“We’re in Mexico for a month; I’m going to the beach, goddamn you.”).
Man: Helluva storm; gonna be a real wet summer for you.
Howard looked up at the man, studying his face in quiet analysis behind the thick fog of fermented wheat. He kept the smile on, but the more he drank the less genuine it looked. His fingers hooked a corner of the label, and with a slow, deliberate pull he was able to remove a sizable chunk from the bottle.
Howard Black: Nah. They’re thinking it’s gonna be an El Nino year. Not too wet. But hot, no doubt.
Man: Got a pretty big match this weekend. The Vapor Kings. How you feeling about it?
Howard shrugged. He peeled another strip of what remained of the label off the bottle and set it in the little pile next to him on the bar. He took another swig off the bottle, having forgotten it was empty, then placed it at the end of the bar and signaled for another one.
Howard Black: Señora! Uno más.
The thick, middle aged Mexican woman behind the bar swipes the bottle sans label away and returns shortly with another Dos Equis Lager, lime fitted into the mouth of the bottle. After receiving his drink, Howard turns back to the man.
Howard Black: I’m not feeling different, if that’s what you’re asking. It’s another match. We defeated the worst last week, and now we have a chance to defeat the best.
Man: Got any sweet promos cooked up? Think they’re going to say anything?
Howard openly scoffed at this. With his thumb, he pressed the lime down into the bottle and followed it with a sip. Placing the bottle back on the bar, he fished his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and popped one in his mouth.
Howard Black: I’m not really a promo guy. Been doing them cause I have to, but I don’t want to cut one this week. These guys are all talk, and I’m not going to play their game. They can play mine in that ring.
Man: But what about what they’re gonna say?
Howard Black: Have you ever seen a Vapor Kings promo before?
Man: Huh?
Howard Black: I said, “Have you ever. Seen. A. Vapor Kings. Promo.”?
Man: W-well, yeah?
That liquid voodoo was already working its magic on Howie; these were those times when he could be a dangerous man. Howard Black was a quiet, reclusive guy. He didn’t like to be bothered. He tried to stay polite. Drunk Howard Black was an entirely different beast. Take a former football player who was raised on a farm and train him in gymnastics and judo, then give him a dash of street fighting and bareknuckle boxing experience from rowdier college days. While this is a physical specimen in and of itself, when you throw in a tendency to get far too drunk, a victim complex so deep that he regards everything as an insulting subtext, and the irrational belief that God is completely on his side, actively helping him succeed, you’ve got quite a piece of work on your hands. Howard stood up, jamming a finger into the man’s chest, eyes wild and breath quickening.
Howard Black: Let me tell you all about what the Vapor Kings are going to say this week: first they’re going to call us gay. They will find five hundred variations of “faggot” and lob it our way. No doubt one of them is going to say something along the lines of “Howard Black doesn’t hit girls cause he only wants to touch men LOLZ”. They’ll compare Dune to a San Francisco leather boutique and make funny of how bishonen Occulo is. Gay, gay, gay. That will be the big theme. How do I know this? BECAUSE THEY DO IT EVERY FUCKING WEEK.
But that’s not all! After they exhaust every avenue of questioning our sexualty, which consists of recycling last week’s avenues of questioning the opponent’s sexuality and further alienating the LGBTQ community from the sport while simultaneously reinforcing the damaging stereotype that wrestling is low-brow, antiquated conservative fap-fodder targeting those who can’t understand the nuances of a comic book, they’re going to start talking about how they’re going to beat the shit out of us. And oh man, do they get creative here! Watch for ZMac to start dropping puns like an edgy middle schooler who just discovered Hot Topic, Jhonen Vasquez comics, and AFI! Joey Flash is going to channel the spirit of Fred Durst as his shit-talking climbs to such Olympian heights of Neanderthal bravado that even Eminem is going to call bullshit! And Natty Beckman? I mean, he’s just going to do all of this but taken to the logical extreme! The exact. Same. Thing! We could probably make a drinking game out of it at this point!
The man took a step back, his face turning from once blissful excitement at meeting the wrestler to a look of worry for his physical integrity. Howard did not relent, grabbing the man forcibly by the collar with both hands and dragging him back, his voice only continuing to rage as his eyes burned holes in the man.
Howard Black: And people like this shit?! This is good?! Holy crap, I can even predict what they’ll say about me: blah blah blah Corey Black’s last name. Blah blah blah Howard doesn’t hit woman. Blah blah blah Honey Badger. They’re going to call me short. They’re going to call me delusional. They’re going to say I’ve done triple gimmick infringement and that the real Honey Badger is going to kick my ass and show that I’m an imposter. They’re going to talk about how I won’t fight women and call me a sexist. They’ll say I’m just afraid a girl will kick my ass and my misogynist ego couldn’t handle it. They’ll say I’m a rookie in over my head and that I’ve stepped into the dog pound or some other fucking cliché. They’re going to call me out as the weak link and try to get in my head. They’ll say I’m not good enough. They’ll bring up that I once lost to that fucking jobber Zione Redington. Or maybe that I haven’t won a match that’s mattered. That I’m the number one contender for a bottom tier belt, which is the equivalent of winning “Miss Congeniality” at the leper colony beauty pageant.
Howard relaxed as grip on the man’s collar but did not entire relinquish it. Every barked statement slowly deflated that brief flare of passion which had rose in him. The bar was staring now. His hands let go of the man and fell to his sides, but his eyes remained locked on the poor fan. His chin was tilted down, eyes straight.
Howard Black: They’ll say all of this… because it’s easy to say. Because it’s obvious. No one thinks I’m worth the effort on a team featuring Occulo, the former United States champion, and Dune, the winner of the Trilogy Cup and number one contender for the Big Boy Belt. They’re wrong, of course. What they don’t get is that I have to win this match. I can’t afford to lose, let alone be the one who’s pinned or submitted. See, everyone’s trying to call my bluff. Everyone wants to know if the False Honey Badger’s the real deal. What’s Howard Black doing on this team? Who’s Howard Black as good as? What’s Howard Black’s ceiling? Is Howard Black as skilled as we think he is?
I’ll give you the answers to those questions: Howard Black got tapped by the Sentinels because they want to fucking win this tournament and aren’t going to leave it to some shoddy jobber who’s in it for fun. Howard Black is as good as any sumbitch on the Vapor Kings, and he’s sure as shit the better of the two Honey Badgers. If Howard Black has a ceiling, we haven’t seen it yet because while physical ability can peak, the greats have no cap on their hunger. And finally, of course he’s as skilled as you all think. In fact, he’s better than that. He’s Howard motherfucking Black, the imposter, the usurper, the false Honey Badger, the destroyer of Neanderthals who shove shit in their nose to seem superficially interesting or edgy in that 14-year-old boy kind of way.
The rant ending, Howard looked around the bar, the silence thick and oppressive as the patrons and bartender stared. He knew it was time to leave; he picked up his bottle, finished it off with a good chug, and then tore off the label in one peel. He reached back into his pants and retrieved his wallet, slapping a few bills down on the bar, then dismissed himself from the bar, stepping back into the rain which awaited him outside.
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Hostel Mundo Joven Catedral
Mexico City, Mexico
8:20 pm May 8th, 2015
It was a decent but manageable walk back through the rain from Frida’s Bar. Luckily for Howard, the hostel he had booked for his stay in Mexico had only been about 45 minutes by foot, depending on how quickly one could drunkenly stumble through alien streets. The walk back through the dark did not bother Howard. Even as a born and bred country boy, he’d spent enough time in the seedier parts of North and South Omaha to know how to stay safe: keep your head down, don’t make eye contact, and don’t look for trouble lest you find it. The hostel was in an old cathedral which had been renovated, and not only did Howard appreciate the oddity of the establishment but the $23 a night room rate. As he made his way through the corridors to his room, he reflected on the necessity of living in poverty. This, for him, was not a choice. It was not up for discussion.
Unlike ZMac, Howard didn’t enjoy living in substandard rooms with bedbugs and poor plumbing but did so out of simple financial necessity: a dollar goes a long way when you’re supporting a wife and son, even if it is in a state like Nebraska with a low cost of living. All of Howard’s lifestyle choices, from the cheap beer he drank to the shoddy condition of his battered ring attire was the product of that frugality which had been handed down to him by his parents. As he placed his key in the lock of the door, his mind wandered back to a memory of a Christmas home video his mother had recorded. A young Howie tore open a gift eagerly, finding that Ric Flair action figure he’d wanted so badly. When he watched it at an older age, what struck him most was his mother confessing quietly to the camera how little Howard would never know it had been picked up at a yard sale.
The door unlocked with a loud click, and Howard pushed it open to faintly illuminate the modest room with the glow of the hallway lights. Sitting at the modest table in his room sat an odd yet familiar man. His clothes were tattered and dirty, worn with age and the elements. A brown duster hung over a stained, fraying black collared shirt, and a dark brown, unraveling old tie hung loosely around his neck in a simple and sloppy four-in-hand knot. The man’s nails were long, perhaps preternaturally so, and filed to sharp points like the abominable hybrid of a cheap pimp and a wild animal. His legs were clothed in a set of one impeccable black slacks, but age and effort had led them to better days: the knees were slashed and rubbed through like a pair of work jeans, and several seams seemed to be on the verge of bursting at any moment. For all of this haggard and vulgar attire, the most offensive and disagreeable trait of the man was the mask he wore on his head: a great, bloated head of an animal (perhaps a wolf), sagging and moth eaten with droopy ears, stitched muzzle, and empty eye sockets. The wolf head was almost cartoonish in its proportions, completely masking the head of the man and resting upon his shoulders like an ugly caricature.
Howard froze in his tracks, the blood in his veins freezing immediately and replace by a buzzing eldritch sensation of terror he hadn’t felt since he was a boy. There was something familiar about the abominable figure he saw before him; something disquieting yet upsettingly nostalgic. It was at that moment Howard realized he’d seen this man many times. Perhaps hundreds, since he was a boy in high school. The man had never been there, but Howard knew he’d always been in his periphery, sitting in plain sight yet just tucked enough away that he’d never registered. But he was there. He’d been there backstage. He’d been in the parking lot. He’d been on the plane. Now, for the first time in perhaps 15 of quiet hunt, the man sat before him. The man beckoned to Howard, silently motioning towards the chair that sat across the table from him.
Howard stepped into the room as if under compulsion, closing the door behind him and turning the lock. He hit he light switch, turning on the small lamp on the table which provided the sole source of illumination save any light which trickled through the window. As he approached the table, he briefly wondered how long this thing had sat in wait within the dark room. As he came to the table, his sense of inebriation fled him, as did the feeling of paralysis he experienced upon first gazing the man’s hideous form. He cocked his fist back, swinging in a vicious right hook to incapacitate the intruder, his mind flooded with adrenaline as he confronted the silent danger in his room. The man was fast. As Howard swung, the man leaned back in his chair, toppling it, and avoiding the hook. His own hands shot up, catching Howard by the wrist and looping his left arm between Howard’s right arm and body. With the momentum turned in his favor, he slammed Howard’s head down on the table, twisting his arm back mockingly into the position for the Kimura Lock but applying to pressure other than to hold Howard’s struggling head to the table. As he spoke, it was like two voices in one coming from nowhere in particular: one of a thin, slicing timbre and high register and a second in contrast as a low, booming base.
The Wolf-Headed Man: That’s unwise, Howard.
Howard struggled, his every sense and synapse aflame with both anger and sheer terror. He struggled like a wounded animal in a trap as the hunters circled, yet despite his efforts he could not break the grasp of the man. As his struggles slowly weakened and eventually ceased, the Wolf-Headed Man released the hold, righted his over turned chair, and sat back down, folding his hands together on the table. Howard sat down in the chair opposite him, holding the formerly trapped arm; though there had been no pressure applied in the lock, the simple momentum shift had been enough to wrench it, causing a painful throb to tremor down his bicep. Howard glared thermite and curare at the figure, his voice trembling in a gritted-teeth cocktail of rage and fear.
Howard Black: Who the fuck are you?
The Wolf-Headed Man did not respond. Though the empty eye sockets were deep and void of any source of light, Howard could feel the infernal man’s gaze like a cobra from deep within the mask. The room hung in a sort of unholy silence, devoid even of the sound which would accompany a relatively early night in Mexico City. His patience and nerves began to fray as Howard raised his voice, tipping his hand to reveal the depth of emotions coursing through him.
Howard Black: I said, who the fuck are you?!
The Wolf-Headed Man remained silent as the grave. The hair on Howard’s arms and back of his neck prickled as icicles ran down his spine. The dull sensation of the crucifix necklace hanging around his neck seemed like some sort of hideous and blasphemous cosmic joke. His voice dropped again, quaking low and seething through his clenched jaw.
Howard Black: I know you can talk. You just did. Say something.
The Wolf-Headed Man canted his head in to an odd angle towards his shoulder, leaning forward across the table slowly to close the distance with Howard. In reflex, Howard leaned back, slowly pushing his chair back across the stone floor.
The Wolf-Headed Man: You have a big match this Sunday, Howard.
The silence hung between them as Howard processed the words. The tone of the Wolf-Headed Man was monotonous and matter-of-fact. To Howard, it seemed more like a casual statement of observation than any topic of conversation.
Howard Black: Yes. I do.
The Wolf-Headed Man: A big match. On the Lord’s Day. Has Howard Black been keeping up with his reading of the Good Book?
The blasphemous mockery of the statement sent bolts of intense rage and loathing through Howard. He tightened his hands into fists, his knuckles growing white, as his mind grappled between his instincts of violence and better judgment that the man before him was not to be trifled with.
Howard Black: Say your piece, demon.
The Wolf-Headed Man: Demon? No. I come from neither here nor there, Howard. A friend, Howard. Consider me a friend.
The silence lingered once more. Howard wanted to speak; to fight. He wanted to raise up and cast the man out the window he likely entered through. Yet he could not find the strength nor mental fortitude to bring himself to his feet. He simply sat and listened, ensnared with fear and loathing.
The Wolf-Headed Man: You’ve been doing well, Howard. Despite the setback of your debut and the unfortunate pairing with Eve Vega in week two, you’ve been climbing the ladder. People are noticing you, Howard. They’re chanting your name. Your wants. Your desires. Your dreams. They’re just at the tips of your fingers. All you need to do is reach out and snatch them.
The Wolf-Headed Man went silent for a moment, slowly leaning back from his forward position to an upright posture in the chair.
The Wolf-Headed Man: People want you to fail, Howard. Nothing in life comes guaranteed. This week, you face your biggest hurdle. The Vapor Kings, Howard. Everything you are not. They’re strong in numbers. They are ripe in accolades and prestige. The call of their names rumbles through the valleys and rends mighty oaks from the soil. Truly, I say, Howard: this is your trial by fire.
Silence again. The Wolf-Headed Man unclasped his hands and laid them palm-down on the table. His skin was unusually pale, like that of a hospital patient.
The Wolf-Headed Man: You, Howard, are alone. You have a team, but you are not of this team. You are not a Sentinel, Howard. The Sentinels are not Imperium, nor are they PANTHEON. They are a response. Historically, responses never transcend their role as foil and adversary. Their purpose is to provide challenge and adversity to the true focal point. This, Howard, is how it has always been ordained. While PANTHEON and Imperium do battle, all fall between the cracks. All are defined by the true spectacle. Without it, they are naught. They are meaningless and trivial. Cattle on a battle field attempting to graze as the bombs burst around them.
But suppose, Howard, that it needn’t be that way. Suppose one was willing to grasp that position as focal point and steal it away. Subvert the warring kingdoms to background noise and shows of strength. Then, I say, that man has become ruler of all.
Howard fidgeted uncomfortably. His heart beat in his skull, and his brow wetted with the condensations of sweat. His courage was gone. His fighting spirit had been stripped from his soul and impaled. His voice was like a whisper.
Howard Black: What do you want?
The Wolf-Headed Man: As it is presently written, Howard, you and the Sentinels are to serve as the display of strength for Imperium and the Vapor Kings. You are the sacrificial lamb on the altar. No one believes that you will win this match. Not the bookies, nor the locker room, nor the front office, nor the audience. By your hand, you have the ability to alter this destiny. But understand that this comes with consequence. You are not Imperium. You are not PANTHON. You are not the Dark Riders Gang nor the Sentinels. You are alone. You are dust in the wind. Insignificant. But should you leave Sunday victorious, this shall no longer be the case. You will be hunted, Howard. You will be known. You will not simply have climbed the mountain but raced to the top. People will hate you. They will want your head. And they will come. Should you leave this Sunday victorious but cannot secure the Trios Cup, you will have no one. But you will still be known.
The Wolf-Headed Man rose from his chair, pushing it in after himself. He gazed down at Howard, the head hanging low like a leering jack-in-the-box.
The Wolf-Headed Man: Remember this, Howard, that while you are cheered, it is because you are the underdog. No one believes in you. No one is entertaining the idea that you could shock the world. They do not know you. They do not know who you were or who you will be. You’re a jester in the court or a second-team gladiator. You will not be acknowledged for your merit. You never had. You must take it. Forcefully. Remember who you are. Cast off the mantle of David and become Goliath.
The man walked with unusual grace and fluidity for a thing of such loathsome form. A taloned hand wrapped around the knob and turned it, but he did not yet open the door.
The Wolf-Headed Man: You will see me next when it is necessary. Should you heed my words, perhaps I shall see you next week. Should you not heed my words, Howard, or simply fail, you shall see me when fortune merits.
The figure opened the door and walked out into the hallway, closing the door behind him. Howard sat frozen in his chair, his eyes locked on the door. He tried to pray, but he could not find the words.
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Even if he had a team now, some rituals were best left undisturbed. Howard Black sat alone outside the arena, smoking his pre-match cigarettes, turning over the events of the week in his head. On one hand, the PSA with Thomas Bates was an act of legitimate good he had done. Thomas was a man of impeccable integrity, and Howard was glad to have begun forging this relationship of respect and perhaps friendship with the man he’d be facing against one day for the Television Title. On the other hand, the memory of Friday night had seared itself into Howard’s mind like a hot iron on a cow’s hide. Howard did not know who the Wolf-Headed Man was or why he’d come to him, but deep within his soul he knew that if the man was not the Devil, he was very much like him. Howard had canceled the remainder of his reservation at the hostel the next morning, moving to a different one across town. When a cathedral could be unhallowed by the presence of that man, Howard knew that God no longer resided in such structure.
His mind drifted to the Book of Revelations as he took a long drag off of the smoldering Camel Turkish Royal cigarette. He thought of the great battles of the Heavens and the opening of the Seven Seals. He thought of suffering as a tool of Good and comfort as a tool of Evil. The Fall of Great Babylon. The perverted Trinity of the Beast of the Sea, the Dragon, and the False Prophet. Of Christ with a tongue like a sword, with seven eyes and seven horns, stars in his hand and fire in his eyes.
Tonight, Howard and the Sentinels would go to battle against Great Babylon. Should a war be starting, it was time to strike while the sides were raw and young, for in war there could be no side of good and evil. A war between PANTHEON and Imperium was tyranny no matter the outcome, not because either side was good or evil but by its projection upon all. It could not be one who slays the other; it had to be those unaligned who tore them down should this blood feud not consume the destinies of all. Tonight, Howard and the Sentinels had the opportunity to deliver destiny its first crippling blow. As Imperium versus PANTHEON lingered on the tips of the tongues of those watching, both teams could be completely crushed and the entire war nipped at the bud tonight. Four teams derived from two sides and four teams derived of all whom remained.
The Wolf-Headed Man was right, and Howard knew this to a degree. Yet, he did not believe that the creature’s prediction nor advice was without flaw. Unlike the suggestions given to him, Howard saw far beyond his own position within the federation. When he closed his eyes and quieted his thoughts, it was as though Howard could see the whole machine and how it worked. No one was greater than the environment. No group was greater. To think otherwise was a fool’s game.
Tonight, Howard knew, was one of the first real nights of destiny. The vicissitudes of fate had drawn this parallel, and the forces of evil and tyranny seethed beyond the halls, plotting conquest and gluttony. By the merits of fickle word and reputation, these were the Emperors and the Kings; the established powers and Trinity. Perhaps they could take that. Howard Black and the Sentinels didn’t need it to walk the righteous path.
Tonight, the Vapor Kings would meet their mirror. Dune, the Beast from the Seas of Sand would face off against Natural ICE Beckman as a possible foretelling of their battle for the throne at the summit. Occulo, the Dragon, would face off against Joey Flash, the Claudius-in-arms and self-proclaimed Caesar of Imperium. That left Howard Black and Zombie McMorris; Honey Badger versus Honey Badger. Real Honey Badger versus False Honey Badger.
The False Honey Badger.
The False Prophet.
Howard took a final drag off of his cigarette and ground it under the toe of his battered wrestling boots. He pulled open the door to the arena and made his way towards the stage, flipping the hood of his sweatshirt over his face to block the stares and gazes of those around him.
They think I’ll fail. They know I’ll fail.
Howard Black waited in the wing amongst the other wrestlers waiting to take the stage. As the lights beyond the curtain dimmed, Howard closed his eyes and contemplated the match before him. He liked the odds.
***OOC Notes: The PSA featuring Thomas Uriel Bates and Howard Black will be featured in TUB's RP***
Lincoln, Nebraska
May 5th, 2015
Going home was a distraction, but it was a distraction Howard Black knew he had to take. As he sat on the plain wooden pew of the modest chapel, head down and hands clasped in thought, his mind could only turn over the luminous surprise and delight which had spread over the face of Sarah and Joey as he had walked through the door unannounced. Mexico was not his cup of tea enough to let himself stay away from his family after missing out on seeing them last week, and he was not terribly jet lagged when he had arrived at Epply Airport in Omaha. A friend, sworn to secrecy, had picked him up, and the enthusiasm to his return was eclipsed only by the enthusiasm which greeted the present he’d brought home for Joey: a WCF posted signed by a few of the other stars backstage. Yet this warm welcome was never intended to last long, at least not at that time. Howard now found himself sitting in the chapel of the church he knew as home.
It was a simple enough building, filled with two columns of pews stretching several rows back, plain and beaten with the wear of countless Sunday services. The church was lit with natural light filtering in through the simply detailed stained glass windows, and even the altar consisted of a simply wooden table dressed in a cloth, some esoteric receptacles, and a copy of the gospel. The only real furnishing suggesting any sense of expense or grandiosity was the great organ which sat in the choir loft above the back of the church, a monolithic brass instrument of innumerable pipes of all lengths and diameters. This, of course, was what a poor church prioritized when its location across the street from the University of Nebraska ordained it the unique pleasure of a music professor and local composer filling the position of choir director.
A door beside the altar opened, and into the room strode a man perhaps in his early 50’s or late 40’s. A pair of thick rimmed spectacles sat on the bridge of his piggish nose, framing two small but gentle brown eyes, and while time had taken the hair from his crown, he carried a thick, bristly goatee that circled a small mouth. The man’s black attire and white collar immediately identified him as the parish Deacon, and when he saw Howard, he walked down the center aisle of the church and sat next to him on the pew. His voice was kind, friendly, and alive like the voice of a friend and a father more than a figure of authority, and there was little doubt that he was pleased and excited to see Howard as any other.
Father Gerard: Well, well, Mister Black! I see the prodigal son has returned to us?
Howard looked up from his hands, smiling in return at the sight of the Deacon whom had mentored him into the Church.
Howard Black: Do I get a feast and a robe?
The joke was not funny, but Father Gerard gave a full, appreciative laugh regardless, the sort of warmth and genuineness of a man who’d laugh at any joke (provided he found it tasteful) for the sheer appreciation of its attempt. He slapped a hand on Howard’s shoulder.
Father Gerard: And how’s the career going? You’ll have to forgive me, but my wife doesn’t allow wrestling in our house.
Howard shrugged and smiled.
Howard Black: I’m alive and haven’t broken anything, so there’s that.
Another laugh; a man who loved to laugh. The cheer of Father Gerard had always been a comforting presence to Howard during some of his more troubling and trying days. When he’d first met Father Gerard, he was a freshman at the university; an agnostic raised Catholic who’d wandered from the Church perhaps five or more years before. It was those cold, lonely nights in his dorm room when the questions of faith had slowly trickled back into him, like the rain from a storm through the cracks in the roof. The separation from Sarah, the trials of carving out his place on the Huskers, and the difficulty in balancing school, athletics, and a part-time job working the tobacco counter at Jake’s Cigars downtown: these hardships and forces of alienation were what found him reflexively praying as he had a boy. He’d sought St. Mark’s despite the skepticism of his roommate, a bookish psychics major with no time, need, or understanding of religion. When he had met Father Gerard, they talked of everything: of abortion and gay marriage; of religion as a tool of political manipulation in less savory denominations; forgiveness and temptation; the beautiful poetry of Psalms which had captivated Howard even as an atheist; existentialism and scholasticism; C.S. Lewis and Friedrich Nietzsche. By the end of their time, Father Gerard had lent him a small statue of the prodigal son returning home, and Howard had not missed and Sunday or Holy Day since until he’d taken the job with the WCF.
It was only natural that this would be the second place he’d visit in Lincoln after his home, wife, and son. The creak of the old church as the wind whipped past and the musty smells of old wood and stale incense were comforting to him; this truly was his second home. After that pause of quiet reflection, Howard looked up towards Father Gerard.
Howard Black: Father, I have some questions for you.
Father Gerard just smiled, reclining back on the pew and folding his hands in his lap.
Father Gerard: Of course you do, Howard. You always do.
Howard Black: Well, I’ve been reading Revelations lately.
Father Gerard let out a deep breath, still maintaining the pleasant thin-lipped smile.
Father Gerard: Heavy stuff. Was Job not exhilarating enough for you?
This time it was Howard’s turn to laugh, the meaning of the joke meaning far more to him. Job was the name he’d taken at his confirmation; a name, he felt, of strength and dedication in the face of the greatest adversity, and a man who offered not despair or prostration in the times of trial but resolve and inquiry.
Howard Black: No. Just been thinking about it, I guess.
Father Gerard: Well… What about it?
Howard Black: So I’ve always heard that the Antichrist, the beast from the land, was supposed to be beautiful. But it doesn’t say that in the book. In fact, there’s really a lot it doesn’t say in the book that I heard. The mark of the beast on the neck, that the Antichrist is Satan, and whatnot. So, I guess, what’s real?
Father Gerard: Well… it’s sort of complicated. As you know, we’re less literal in the Anglican community, but we also follow the scripture as it is written in the book. I guess the easiest way to start is explain that the beast from the land, or “antichrist” as some call him, and the beast from the seaare largely thought of as metaphors for Rome and Nero. Now Revelations is mostly a book of numerology: seven horns, seven crowns, six-six-six and whatnot. This is all more advanced theological stuff, but six hundred and sixty-six is a direct reference to Nero: certain Hebrew letters had numerical values which, when the Hebrew spelling of “Nero” was added, would get you that number.
Now your questions about the attributes of the beast from the land are more implied than outright stated. It says in Revelations that the beast is a persuasive speaker, but more importantly that he is the ‘false prophet’. As you know, we believe Jesus is yet to return, so the false prophet is a temptation to stray from God’s love by impersonating Jesus. This means he has to come across as the real thing; we wouldn’t just trust some creepy, ugly, hunched over demon rubbing his hands together like a super villain. So this is where the idea that the false prophet is beautiful comes from because Christ is beautiful. Unless he isn’t.
The two exchanged another loud, warm laugh. Howard beamed, his eyes set firmly on the Deacon as the circuits in his brain fired and processed the information given to him.
Father Gerard: Now as for the beast of the land being Satan, this comes from the implication that the Beast of the Sea is Satan since he has the sword wound suggesting Michael struck him down in the war of the heavens. Now, as we Anglicans believe in the Trinity, this would imply that the two are a corruption of the roles of the Father and the Son. The thing is that roles can only be symbolic as they lack the unifying core of the Trinity: God. The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit are all God, but they are not one another; they are separate manifestations of a common core. Satan can never be God, thus there can no real connection on a spiritual basis: if Satan is the Beast of the Sea than he cannot also be the false prophet. This furthers the implication of imperfection in the false prophet: unlike Christ, he had to be conceived of sin.
There was a long pause between them as Howard turned over the implications of everything he’d heard. Yes, it all made sense to him now: imperfection. The impossibility to reach perfection without God and thus the ultimate hollowness and subjectivity of the term in any real sense. Energy flowed through his veins like a bolt of lightning, perhaps the hallmark of inspiration divine or not.
Howard Black: Father… is it blasphemous to appropriate the imagery and nomenclature of the enemy to fight the enemy?
Father Gerard cocked his head at this, peering curiously at Howard behind those thick spectacles which had slid down the bridge of his nose.
Father Gerard: What do you mean?
Howard’s voice rose, quickening in pace and intensity. His eyes were wide and wild with flames and sparks of the ideas he had been gestating.
Howard Black: Suppose the enemy has taken the mantle of good and perverted it? Twisted it and made a mockery of it until it’s been rendered hollowed and meaningless by blasphemy? What if the forces of good took the names and titles of evil in battle? The horsemen? The beast? The false prophet? Would this be an abomination before God?
Father Gerard raised a hand to his chin, rubbing the thick growth of hair around his mouth in contemplation. His words were slow: measured and deliberate.
Father Gerard: I think… God cares about bigger things than nomenclature as long as the cause is ultimately just.
With that, Howard sprung to his feet like lightning out of a bottle. He reached down clasping Father Gerard’s hand and shaking it vigorously as he immediately made his way to the exit with quite the spring in his step.
Howard Black: Thank you, Father! Babylon’s gonna fall, I promise you!
As the young man left, Father Gerard only gazed upon the departure with a look of curiosity and confusion. He sighed and shook his head; it was not usually a good thing when that boy had big ideas.
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American Airlines Flight 1203
Somewhere over Mexico
May 7th, 2015 6:30pm
Howard never cared for flying: it was an inordinate amount of time spent cooped up in an arduously claustrophobic box where you were forced to busy yourself somehow to take your mind off the nagging existential fear that the slightest little mechanical error would send the whole sumbitch plummeting to the ground and killing everyone instantly (if God was merciful). This particularly cynical view forced Howard into an odd mental state where he had to act divisively to nullify the odd cocktail of abject boredom and uninhibited existential dread. As a younger, single man he may’ve made a pass at a stewardess, dreams of joining the Mile High Club abound in his head, get rejected, and awkwardly ordered his overpriced Jack and Coke to assuage the pangs of despised love. As a married man and father of one, he cut straight to the overpriced drinks part at the airport bar.
His mind moved slower when he drank, but it did not prevent Howard from ruminating on the match he’d be facing the upcoming Sunday at Slam. Last week, Joey Flash had nearly cost them their place in the Trios Cup Tournament, and this week he’d have a shot at getting some payback for the slight.
Trios Cup Tournament. Didn’t they just have the Trilogy Cup Tournament? Jesus Christ, Seth.
Last week had been a boon: as he and the Sentinels had predicted, the trio of Slime, Torgo, and Dong-Wang Kim had been a warm-up. Practice. This week, they faced off against perhaps one of the most dangerous groups in the tournament: Natural ICE Beckman, Joey Flash, and “the Other Honey Badger” Zombie MacMorris. Out of the icebox and into the fire. The implications of the match, whether intended or not, was not lost on Howard, even in his inebriated state. It was almost too perfect: the parallels were disturbingly vivid. Leading the opponent stood Natural ICE Beckman, the World Champion; on Howard’s side stood his number one contender, Dune. While they had Joey Flash, Howard stood with Occulo, a man with a deep and bitter history involving Joey that manifested itself in Flash’s interference last week. That left the final two: the Honey Badgers. The original and the fake. The veteran and the rookie. It was as if ordained by God himself.
No one expects us to win. Maybe. Least, I bet they don’t. Gotta check the bookies. Is gambling legal in Mexico? Beckman will be the real threat of this group; he’s the goddamn champ for a reason, and he put on a clinic with Bobby Cairo. Wonder who PANTHEON plans on sending after him: Jayson Price, Corey Black? Guess that doesn’t really matter: we got the real number one contender on our side. Fact is Dune knows the gravity of this match more than anyone; we can’t not just lose, we can’t get stomped. This is a glimpse for what’s to come.
Don’t get me wrong; it ain’t gonna be a squash any way you cut it. But it’s also not going to end the way people are expecting. See, this is another classic David and Goliath story: Imperium forms and lays out PANTHEON, so now we’re expected to be wracking ourselves with the sort of trepidation that comes from a vicious assault leveling the self-proclaimed “Earth’s Mightiest Wrestling Stable.” Only, we aren’t scared. I don’t see power in a gang stomping; I see a bunch of cowards. I don’t see a champion in a guy that names himself after a swill beer notorious for the hangovers it induces and its propensity to be paired with Rohypnol. What I see is a guy who doesn’t take this seriously. I see another drunken frat dick-head who comes across as funny and witty but is really just another self-aggrandizing narcissist who thinks Family Guy is funny. Kinda funny, Beckman, your choice of name. Sort of suiting, don’t you think? Cheap. A product of marketing and reputation. A step below Four Loko (that “honor”’s saved for the Poondock Saints) in terms of stomach churning wretchedness, buffoonery-induced bombast, and desperate to hide the truth that its nothing short of mediocrity wrapped in an elaborate sleight-of-hands, smoke-and-mirrors neon display of what’s hip. So are you the best, Natty? Dune’s from the desert; bet he’s mighty thirsty for a taste test.
Howard tipped the Jack and Coke to his lips, trying to savor the atmosphere-dulled flavors as much as he savored the irony of mentally bashing a man for the centrism of alcohol in his gimmick as Howard proceeded to get three-sheets to the wind on a plane.
Fact is these grandstanding Legion of Doom villainous mega-factions can never last. It’s in their DNA: you get that many entitled, greedy narcissists together and sooner or later the knives turn on one another. There’s always someone calling the shots; someone who fancies themselves the brains of the operation. Maybe at first they’re content with taking the backseat and directing the show, but sooner or later it gets to them. This is their idea after all. Why don’t they get to stand on top of the mountain? Maybe the underlings start thirsting for more: “why does he get two titles and I get none? Why do I have to be supporting cast?” Same song and dance. History doesn’t repeat itself, but it’s got a nasty habit of rhyming.
And that’s where Joey Flash comes in. See, he thinks people don’t see. He thinks crowning himself “Vapor Emperor” or bringing together Imperium with himself as the head makes him look like the top dog. Except it doesn’t: we know you Joey Flash. You’re the guy who grabs the coattails, rides them to victory, and then takes the credit. You’re the one who styles himself as the big bad but always comes up short. You think you’re the schemer, but your schemes don’t work. That was shown last week: see, you thought you could take us out. It almost worked. Problem is, while Seth’s content to let the inmates run the asylum, he sure as shit doesn’t want his little gladiatorial match going off the rails. He’s the man in the clouds; the puppet master. The puppet can’t cut his strings unless the puppet master lets him. You think, Joey, that you’re the Monster trying to stick it to the Doctor, but you’re really the Monster trying to stick it to the Author.
Pretty appropriate name: Flash. It’s apt; all style and no substance. It’s a tale of sound and fury, told by an idiot, signifying nothing. Same kinda prattle that Beckman spews but without the ability to actually back it up. What Beckman can accomplish with his fist, you need a shovel or a chair. Gotta wonder what that does to you in your head. Takes a good liar to fool people, but it takes a better liar to fool yourself. I don’t think you’re that good, Joey. In fact, you’re not a good liar at all; it’s borderline cartoonish.
Grime bodied you, and you were obsessed. It was “Grime this”, “Grime that” all over Twitter. You couldn’t let it go. It doesn’t matter if you were too chicken shit to get back in the ring with Grime again and get bodied; you never missed an opportunity to take a shot at him. A safe, no consequences verbal shot sent in 140 characters or less. It was embarrassing, Joey. I felt sorry for you. Guess it makes sense by Katherine Phoenix has the hots for you: you’re a match made in obsession. So what happens now? A new red headed fish comes to the pond and it’s out with the old, in with the new? It’s one thing when Katherine jumps Eve Vega, but when Katherine gets jumped you’re headed for the hills? Predictable behavior of a self-aggrandizing sociopath. Means to an end, Joey. But what about when Imperium outlives its usefulness to you? What if it never pans out? What if the “Emperor” finds himself the odd man out without a crown? Who do you take first: Kaz, Beckman, ZMac, Cairo? We’ll see when you fail this week; when Occulo, the man you’re so terrified of that you have to try to underhand him, bodies you.
Another sip of the drink went down smooth enough, albeit encumbered by the ridiculous amount of ice cubes that airlines fill their plastic cups with, just to ensure that while you know you’re getting fucked by handing over $10 for an 8oz, one shot cocktail, they’re also fucking you without lube. This, of course, topped by the dulled taste buds which came with the altitude. Alcohol on planes served the sole purpose of getting you drunk, not to be enjoyed.
Guess that leaves the elephant in the room. This is what the people want to see, here: Howard Black versus Zombie McMorris. Honey Badger versus Honey Badger. Original versus imposter. They’ve been salivating for this since Creative was stupid enough to let me pick out a taken moniker. Hell, maybe even ZMac’s been salivating for this. Here’s where everyone’s going to get the odds swung: see, I know no one expects me to come out on top against him. He’s been here longer. He’s the original. He’s the coke-addled attack dog that Seth siccs on anyone who bothers him. The anti-hero. The loveable idiot. The badass. The many of a thousand titles.
But, then again, looks can be deceiving. You come to a place where people draw comparisons, and you’re bound to start watching the other. See, I’ve been watching ZMac. What I’ve seen is the real weak link on this team. Lotta people are real high on you ZMac. You’re this force. This legend or something. But what I see, since signing on, is 2-2. There’s something worth talking about that number; deserves scrutiny. See, those two losses are both in singles matches. First you got bodied by Chavis, then you got the floor mopped with your face by Gemini Battle. Those two wins? Tag team matches with this exact team. And the funny thing is, in both of those victories it wasn’t you who clocked the win: it was Flash or Beckman.
You want to win, you gotta play the mental game. See, a lot of people look at that title history. They look at name and reputation. They look at the accolades. They don’t dig further. They don’t see you falling, two weeks in a row, to guys without status or title history. Makes you wonder what’s the truth to the rumor; maybe the Beast on the mountain is just a dead pilot. I’m not interested in the posturing or pseudo-punk preening that comes with everything out of the ring, ZMac. You do your whole Rob Zombie, Sid Vicious, Marilyn Manson, G.G. Allen thing, whatever it is, you do, but I’m looking at data to back up the claims. I’m looking for bark to the bite. I don’t see bite; I see someone who doesn’t care.
I don’t mean “doesn’t care” like “Honey Badger doesn’t care”; I won’t dignify you with that. What I see is “doesn’t care” like “Jay Cutler don’t care”. You’re a relic, ZMac, floating around aimlessly on reputation without effort as long as it cuts a paycheck. Jay Cutler has a “rocket arm” and ZMac was once a champion. That’s why I think you’re the weak link here. It’s all Halloween, from the name “Zombie” down to the eye make-up: rubber masks and costumes to steal cheap scares from anyone dumb enough to not catch the zipper in the back. So let’s see it, “Honey Badger”. Let’s see something other than “crack, blood, vomit, cyanide, radiation, axe, death” juggalo shit from the guy not named Isaiah Chavis. Let’s step into the ring so I can put a boot in your ass and rip the stitches out of your stomach from that sword wound.
Howard killed the dregs of the drink, sitting the damp, ice filled glass onto the crumby paper napkin given to him with the drink. So back to Mexico it was; Mexico for a whole month. It wasn’t necessarily a country Howard was found of; the sheer chaos of the cramped capital kept him off his game. Everywhere you looked, tourists cackled and roamed the streets, flashing cameras and screaming children in tow. The bars were packed nightly with tequila rolling hard, and in secluded corners you may stumble across “Nickle Shot Night” where you’d get so loaded so quickly you’d wake up in some dirty Mexican police station drunk tank where you had to bribe a cop to walk or call the embassy. It was Babylon, and it was Mos Eisley: a cluttered little corner of the world where even the Devil shook his head disapprovingly at some acts.
He checked his watch, finding that he still had at least an hour left in the flight. It had been expensive to book a spur-of-the-moment flight for only a couple of days back home, but even as he turned over the financial implications of this decision, he assured that he’d made the right choice. This week was going to be a busy week: he was going immediately to shoot a PSA with Thomas Bates when he arrived, then he only had precious time to prepare for the match on Sunday. The alcohol wrapped around him thickly, rocking him back and forth like a baby towards another moment’s rest. His mind temporarily cleared of his thoughts on his opponents, he let it take him. A man with a gray wolf head sat a few seats in front of him.
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Frida’s Bar
Mexico City, Mexico
7:00 pm May 8th, 2015
Outside, the rain beat down like the snare drum of an old military tattoo as droplets writhed around on the flat cement roof, eager to slip through a crack and into the bar below. The success one droplet found would have it drip from the ceiling onto the back of the hand of Howard Black who brushed it off casually as he fingered the bottle of Dos Equis beer sitting on the bar in front of him. It was these sort of places which Howard felt his most comfortable being alone: the hole-in-the-wall and the dive bar. When he was a student at the University, he had never been one for the gaudy club-type lounges lining O Street; too loud, too bright, too crowded, and too expensive. Even while he worked the tobacco counter in one bar, he found it suffocating. No, it was the grungy little places with formica-topped tables, Karaoke on Wednesdays, and nothing more expensive than a shot of Wild Turkey 101.
Beside Howard, another wide-eyed young man sat chattering loudly and boldly. Howard kept his eyes down on the bottle as he begin to peel at the label, but the chatter was unignorable.
Man: It’s just so cool to meet you, man! My girlfriend? She doesn’t get it. Thinks we’re wasting vacation time watching you guys last Sunday. But wait until I tell her that I walked into the same bar as Howard Black!
Howard continued his work on the label of the bottle, though he kept a polite smile on his face so as not to offend or ostracize the fan. It wasn’t that he hated fans; he didn’t. He had always just been a quieter, private man. Living in the rural America can turn you one of two ways: you’re loud and showy as a testosterone-poisoned peacock covered in firecrackers… or you get quieter, more modest, and a little more work-oriented. Most became the former; Howie liked to think he was the latter. It was the moments like these, when he was alone with his back to the wall against some legion of fans that he missed David. It was unfortunate that his agent had decided to take the week off (“We’re in Mexico for a month; I’m going to the beach, goddamn you.”).
Man: Helluva storm; gonna be a real wet summer for you.
Howard looked up at the man, studying his face in quiet analysis behind the thick fog of fermented wheat. He kept the smile on, but the more he drank the less genuine it looked. His fingers hooked a corner of the label, and with a slow, deliberate pull he was able to remove a sizable chunk from the bottle.
Howard Black: Nah. They’re thinking it’s gonna be an El Nino year. Not too wet. But hot, no doubt.
Man: Got a pretty big match this weekend. The Vapor Kings. How you feeling about it?
Howard shrugged. He peeled another strip of what remained of the label off the bottle and set it in the little pile next to him on the bar. He took another swig off the bottle, having forgotten it was empty, then placed it at the end of the bar and signaled for another one.
Howard Black: Señora! Uno más.
The thick, middle aged Mexican woman behind the bar swipes the bottle sans label away and returns shortly with another Dos Equis Lager, lime fitted into the mouth of the bottle. After receiving his drink, Howard turns back to the man.
Howard Black: I’m not feeling different, if that’s what you’re asking. It’s another match. We defeated the worst last week, and now we have a chance to defeat the best.
Man: Got any sweet promos cooked up? Think they’re going to say anything?
Howard openly scoffed at this. With his thumb, he pressed the lime down into the bottle and followed it with a sip. Placing the bottle back on the bar, he fished his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and popped one in his mouth.
Howard Black: I’m not really a promo guy. Been doing them cause I have to, but I don’t want to cut one this week. These guys are all talk, and I’m not going to play their game. They can play mine in that ring.
Man: But what about what they’re gonna say?
Howard Black: Have you ever seen a Vapor Kings promo before?
Man: Huh?
Howard Black: I said, “Have you ever. Seen. A. Vapor Kings. Promo.”?
Man: W-well, yeah?
That liquid voodoo was already working its magic on Howie; these were those times when he could be a dangerous man. Howard Black was a quiet, reclusive guy. He didn’t like to be bothered. He tried to stay polite. Drunk Howard Black was an entirely different beast. Take a former football player who was raised on a farm and train him in gymnastics and judo, then give him a dash of street fighting and bareknuckle boxing experience from rowdier college days. While this is a physical specimen in and of itself, when you throw in a tendency to get far too drunk, a victim complex so deep that he regards everything as an insulting subtext, and the irrational belief that God is completely on his side, actively helping him succeed, you’ve got quite a piece of work on your hands. Howard stood up, jamming a finger into the man’s chest, eyes wild and breath quickening.
Howard Black: Let me tell you all about what the Vapor Kings are going to say this week: first they’re going to call us gay. They will find five hundred variations of “faggot” and lob it our way. No doubt one of them is going to say something along the lines of “Howard Black doesn’t hit girls cause he only wants to touch men LOLZ”. They’ll compare Dune to a San Francisco leather boutique and make funny of how bishonen Occulo is. Gay, gay, gay. That will be the big theme. How do I know this? BECAUSE THEY DO IT EVERY FUCKING WEEK.
But that’s not all! After they exhaust every avenue of questioning our sexualty, which consists of recycling last week’s avenues of questioning the opponent’s sexuality and further alienating the LGBTQ community from the sport while simultaneously reinforcing the damaging stereotype that wrestling is low-brow, antiquated conservative fap-fodder targeting those who can’t understand the nuances of a comic book, they’re going to start talking about how they’re going to beat the shit out of us. And oh man, do they get creative here! Watch for ZMac to start dropping puns like an edgy middle schooler who just discovered Hot Topic, Jhonen Vasquez comics, and AFI! Joey Flash is going to channel the spirit of Fred Durst as his shit-talking climbs to such Olympian heights of Neanderthal bravado that even Eminem is going to call bullshit! And Natty Beckman? I mean, he’s just going to do all of this but taken to the logical extreme! The exact. Same. Thing! We could probably make a drinking game out of it at this point!
The man took a step back, his face turning from once blissful excitement at meeting the wrestler to a look of worry for his physical integrity. Howard did not relent, grabbing the man forcibly by the collar with both hands and dragging him back, his voice only continuing to rage as his eyes burned holes in the man.
Howard Black: And people like this shit?! This is good?! Holy crap, I can even predict what they’ll say about me: blah blah blah Corey Black’s last name. Blah blah blah Howard doesn’t hit woman. Blah blah blah Honey Badger. They’re going to call me short. They’re going to call me delusional. They’re going to say I’ve done triple gimmick infringement and that the real Honey Badger is going to kick my ass and show that I’m an imposter. They’re going to talk about how I won’t fight women and call me a sexist. They’ll say I’m just afraid a girl will kick my ass and my misogynist ego couldn’t handle it. They’ll say I’m a rookie in over my head and that I’ve stepped into the dog pound or some other fucking cliché. They’re going to call me out as the weak link and try to get in my head. They’ll say I’m not good enough. They’ll bring up that I once lost to that fucking jobber Zione Redington. Or maybe that I haven’t won a match that’s mattered. That I’m the number one contender for a bottom tier belt, which is the equivalent of winning “Miss Congeniality” at the leper colony beauty pageant.
Howard relaxed as grip on the man’s collar but did not entire relinquish it. Every barked statement slowly deflated that brief flare of passion which had rose in him. The bar was staring now. His hands let go of the man and fell to his sides, but his eyes remained locked on the poor fan. His chin was tilted down, eyes straight.
Howard Black: They’ll say all of this… because it’s easy to say. Because it’s obvious. No one thinks I’m worth the effort on a team featuring Occulo, the former United States champion, and Dune, the winner of the Trilogy Cup and number one contender for the Big Boy Belt. They’re wrong, of course. What they don’t get is that I have to win this match. I can’t afford to lose, let alone be the one who’s pinned or submitted. See, everyone’s trying to call my bluff. Everyone wants to know if the False Honey Badger’s the real deal. What’s Howard Black doing on this team? Who’s Howard Black as good as? What’s Howard Black’s ceiling? Is Howard Black as skilled as we think he is?
I’ll give you the answers to those questions: Howard Black got tapped by the Sentinels because they want to fucking win this tournament and aren’t going to leave it to some shoddy jobber who’s in it for fun. Howard Black is as good as any sumbitch on the Vapor Kings, and he’s sure as shit the better of the two Honey Badgers. If Howard Black has a ceiling, we haven’t seen it yet because while physical ability can peak, the greats have no cap on their hunger. And finally, of course he’s as skilled as you all think. In fact, he’s better than that. He’s Howard motherfucking Black, the imposter, the usurper, the false Honey Badger, the destroyer of Neanderthals who shove shit in their nose to seem superficially interesting or edgy in that 14-year-old boy kind of way.
The rant ending, Howard looked around the bar, the silence thick and oppressive as the patrons and bartender stared. He knew it was time to leave; he picked up his bottle, finished it off with a good chug, and then tore off the label in one peel. He reached back into his pants and retrieved his wallet, slapping a few bills down on the bar, then dismissed himself from the bar, stepping back into the rain which awaited him outside.
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Hostel Mundo Joven Catedral
Mexico City, Mexico
8:20 pm May 8th, 2015
It was a decent but manageable walk back through the rain from Frida’s Bar. Luckily for Howard, the hostel he had booked for his stay in Mexico had only been about 45 minutes by foot, depending on how quickly one could drunkenly stumble through alien streets. The walk back through the dark did not bother Howard. Even as a born and bred country boy, he’d spent enough time in the seedier parts of North and South Omaha to know how to stay safe: keep your head down, don’t make eye contact, and don’t look for trouble lest you find it. The hostel was in an old cathedral which had been renovated, and not only did Howard appreciate the oddity of the establishment but the $23 a night room rate. As he made his way through the corridors to his room, he reflected on the necessity of living in poverty. This, for him, was not a choice. It was not up for discussion.
Unlike ZMac, Howard didn’t enjoy living in substandard rooms with bedbugs and poor plumbing but did so out of simple financial necessity: a dollar goes a long way when you’re supporting a wife and son, even if it is in a state like Nebraska with a low cost of living. All of Howard’s lifestyle choices, from the cheap beer he drank to the shoddy condition of his battered ring attire was the product of that frugality which had been handed down to him by his parents. As he placed his key in the lock of the door, his mind wandered back to a memory of a Christmas home video his mother had recorded. A young Howie tore open a gift eagerly, finding that Ric Flair action figure he’d wanted so badly. When he watched it at an older age, what struck him most was his mother confessing quietly to the camera how little Howard would never know it had been picked up at a yard sale.
The door unlocked with a loud click, and Howard pushed it open to faintly illuminate the modest room with the glow of the hallway lights. Sitting at the modest table in his room sat an odd yet familiar man. His clothes were tattered and dirty, worn with age and the elements. A brown duster hung over a stained, fraying black collared shirt, and a dark brown, unraveling old tie hung loosely around his neck in a simple and sloppy four-in-hand knot. The man’s nails were long, perhaps preternaturally so, and filed to sharp points like the abominable hybrid of a cheap pimp and a wild animal. His legs were clothed in a set of one impeccable black slacks, but age and effort had led them to better days: the knees were slashed and rubbed through like a pair of work jeans, and several seams seemed to be on the verge of bursting at any moment. For all of this haggard and vulgar attire, the most offensive and disagreeable trait of the man was the mask he wore on his head: a great, bloated head of an animal (perhaps a wolf), sagging and moth eaten with droopy ears, stitched muzzle, and empty eye sockets. The wolf head was almost cartoonish in its proportions, completely masking the head of the man and resting upon his shoulders like an ugly caricature.
Howard froze in his tracks, the blood in his veins freezing immediately and replace by a buzzing eldritch sensation of terror he hadn’t felt since he was a boy. There was something familiar about the abominable figure he saw before him; something disquieting yet upsettingly nostalgic. It was at that moment Howard realized he’d seen this man many times. Perhaps hundreds, since he was a boy in high school. The man had never been there, but Howard knew he’d always been in his periphery, sitting in plain sight yet just tucked enough away that he’d never registered. But he was there. He’d been there backstage. He’d been in the parking lot. He’d been on the plane. Now, for the first time in perhaps 15 of quiet hunt, the man sat before him. The man beckoned to Howard, silently motioning towards the chair that sat across the table from him.
Howard stepped into the room as if under compulsion, closing the door behind him and turning the lock. He hit he light switch, turning on the small lamp on the table which provided the sole source of illumination save any light which trickled through the window. As he approached the table, he briefly wondered how long this thing had sat in wait within the dark room. As he came to the table, his sense of inebriation fled him, as did the feeling of paralysis he experienced upon first gazing the man’s hideous form. He cocked his fist back, swinging in a vicious right hook to incapacitate the intruder, his mind flooded with adrenaline as he confronted the silent danger in his room. The man was fast. As Howard swung, the man leaned back in his chair, toppling it, and avoiding the hook. His own hands shot up, catching Howard by the wrist and looping his left arm between Howard’s right arm and body. With the momentum turned in his favor, he slammed Howard’s head down on the table, twisting his arm back mockingly into the position for the Kimura Lock but applying to pressure other than to hold Howard’s struggling head to the table. As he spoke, it was like two voices in one coming from nowhere in particular: one of a thin, slicing timbre and high register and a second in contrast as a low, booming base.
The Wolf-Headed Man: That’s unwise, Howard.
Howard struggled, his every sense and synapse aflame with both anger and sheer terror. He struggled like a wounded animal in a trap as the hunters circled, yet despite his efforts he could not break the grasp of the man. As his struggles slowly weakened and eventually ceased, the Wolf-Headed Man released the hold, righted his over turned chair, and sat back down, folding his hands together on the table. Howard sat down in the chair opposite him, holding the formerly trapped arm; though there had been no pressure applied in the lock, the simple momentum shift had been enough to wrench it, causing a painful throb to tremor down his bicep. Howard glared thermite and curare at the figure, his voice trembling in a gritted-teeth cocktail of rage and fear.
Howard Black: Who the fuck are you?
The Wolf-Headed Man did not respond. Though the empty eye sockets were deep and void of any source of light, Howard could feel the infernal man’s gaze like a cobra from deep within the mask. The room hung in a sort of unholy silence, devoid even of the sound which would accompany a relatively early night in Mexico City. His patience and nerves began to fray as Howard raised his voice, tipping his hand to reveal the depth of emotions coursing through him.
Howard Black: I said, who the fuck are you?!
The Wolf-Headed Man remained silent as the grave. The hair on Howard’s arms and back of his neck prickled as icicles ran down his spine. The dull sensation of the crucifix necklace hanging around his neck seemed like some sort of hideous and blasphemous cosmic joke. His voice dropped again, quaking low and seething through his clenched jaw.
Howard Black: I know you can talk. You just did. Say something.
The Wolf-Headed Man canted his head in to an odd angle towards his shoulder, leaning forward across the table slowly to close the distance with Howard. In reflex, Howard leaned back, slowly pushing his chair back across the stone floor.
The Wolf-Headed Man: You have a big match this Sunday, Howard.
The silence hung between them as Howard processed the words. The tone of the Wolf-Headed Man was monotonous and matter-of-fact. To Howard, it seemed more like a casual statement of observation than any topic of conversation.
Howard Black: Yes. I do.
The Wolf-Headed Man: A big match. On the Lord’s Day. Has Howard Black been keeping up with his reading of the Good Book?
The blasphemous mockery of the statement sent bolts of intense rage and loathing through Howard. He tightened his hands into fists, his knuckles growing white, as his mind grappled between his instincts of violence and better judgment that the man before him was not to be trifled with.
Howard Black: Say your piece, demon.
The Wolf-Headed Man: Demon? No. I come from neither here nor there, Howard. A friend, Howard. Consider me a friend.
The silence lingered once more. Howard wanted to speak; to fight. He wanted to raise up and cast the man out the window he likely entered through. Yet he could not find the strength nor mental fortitude to bring himself to his feet. He simply sat and listened, ensnared with fear and loathing.
The Wolf-Headed Man: You’ve been doing well, Howard. Despite the setback of your debut and the unfortunate pairing with Eve Vega in week two, you’ve been climbing the ladder. People are noticing you, Howard. They’re chanting your name. Your wants. Your desires. Your dreams. They’re just at the tips of your fingers. All you need to do is reach out and snatch them.
The Wolf-Headed Man went silent for a moment, slowly leaning back from his forward position to an upright posture in the chair.
The Wolf-Headed Man: People want you to fail, Howard. Nothing in life comes guaranteed. This week, you face your biggest hurdle. The Vapor Kings, Howard. Everything you are not. They’re strong in numbers. They are ripe in accolades and prestige. The call of their names rumbles through the valleys and rends mighty oaks from the soil. Truly, I say, Howard: this is your trial by fire.
Silence again. The Wolf-Headed Man unclasped his hands and laid them palm-down on the table. His skin was unusually pale, like that of a hospital patient.
The Wolf-Headed Man: You, Howard, are alone. You have a team, but you are not of this team. You are not a Sentinel, Howard. The Sentinels are not Imperium, nor are they PANTHEON. They are a response. Historically, responses never transcend their role as foil and adversary. Their purpose is to provide challenge and adversity to the true focal point. This, Howard, is how it has always been ordained. While PANTHEON and Imperium do battle, all fall between the cracks. All are defined by the true spectacle. Without it, they are naught. They are meaningless and trivial. Cattle on a battle field attempting to graze as the bombs burst around them.
But suppose, Howard, that it needn’t be that way. Suppose one was willing to grasp that position as focal point and steal it away. Subvert the warring kingdoms to background noise and shows of strength. Then, I say, that man has become ruler of all.
Howard fidgeted uncomfortably. His heart beat in his skull, and his brow wetted with the condensations of sweat. His courage was gone. His fighting spirit had been stripped from his soul and impaled. His voice was like a whisper.
Howard Black: What do you want?
The Wolf-Headed Man: As it is presently written, Howard, you and the Sentinels are to serve as the display of strength for Imperium and the Vapor Kings. You are the sacrificial lamb on the altar. No one believes that you will win this match. Not the bookies, nor the locker room, nor the front office, nor the audience. By your hand, you have the ability to alter this destiny. But understand that this comes with consequence. You are not Imperium. You are not PANTHON. You are not the Dark Riders Gang nor the Sentinels. You are alone. You are dust in the wind. Insignificant. But should you leave Sunday victorious, this shall no longer be the case. You will be hunted, Howard. You will be known. You will not simply have climbed the mountain but raced to the top. People will hate you. They will want your head. And they will come. Should you leave this Sunday victorious but cannot secure the Trios Cup, you will have no one. But you will still be known.
The Wolf-Headed Man rose from his chair, pushing it in after himself. He gazed down at Howard, the head hanging low like a leering jack-in-the-box.
The Wolf-Headed Man: Remember this, Howard, that while you are cheered, it is because you are the underdog. No one believes in you. No one is entertaining the idea that you could shock the world. They do not know you. They do not know who you were or who you will be. You’re a jester in the court or a second-team gladiator. You will not be acknowledged for your merit. You never had. You must take it. Forcefully. Remember who you are. Cast off the mantle of David and become Goliath.
The man walked with unusual grace and fluidity for a thing of such loathsome form. A taloned hand wrapped around the knob and turned it, but he did not yet open the door.
The Wolf-Headed Man: You will see me next when it is necessary. Should you heed my words, perhaps I shall see you next week. Should you not heed my words, Howard, or simply fail, you shall see me when fortune merits.
The figure opened the door and walked out into the hallway, closing the door behind him. Howard sat frozen in his chair, his eyes locked on the door. He tried to pray, but he could not find the words.
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Even if he had a team now, some rituals were best left undisturbed. Howard Black sat alone outside the arena, smoking his pre-match cigarettes, turning over the events of the week in his head. On one hand, the PSA with Thomas Bates was an act of legitimate good he had done. Thomas was a man of impeccable integrity, and Howard was glad to have begun forging this relationship of respect and perhaps friendship with the man he’d be facing against one day for the Television Title. On the other hand, the memory of Friday night had seared itself into Howard’s mind like a hot iron on a cow’s hide. Howard did not know who the Wolf-Headed Man was or why he’d come to him, but deep within his soul he knew that if the man was not the Devil, he was very much like him. Howard had canceled the remainder of his reservation at the hostel the next morning, moving to a different one across town. When a cathedral could be unhallowed by the presence of that man, Howard knew that God no longer resided in such structure.
His mind drifted to the Book of Revelations as he took a long drag off of the smoldering Camel Turkish Royal cigarette. He thought of the great battles of the Heavens and the opening of the Seven Seals. He thought of suffering as a tool of Good and comfort as a tool of Evil. The Fall of Great Babylon. The perverted Trinity of the Beast of the Sea, the Dragon, and the False Prophet. Of Christ with a tongue like a sword, with seven eyes and seven horns, stars in his hand and fire in his eyes.
Tonight, Howard and the Sentinels would go to battle against Great Babylon. Should a war be starting, it was time to strike while the sides were raw and young, for in war there could be no side of good and evil. A war between PANTHEON and Imperium was tyranny no matter the outcome, not because either side was good or evil but by its projection upon all. It could not be one who slays the other; it had to be those unaligned who tore them down should this blood feud not consume the destinies of all. Tonight, Howard and the Sentinels had the opportunity to deliver destiny its first crippling blow. As Imperium versus PANTHEON lingered on the tips of the tongues of those watching, both teams could be completely crushed and the entire war nipped at the bud tonight. Four teams derived from two sides and four teams derived of all whom remained.
The Wolf-Headed Man was right, and Howard knew this to a degree. Yet, he did not believe that the creature’s prediction nor advice was without flaw. Unlike the suggestions given to him, Howard saw far beyond his own position within the federation. When he closed his eyes and quieted his thoughts, it was as though Howard could see the whole machine and how it worked. No one was greater than the environment. No group was greater. To think otherwise was a fool’s game.
Tonight, Howard knew, was one of the first real nights of destiny. The vicissitudes of fate had drawn this parallel, and the forces of evil and tyranny seethed beyond the halls, plotting conquest and gluttony. By the merits of fickle word and reputation, these were the Emperors and the Kings; the established powers and Trinity. Perhaps they could take that. Howard Black and the Sentinels didn’t need it to walk the righteous path.
Tonight, the Vapor Kings would meet their mirror. Dune, the Beast from the Seas of Sand would face off against Natural ICE Beckman as a possible foretelling of their battle for the throne at the summit. Occulo, the Dragon, would face off against Joey Flash, the Claudius-in-arms and self-proclaimed Caesar of Imperium. That left Howard Black and Zombie McMorris; Honey Badger versus Honey Badger. Real Honey Badger versus False Honey Badger.
The False Honey Badger.
The False Prophet.
Howard took a final drag off of his cigarette and ground it under the toe of his battered wrestling boots. He pulled open the door to the arena and made his way towards the stage, flipping the hood of his sweatshirt over his face to block the stares and gazes of those around him.
They think I’ll fail. They know I’ll fail.
Howard Black waited in the wing amongst the other wrestlers waiting to take the stage. As the lights beyond the curtain dimmed, Howard closed his eyes and contemplated the match before him. He liked the odds.
***OOC Notes: The PSA featuring Thomas Uriel Bates and Howard Black will be featured in TUB's RP***