Post by John Rabid on Oct 1, 2016 17:48:39 GMT -5
If you want a vision of the future, imagine a Bates boot stamping on creativity, freedom and truth - forever.
1. A prelude to your world dying.
The room was dark and without a constant shape to anchor it. Sounds beyond the room's tinted windows echoed inside; car horns and congested traffic symbolic of a metropolitan cosmopolis. While sitting in the shadows, a well dressed man in his early thirties admired the finely aged beverage that lined an ornate clear cut glass in his hand. The man allowed the red wine to slosh left and right at his leisure as he savored the magnitude of the plan. It was perfect and symbolic; but most of all. It was entertaining.
The man adjusted an earpiece as his smile was greeted with a blue electric hue supplied by a large flat screen television. The 4k imagery masked from inspection, it's secrets hidden from us as that dastardly man began to speak:
Johnny Rabid: The war to end all wars. Such an odd idea. War has always been traditionally synonymous with failure. The dissolution of order, the slide into chaos. And yet, this notion...it strikes me as being damn near perfect. The perfect response. An exodus...inverted.
Rabid adjusted his deep crimson tie as he listened to a deluge of responses. He nodded and smiled, perfectly content to agree as he removed a loose length of thread from his pristine bespoke charcoal suit.
Johnny Rabid: Personally, I've always considered myself a humanist. Perhaps the last humanist on planet Earth. It's never been mankind's capacity to create that makes us...you fascinating. It's your ability to combine that creativity with destruction. That's such a special skill; it's precious and unique. There are worlds out there that rule billions yet haven't a clue how man does what it does. They fear you. That's why an alien craft will never land on the White House lawn, that fear of possibility. Such a wonderful thing. Yes...precious. And oh so entertaining.
Rabid takes a swig from that cut glass, the Chateau Lafite's warm fire fills the void where Johnny's soul should be. It brings him closer to humanity; to the fire. But still, it eludes him. Yet in that brief moment he sees the horror, the delicate balance between illumination and desperation, the spectrum of emotion that acts as the touchpaper for conflict. For war. For an approaching end to all things. And it excites him.
Johnny Rabid: My son asked me yesterday If I cared about WAR. I told him no. Dorian looked at me with a puzzled face afterwards. He wondered why I didn't care about the match, the first time in my career that I felt such apathy towards an event. I told him the truth. “WAR is simply the beginning. The first step. What comes after? That's the ticket to the dance.” He didn't get it. His face too young and innocent to see the bigger picture. And that's the beauty of it all...because we are dealing with children here. They'll never see it coming.
A small patter of applause echoes from Rabid's earpiece as he checks his gold plated Omega; it's three twenty three, on a chilly September afternoon. Johnny is scheduled to meet up with his wife, Emily by five. But before then, there's a small matter he must deal with. One that involves a face from the past.
Johnny Rabid: Gentlemen, I must take my leave of you now. We begin the expulsion in five days. What was that? Mercy on their souls? No...no no. Souls are one's legacy. An immortality. There can be no mercy for them. All shall drown beneath. Good day.
Rabid allowed the cut glass to slip from his fingers, it fell to the floor as Rabid stood from his large leather chair. The liquid bleed a red stain into the beige carpet as Rabid crushed the goblet underfoot. He smiled at the symbolism. His teeth, just for a moment, were jagged and eager for blood.
2. It cannot be stopped.
Special Agent Donald Mosley hated New York. It wasn't the people nor the town that especially aggravated him. No, It was personal history. A trail of morbid discovery that lead to his outcast status within the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The city had great coffee, but bad memories.
This day wasn't going to tip the balance back in the big apples favour. Mosley had to meet up with “The Englishman”, today to discuss boundaries and if they even existed any more. Ever since the exodus, Rabid had been exploring possibilities, furthering his stranglehold over secret societies on a global scale. He was the point man for a multitude of organisations that had a major influence over industry and commerce. Before Rabid's expansion they where rudderless and harmless. Now they had a leader at the helm that recognised their potential, and that made for some disquieting reading.
The king in yellow. That was what they were calling Rabid these days. The source. The adversely. The Grand Serpent. Men and women knelt at his feet and offered their eternal allegiance to him; eager to spent time in his presence in the vein hope that they would garner favour, and in turn, be rewarded.
Politicians, diplomats, dot-com billionaires. Rabid's circles were ostentatious and bold. Not the kind of move that Mosley had associated with Rabid in the past. Rabid had always traditionally played his cards close; in the public eye just long enough to be noticed, but never there enough to be dangerous, slipping back into the darkness, the snake in the long grass.
But now, he was flaunting his power, and that terrified Mosley, because a gloating Rabid meant only one thing. Something was coming. Something terrible and terrifying and completely unstoppable. Mosley had to know what that was, even with his arm in a sling he had to forego medical leave and confront the enigma. Face to face with a would be tyrant.
Central park zoo seemed oddly quite today, the lions in their cages prowled their territory not out of pride, but from a stance of fear. Birds fluttered madly in their Avery; wings slicing themselves apart upon their caged walls in a flurry of hectic movement; blind terror overtaking rational thought. He was coming, and all around Mosley where a thousand species telling him to run and hide. But Mosley could not hear nor could he listen, the churning base of his stomach had to be ignored. Rabid must be confronted.
“Hello, Agent. I brought flowers.”
Mosley turned and saw his opposite. His counterpart stood there with a swagger; Rabid seemed content with the world. Often Mosley had noticed that Rabid appeared on edge; expecting the unexpected. But not today, it was as if whatever war was about to occur, it had already been won.
Special Agent Donald Mosley: Flowers?
Johnny Rabid: For Harambe. Most Zoo's now have a dedicated shrine in his honour, not just Cincinnati. It's good for business.
Special Agent Donald Mosley: What the hell do you care about a dead ape?
Johnny Rabid: Well, we're talking...aren't we?
The matter-of-factness of the reply chilled Mosley. Rabid never joked, even when firing off a quip. It wasn't in his nature.
Special Agent Donald Mosley: we should grab a coffee. I want to talk.
Johnny Rabid: Lead on.
The zoo's cafeteria was empty save for the two old soldiers. Mosley sipped his espresso, it wasn't grub street; but it would do. Rabid had his customary glass of water that remained untouched. The two sat in a booth away from the prying eyes and ears of the world. The scene resembled a cold war movie from the nineteen sixties. Two spies exchanging intel over the fate of the world.
Special Agent Donald Mosley: What's happening, Rabid. Why the return? Why WAR?
Johnny Rabid: Why WAR? Because it's about to begin.
Special Agent Donald Mosley: What? What is?
Johnny Rabid: The expulsion. This country was founded upon the belief that it's ruling Government was unfit to continue in power. Revolution. Insurrection. Call it what you will. But the hour is at hand. And not you, nor anyone else can stop it.
Mosley sighed, he had to keep his composure now; simple questions would result in straight answers.
Special Agent Donald Mosley: Casualties?
Johnny Rabid: High.
Special Agent Donald Mosley: Canvass?
Johnny Rabid: Everywhere. Look, Donald, If you wish to make the call to your superior, then go ahead. As long as you realize that your section chief, is just another soldier to me, just another willing sacrifice awaiting my orders. (Rabid smiled a razor lined grin) Oh, but you already knew this, didn't you? That's why the meeting, a last minute attempt to reason with me? How very courageous. The brave bird with the broken wing. Flutter away if you can, it can't be stopped now. We start with the WCF, the heartbeat of a nation, and through this attack we move on to the mind. Until the process is complete and the future is set in stone.
Special Agent Donald Mosley: What about Seth? He stopped you before. The exodus.
Johnny Rabid: Agent, you can lock every door. In every room. In every safe house in America. And I will still find you. Seth tried, he fought for so long to evade me, but my truth is inevitable. War is the beginning of that truth. My one truth. My one magistry. My one kingdom. I once offered Seth peace, he refused. So now we have WAR, and the ultimatum that comes with it. No Zero Tolerance can stop it. No plague or Brotherhood can evade it.
Special Agent Donald Mosley: Evade what? What is it?
Johnny Rabid:......it. That broken wing of yours, how did you come by the wound?
Special Agent Donald Mosley: Homeland security raid on a cell. We seized bomb parts but I took one in the shoulder. It went through and through though. I should be back on active in a few weeks. Why?
Johnny Rabid: You should use this injury as an excuse to retire. Call it fate telling you the odds are getting slimmer. Because they are. And I'd hate to have to buy you flowers.
Special Agent Donald Mosley: Are you threatening me, Rabid?
Johnny Rabid: Now Donald, why would I waste my time doing that? It's not necessary. Not anymore. Listen, and tell me what you hear.
Special Agent Donald Mosley: W-What?
Johnny Rabid: Humor me. I implore you.
Donald looks around; no staff appear to be in attendance. No sound can be heard. Nether human nor animal. It's as if the world has been evacuated.
Special Agent Donald Mosley: What...what have you done?
Rabid leans over the table and takes a sip of the espresso, a symbolic gesture. The ownership of a soul passing from one, to another.
Johnny Rabid: I could have made this a lot worse for you, Donald. I could have switched off your senses. But as it is, I've simply switched you off from the world. I feel a few months of quite reflection will do you good.
Donald's heart ulcerated fear as he stood, eyes darting left and right as the hemorrhage continued. He was alone, yet not alone. A man trapped in a world he cannot interact with. Trapped in amber. A coffin of Rabid's making. A quite Earth where only Donald's screams could be heard.
Special Agent Donald Mosley: Damn You! What have you done to me? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?
Johnny Rabid: I have given you peace...in a time of WAR. Good day, agent. Enjoy your stay in paradise.
Johnny stood up, he drank the rest of Mosley's coffee as the packed cafeteria observed the special agent spinning left and right, his good arm out stretched, searching for purchase as if blind. Screaming. Hoping to be dragged back into the living world as security arrived to restrain the odd fellow, who they wrestled to the ground with efficient aplomb; holding him down until an ambulance carted Mosley away in a straitjacket. To an isolation unit for observation. The ultimate irony.
Rabid left the flowers on Donald's chair as he departed with a smile. The gesture wasn't an oversight.
3. Home Invasion
The first thing all you people need to realize is that this is not your fault. We left, you moved in. The brochure said that you would be safe, that all that upsetting “history” had been expunged, removed by those kind fellows from C.S.I Bates. It specifically mentioned that WCF's patented forensic team would always be there for you; no matter how odd they would seem. A queer gaggle of human mysteries just dying to protect you from the truth, peculiarities such as the strange, androgynous, shape shifting bellhop, the woman manning the door with the crayons, who said clear as day that those nasty bad news bears were never coming back. Then there was the fat southern oaf working security, who seemed like such a nice man, even with the swastika on his arm and the black man he kept on a leash...”Servant CJ” I think his name was. While hugging the darkness and whistling Amy Lee tunes to herself was a neurotic transvestite goth, who appeared scary at first, sucking the life out of each edition of slam like a vampire. Good with a mop though, an expert in cleaning up truth and folding it away. Made everything clean in her own peculiar, right of Hitler, kooky little way. What was her name, again? Could have been “Twit-lite”, so difficult to remember when history is being torn up daily and replaced with Bates-faced fucking lies.
It was never your fault though. How were you supposed to know that you were being groomed by a cabal of expert liars and frauds? Maybe if you had seen the spy hole by the shower sooner it might have given you a clue; that heavy redneck breathing tinged with the taste of Yung roadkill upon the air should have set the alarm bells ringing, but we can't always be alert now can we? After all, this was supposed to be your new dream home; this idyllic paradise condo, free from those ghastly invaders and their subversive ideas about free speech and sexual/racial equality. Bah! Next they'll be voting in a non white president and calling for free health care and we can't have that, now can we?
So, here you are, in your house of sand and fog. I imagine your worried right about now. A lump of concern trapped in that dry throat of yours as you pull the covers up to your face and wonder about the future. Are they close? Are they riding over the hill right now, those ring wraiths with their past and their history. Ready to demolish and destroy. It's a dark and stormy night at the Bates Motel. And mother mountain is calling. Maybe you can calm your nerves with a distraction, take your mind off those diabolical invaders and their pesky subversion. You put a quarter in the machine as the bed begins to shake; magic fingers they called it; a strange dinosaur from a bygone era, but what's that sound beneath the mattress? Is it laughter? You pull it aside to discover three strange men beneath, two are wearing juggalo face-paint, the other thinks he's cowboy James storm.
You inquire why they're beneath your mattress, they speak in a strange tongue known only as “gibberish”, about how they've heard that the magic finger is supposed to induce an erection, and they're desperate to know what that feels like. Oh, those crazy, crazy ZT boys! Such whimsical humor! They of course, refuse to leave, because this is their house now and you're just a guest. They proceed to ramshack the apartment and rob you of an hour of your life, an hour spent reading through their worthless brand of juvenile shit over and over as you try to understand what Seth sees in them, but it's vapour. It just isn't there. Just fart jokes without a punchline. The kind of senseless crap that Rob Zombie gets away with each time he commits another travesty to the screen and has the fucking audacity to call it film.
So you decide to hit the local bar, it's late but the clown is playing all week. You know him. The Janus man. Mister Duality. The clown named, Battle. The lights are dim as he takes to the stage. “You fuckin' suck faggott!” emanates from the back of the bar...you try to unravel the accent and cadence of the heckler but it could be anyone really. Thousands have witnessed this debacle over and over again. This senseless show of drudgery. This show of rudderless lunacy as the clown mimes a heart breaking. Gemini raises a picture of a dead son and cries over the portrait. It's Christian Malganaggi. The one with the box office.
Then you realize where that heckler's voice is coming from.
Your name is Seth Lerch. And this is the hell you have created.
4. A Perfect World
Who controls the past controls the future. Who controls the present controls the past.
- George Orwell.
The rhythmic clatter of the young boy's feet picked up pace as he leaned back in his high chair, his nose recoiling from the cold tapioca pudding that threatened his taste buds with a future of bland putridness. Clack! Clack! Clack! Went his feet as they caught the underside of the dining table. The cheap plastic and linoleum surface shook as the boy kicked and kicked; eyes widening as he peered through the narrow crack in the door between the kitchen and the living room. While his vision could only make out blurred shapes and movement, the sounds of the television echoed back a more pronounced narrative. A tale of exciting conflict that greeted the boy's prepubescent ears with violent joy as Hell's Angel fought a young Odin Balfore for the right to challenge for a world title that, twenty years on, would be lost and forgotten.
Then came the thud, the volume on the television rose as the boy stopped rocking. Now the war bleed out from the screen and into the room beyond. He could hear bodies colliding. A man and woman throwing punches; furniture splintered as plates shattered. There was no sport here, just infinite desperation as screams turned the boy to stone; his expression locked into a frozen like gaze as the door closed. A single creek as the key turned. It would be several hours before the child would be allowed to leave that high chair, his meagre four years on planet earth had consisted of far too many of these days...it forced his imagination to dream, of escape. Of flight.
The boy considered his immediate options as that tapioca began to gain a strange new allure. It's wallpaper paste consistency would at least prove to be an immediate challenge. A war he could contest and, if his nerve could hold out? Win. All he had to do, was think about escape. Think about flight.
Dream of helicopters.
Several years pass, the toddler discovers his fathers booze cabinet and duly sets to work learning the family business. By his fifteenth birthday, the term “delinquent” had become synonymous with the child around his local Pennsylvanian neighbourhood. The community carried scares from his drunken escapades, shattered windows, keyed cars; nothing too catastrophic, but the boy was still learning. His dreams of escape merged with ideas of conquest; that slither of a world beyond that haunted him through the crack in the door. It was a strange new country he wanted to invade and shape. It represented power. It represented something broken he needed to fix.
WAR would be his epiphany. The Englishman had said so in his dreams. For some reason, he had to listen and follow his instructions.
The future was set in stone.
My name is Jonathan Rabid. And this is my declaration of War. War upon you. Upon your way of life. Upon your family. War upon your friends and beliefs. War upon your church. War upon your children, and their friends, and their teachers and their dealers. I declare war upon you, and your ridiculous, “Sethocracy”, because everything that supposedly makes you real, is empty.
Jokes without punchlines. Just this blight. This simmering taste of bile that rises up in my throat as I listen to you pretend to be me. Pretend to be the giants that lead a righteous exodus away from this place for four telling months. And in our wake? You all swooped in. Squatters. Homeless cunts. A troop of bad actors attempting to stop a hemorrhage that bleed out months ago. You all tried so hard, didn't you?
But guess what?
The enviable happened. You fucked up. You slipped and fell, and in doing so, you made a mockery of the WCF. And that cannot be allowed to continue. My one intent from now until your collective pitiful demise is to shred everything you hold dear to pieces. To destroy your wrestling careers from moment to moment. To make you suffer in that ring, and to shove that suffering into the faces of twenty thousand screaming fans, that will eventually forget you, because failure breeds amnesia.
You should hate me.
You should despise me.
But instead you'll try and sidestep this with a passing jibe, because you, and everyone else in this company, are blind. You stagger and falter when you should stand true and fight. You mumble idiocy rather than scream for blood. You have no heart. No soul. No fire for this business. Even when I dissect you, eviscerate you, you will still just sit there in your ignorant bliss as your body is broken and scattered to the four winds. You think yourself anaesthetised to this attack because you think this game is just punching the clock. After all, all you need to do is keep your head down. Show up on time. And go through the motions. As long as you never look the boss in the eye, everything will be okay. You'll get your shot. You'll have your gold.
It is not enough.
You are not safe.
You do not live in a new age of abject comfort, the monsters have not died. They did not relent and submerge back into the ocean. We live. We watch. And we are displeased. We find you lacking. You shame the badge you fight under. You're lazy and fat. You wallow like pigs in shit. Every last one of you fuckers has mediocrity running through your clogged veins, it's like a storm cloud of losers, a rolling mass of malaise that tears a once thriving community apart. An infection, breeding a collective atherosclerosis that will murder this company in it's wetted bed.
Then, when the doors close?
You'll all move on and infect another once worthwhile institution, because none of you have any self respect. No reason to be proud. Because you think it better to embrace self pity, to use it as a trope to be different. To paint your face and hide in the shadows. To be a clown. Even when offered opportunity after opportunity to strive forward and innovate, you instead hunch your shoulders and blame the world. Month after month. The erosion of a legacy. One you never gave a fuck about, because not one of you was ever good enough to contribute to it in the first place.
And yet, you still think yourself untouchable. You have your tantrums, you disappear. You return. In the end, the fans have no choice. They have to love you. Forgive you.
My scalpel is sharp. It cuts to the quick. It stings as you bleed out. Shall we begin the operation? Don't struggle, it's a waste of energy. You should probably know, I don't just declare War. I declare victory. This preamble is simply a set up for the parade. A bow and curtsy to the crowd as your heads rest on pikes nailed to the battlements. Those cheers? Those cheers are for me. For the monster. I bring them freedom. From you.
Your time is already over.
Shall we begin the festivities?