Post by David Sanchez on Dec 12, 2016 14:35:59 GMT -5
VII: Dirty Epic.
I get my kicks on channel six.
to the off-peak electricity,
And the light blinds my eyes.
And I feel dirty.
And the light blinds my eyes.
And I feel so shaken in my faith.
Here comes christ on crutches.
And here comes another god.
Here comes another god.
Like a buffalo thunder.
Track Listing:
(A)
1a) Jack the Mindful
2a) Pantheon Detective Agency Investigations 1: Then
3a) #AintThatAKickInTheHead
4a) Roots feat. Andre Holmes
5a) #iBelieve
6a) Daddy’s Gone feat. Eric Price
7a) #DarkWhorses
8a) Jack the Watchful
9a) The Lost Art of Murder feat. Corey Black
(B)
1b) The Nameless One feat. Anon.Y.Mous
2b) #HangmanSanchez
3b) Free feat. Odin Balfore
4b) #VeniVidiVici
1a) Jack the Mindful
In the beginning, it remembered a sense of surprise and the vibrations. As though something within a moderate distance had been reduced to nothingness by an explosive of sorts. That was all, then it just waited. For years it waited, centuries even but waiting was easy because there was no memory of before, just now and now alone. It knew it was waiting, but it didn't even know what it was, let alone what it was waiting for. It just was, with no way to mark time or even to have the idea of time itself. So it waited, and it watched. There was not much to see at first; fire, rocks, water, and eventually some little crawly things, which began to change and get bigger after a while. They didn't do very much but to eat one another and reproduce, but there was nothing to compare this to, and so for a while this was enough. It would have to be enough.
12:45, Monday, November 21st, 2016
Metropolitan Correctional Center, Chicago.
David felt like recycled shit, shoved unwillingly through a paper-shredder and he had been feeling like this for a few days now; fucking influenza. He had been a little off his game last night during Slam, thankfully Joseph Malignaggi hadn't been and the two had still walked out victorious. Yet here he was, the very next morning regretting the decision to compete and not really doing much else but feeling sorry for himself as he raised a quilted tissue to his face and blew his nose loudly in the back of the limo. A day of bed rest was what he needed, but he knew that wasn't something he was going to grant himself. Not now, not when the trace had finally come through and he had the caller's identity. Such things were easier to come by when you basically own and operate one of the largest, and yet most lenient police forces in North America, as he did.
Barry was the caller. Barry Adamson. What kind of a name was this for a conduit? He had been expecting to be meeting with a gentleman named Damien or Cervantes, but Barry? Where was the appeal in this man? Why did the Jackal have any use for a simple small-time crook like this and where did he fit into the grander scheme of things? Another game, most likely being played by the entity to show David who was in control. Of that power-struggle though, David was all too aware of where he ranked in the midst of things and that was wherever Jack wanted him to be. Nevertheless he embarked on this crusade to speak with the man whose body the Jackal had been using to communicate with him. Thankfully, the prison was only a few blocks from City Hollow, formerly-Hall and so he could fit this excursion effortlessly into his lunch hour
The limousine came to a stop and David wasted little time in introducing his Italian loafers to the tarmac, slamming the jet-black door behind him as he slipped a Marlboro Red into his mouth, ignited it, inhaled deeply, exhaled smoke and approached the driver’s window.
“Keep this safe for me, boy. Shit depreciates in prison.”
He slipped a broken watch of platinum from his wrist and a wedding ring of identical material from his finger, handing them to the young man whose job it was to drive him around town. Along with a ten dollar bill for good measure; which he basically crumpled up and pinged through the window. He then turned his attention towards the correctional facility, leaving the driver to park the limo as he started to walk towards the entrance, pinging the filter tip into some bushes with his thumb and index finger before stepping into the building and feeling the cool breeze of air conditioning send a tiny chill up his spine.
Practically everyone inside was either a police officer or a prison guard, their robotic, expressionless faces as much of a give-away as their badges and truncheons. The Mayor glides past them all with an air of entitlement, signing in the visitor’s log before being buzzed through an automatic door of congregated iron bars by a butch looking woman in her thirties with a trendy lesbian hairstyle barely concealed by her mandatory uniform’s hat. A thought stays with him, even as the people pass him by and that thought is of what Joey had said to him last week in regards to his predicament. He had spoke with such confidence that David feared he wasn’t taking it seriously, how could he when he had already lost so much? The Jackal had taken something from him that left a hole in his soul he would never be able to fill with trinkets and treasures, and now he was looking at David with those same hungry eyes, famished. His insatiable appetite for the suffering of man echoing like the rumble of a hungry stomach in an empty room.
“Who are you here to see Mr. Mayor?”
“Adamson, Barry. They said he was in cell block D when I called yesterday.”
The clerk at the final desk’s expression changed from vacant to disgust as David said that name, but why? He’d checked the database himself twice, Barry was only in for robbery, his third violation of justice, but first black-handed crime; resulting in a mere thirty day sentence. The man was having some difficulty in understanding why the Mayor would like to exchange words with such a degenerate perhaps? At least that was what he had hoped, but as he feared this was not the case. It was never so simple where Jack was involved. Truth be told, David was amazed he had been able to trace the call at all, the specter must have been getting sloppy, weakening even. Sadly, as the man begins to tell him a story, David realizes that true evil never lessens, loosens it’s grip, nor dies.
“Adamson, he was a model inmate until yesterday evening. Fucking space cadet flipped out in the lunch line and bit a chunk out of a guard’s face. They’ve got him isolated down in solitary until we can come up with a fitting punishment. Motherfucker’s been talking to himself through the night, there’s a shrink coming to see him later on. I almost thought you were him, but then I recognized you from the billboards.”
“Fuckin’ ‘ay. Three more years. You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t vote, but um, thanks, for the job and such.”
David scans the public service employee up and down, not really listening to the insignificant words that pour from his mouth. He wasn’t here for some friendly chit-chat or a little pow-wow with his delightful constituency; no fuck that. He was done with pandering to the public now for another three years, or at least until the next scandal made the headlines.
“Like I said, you’re welcome.”
Now aware that the mayor isn’t really listening to him, this made obvious as the muscle-bound South-American picks some excess food out of the gaps in his teeth, the guard provides Sanchez with a little more direction, which proves a thankless job as his mayor-elect turns away from him without so much as a smile and heads back the way he came.
“If you head back down the way you just came and take your first left you’ll be in the solitary confinement wing. There should be a guy at the desk, just tell him you’re here to see Adamson in cell two-eighteen.”
A few corridors and some lapsed pleasantries later, David finds himself standing alone in a dark, concrete hall, staring through the hatch in a congregated iron door at Barry, a balding shell of a man. The simple son of a butcher and an IT clerk, Adamson greets David with an empty gaze and smiles at the Mayor, meeting David’s cold stare through Jack’s eyes as he feels the entity surging through his body, inhaling the Jackal like the black smoke he hides behind. On the other side of the door, Sanchez looks up and down the hall to the entrance and exit of this wing, each door being heavily guarded by an armed officer.
“David, I was wondering when you’d come around.”
He didn’t even try to mask his voice behind Barry’s, what would have been the point? They both knew what was happening here. The Jackal had chosen to use Adamson’s mortality as his method of transportation for the time being, as David had thought, but as he peered through the opening at this unimpressive specimen, he was filled with wonder. Why had Jack selected such an inferior being when he could offer his ‘wares to any man in exchange for their compliance? Fool’s gold was an expensive commodity, and was often measured in mortal blood.
“Barry?”
The petty criminal, this embodiment of a wolf in sheep’s clothing smiled a wry grin at David before responding with a tone of impatience, as though he had been waiting for this moment since the very start of his incarceration. It had all been part of the plan in the grander scheme of things, everything from David being able to trace the call to the manner in which the Jackal had suggested that broken, babbling Barry with the eyes like Benson and Hedges burns in the snow bite a chunk out of the guard yesterday, ensuring he’d be able to speak with the mayor in a more intimate setting. Jack had only needed to offer Barry the seedling of an idea, and yet it flourished as organically as if he had thought of it himself.
“Let’s skip the charade shall we? We’re all acquainted here already, pay no mind to my little medium of sorts. He is but a means to an end. Wave at the mayor, Barry. Good boy”
The conduit waves, his fingers contorting in an unhealthy manner as the Jackal operates his body like an instrument. A complete vacancy is present upon his expressionless face and his skin seems to have developed some sort of damaged pigmentation, causing it to grey; most likely stemming from the entity’s presence. Sanchez frowns and studies the pawn, waving obediently.
“Very well then, good morning Jack.”
“Good morning, David.”
A creepy smile takes over the blank canvas and Jack’s warped concept of fun begins to shine through as though the man he inhabited were made of glass, even though his body has transcended the situation, his ideals are known. He was enjoying meddling in mortal affairs, as had become his vice. Just like anybody else, or anything else as it were on this plain of reality, Jack had a weakness; an obsession. It just so happened to be an appetite for destruction that was proving insatiable; a thirst for the suffering and misfortune of man.
“I’m assuming, a foolish sport I know but, nonetheless, you want something from me?”
Curious as to what this dementor’s purpose was, David asked the loaded question and was met with a chuckle and a sigh as though the Jackal were growing bored with his predictability. Barry Adamson falls to the floor in a heap, and begins to convulse; his face contorting and flickering between his own likeness and that pointed-bearded shadow of the Jackal. The man cries out in pain, as David watches on and the guards approach him from either side of the corridor.
Stepping away as the armed guards open the cell door he is able to see only two things. First, the smile, as sickening as liquid sugar. The prison guards enter the small cell, only for one of them to be immediately tossed against the back wall by some unknown force, knocking him unconscious. The other finds himself being overtaken by a presence so dark that it is as though his soul leaves his body entirely and cowers in the corner of the room, peering on at the scene through parted fingers. The Jackal ravages this man from the inside, twisting and tearing at everything which makes him who he is before nesting deep in his subconscious and assuming control of his very being. David watches on in horror, as the presence has it’s way with the guard, forcing him to remain still, unblinking even as Jack’s bidding surrounds him in the form of Barry’s lifeless body as well as the guard he had arrived with’s limp frame.
He straightens up on the spot; Jack’s new toy, and looks at the carnage around him before smiling at David and leaving the cell, slamming the red-iron door behind him before slipping a key in the lock and joining the Mayor’s side, the two of them walking like old friends down a dirt road at night, down the corridor of solitary confinement, safe in the knowledge that what they have just witnessed is Jack’s will being carried out, as it always was in the end; an inevitable, uncomfortable truth that David was all too sure was showcased today, simply to remind him of who exactly was in control of this situation.
“I don’t need anything from you David, I just want to remind you of what exactly you have bartered your way into here. When I take a man’s word, David, I take his bond. Now, I’ve delivered my end of the bargain to the letter, it’s time you started to do the same, or maybe, you forget the weight of your wager?”
The Mayor gulped heavily, knowing only too well.
“I know Jack, bu…”
The prison guard’s husk, inhabited by Jack stops just short of the exit from the corridor and turns to David with a smile, speaking only a few words as he steps back into the main reception of the correctional facility.
“Listen David, I don’t think you’re appreciating the gravity of the situation you find yourself in here. All you have to do is go them my messenger, and you will see the true cost of your stalling. Where once there was lost loved ones, there is now only soil and absence. They are mine now, they belong to me. You let me in the front door, and now we’re one big happy family. Won’t you join us David?”
Another moment passes, and the jackal stalls for effect as the Mayor perspires in wait across the hall from him. Some distant noise can be heard coming from the reception desk down the hall, roughly the direction David had headed when he had first entered this building. Panic sets in, everything Jack was telling him was indeed true to the letter. He would have to go and see for himself, Jack was surely bluffing, this had to be the case, or so he hoped. After-all, nobody else knew where they were buried, nobody but him.
“...It’s time to turn the key, and let yourself in.”
2a) Pantheon Detective Agency Investigations 1: Then.
The scene opens to a towering glass building that shimmers in the sunlight as it takes the prime place in the Chicago skyline. A black frosted effect gives the windows a slight tint, causing the surrounding buildings to be reflected as the sun’s rays ricochet against the metal and glass. The camera zooms in, the lens passing through the building’s exoskeleton like a knife through butter. It takes us down two identical hallways, looping round a small art deco spiral staircase before stopping just short of a door carrying a particularly familiar logo, surrounded by some words it wouldn’t usually be accompanied by:
PANTHEON DETECTIVE AGENCY
CHICAGO BRANCH
LT. JARED HOLMES
SGT. DAVID SANCHEZ
SGT. JOHNNY RABID
The final bell had just rung and Thomas Bates was declared victorious. The world had just witnessed the crime of the century. Corey Black, a leader of men had been murdered in cold blood. His championship stolen on national television by a little man with a fetish for the lumberjack types. Sure, it was Bates with his hand raised in the air, he had been the one to commit the foul, but he wasn’t responsible for this, no. This had Seth’s name all over it. Everything did, I was sure of it. The depths of this man’s corruption knew no measure.
“Red alert. Officer down.”
“Tres?”
“No.”
We didn’t want to believe it at first, but the longer we stared at the screen, the more obvious it became that this was no mirage. Corey Black had indeed just lost the biggest prize in our business to the worst possible person. This mission, the whole fucking idea behind Pantheon was resting on his back and he split his pants, fell over and skinned his knee. The harshness of the reality to this proceeding to fuck the wound raw, even as Joey reminded us that he would be next to take a shot at the crown.
Jared said something about the Trilogy Cup, Rabid mumbled something about a clause in his contract and I just stood there with my dick in my hand. Where was my way in? Everybody else had a point of entry, a flag to penetrate and plant inside of the brass ring. That was when it hit me, that was the moment it crept up and skullfucked me. Everybody had a way in except me, I was the black sheep.
“I’ll beat him at One, Corey keep your rematch until after then and we can give these people a generational match that about six people in the whole world care about.”
As Flash consoled Corey, the latter adopting the canine affirmation to roll over into the fetal position and die; that was all I heard. Plans for the future, more claims. Adults bickering like children, taking to social media and ranting to the general public about injustice, and still here I am in the office, holding my dick and staring at the opportunity I so badly needed, right square in the tits.
Completely.
Fucking.
Oblivious.
He walked a little stiffer after that statement, and he started to worry about what the world was thinking. His every action was being examined under the microscope of millions and the pressure was starting to show like fresh sunlight through the cracks in the blinds. Our hero, our banner; Joseph Flash, The World was worrying.
I was being cynical. I knew I was but that was the day that the pieces started connecting in my mind and I began to see the bigger picture. Flash had this match in the bag, even to the spasticated, unseasoned onlookers in the clown-paint and bearded Brotherhood respectively. That was only a temporary solution to a problem that had already been diagnosed as terminal; a bandage attempting to resolve a decapitation, that was only a fleeting solution though, not a real cure for what ails us.
Joey was a broken man, the others had started to see it too, nobody would acknowledge it in front of him, mind you. Those of us who were around at least. I don’t think Corey was paying attention and Price was somewhere else entirely. The majority of us noticed it that day he took to the internet and demanded to know what the public opinion was on his upcoming title shot. He was under-selling it at every turn. This match could have been money and he was wasting it, no David versus Goliath billing. Just Joey Flash and Thomas Bates standing awkwardly in the spotlight with less chemistry than two identically positive magnets.
Losing your kid will do that to you though, poor guy. My heart bleeds for him, seriously. He’s a stand-up guy beneath all of the racism and the rigmarole that this job entails, even after he lost everything. But that’s just another man’s sob story, it’s not mine to tell you. My story starts and ends with the man I was talking about before I got onto him: my other brother, the fallen Corey Black.
Come with me, down memory lane and we’ll revisit the day it all became clear to me, as I remember it the date was November the twenty-eighth and the weather was behaving erratically, like a wild horse yet to have its spirit broken. Ignore the obvious pretences and try peering without the rose tinted shades that make all the shit shine like sapphires among spark-plugs, shall we?
It was as generic and mundane as a day got around the station at the time, weather aside. Johnny was busying himself in the corner, typing up angry letters to a variety of Thomas Bates endorsed shell-companies with slightly hateful sounding acronyms and Jared had been standing in the center of the room delivering some long-winded speech about us needing to represent the agency in everything we did. Joey was in town too, the smug cunt was just sitting there in Corey’s chair, hanging on Jared’s every syllable.
“When we win, we are Pantheon. When we lose, we are Pantheon.”
What a load of shit.
When we win, we are Pantheon.
When we lose, we are disposable.
We all knew, this was no secret.
Z-Mac fell first, then Wade. Next it was my turn, thanks to that fucking social outcast with cabbage for brains. I tasted defeat the week before we all sat down in this room with the big fucking whiteboard and listened to this prick give a product placement presentation about marketing a brand when we should have been out there investigating Corey’s murder. Now it seemed like Lieutenant Holmes was talking directly to me. His beady little eyes flicking between glances at us all, but the sharp barbs of his words caught on my flesh, leaving it itchy and raw. His obnoxious rambling was becoming irritating. Thursday was rubbing off on him, finally.
“Pull your heads out of your asses, we’ve already got a man down. It’s time to cut our losses and move to Operation Bravo. Sanchez, Rabid; my office, now.”
Johnny hadn’t been on the force for long at this point, shit he was as green as half of the people we were trying to purge. Rabid’s a capable cat though, don’t mistake my lax wording for condescension. If I had to pick any two people to have my back in this whole operation, it would have been these two. Not Jayson fucking Price, not Joey fucking Flash. Jared and Johnny; these were the two people I’d found myself most akin to since joining this new force and even they drew me matching looks of disdain as I let my thoughts on the matter become public knowledge.
“Why aren’t we going after Seth for this? It’s pretty clear to me that this whole thing stinks of his reach-around politics.”
My sentiments were met with vacant gazes and sighs. I’d been on vacation for the whole Mexico thing, I got the impression they forgot that sometimes. Rabid threw me a smile that hit home like a pornographic movie title appearing on a married man’s cable bill. He was trying to tell me to be quiet with his eyes, looking back I can see that now; at the time though…
“Fuck Seth, fuck Corey. It’s my time.”
“I thought it was our time?”
I could have sworn that I’d managed to stifle the outburst, but nope. Apparently not, my big mouth I guess. Lately it had been getting me into more and more trouble. I guess this was the true cost of the badge I now wore on my chest. The world listened to my every word when I moved my lips, instead of just nodding and feigning an interest. Joey was visiting from out of town, he was another Lieutenant and one of the most influential men involved in my being invited to this particular tea party. Truth be told, I owe a lot to Joseph, but one thing I didn’t owe him was my silent obedience.
“David, by all means you can look into the so-called murder but you’re not going to find anything we aren’t already aware of. It’s time to move on, it’s what Corey would want. He knows that we need that gold if we are to ensure the survival of our legacy. By all means go and visit him, hear the words come from his own mouth if that’s what it’s going to take but you better get right with the new plan and quickly, everybody needs to be on the same page if we’re going to pull this thing off.”
It hadn’t even been a month and he was speaking about Corey entirely in the past-tense. As though he had existed once, long-ago before the dawn of civilization and intelligent lifeforms. I could see Lieutenant Holmes frowning at me from where he stood, his finger pointed down at the floor, through the ceiling and into the office at the bottom of the stairs he occupied which was by all rights no bigger than a glorified cupboard. The kind of place you’d keep your autistic nephew isolated from the world before learning he was actually a wizard and not a full blown retard. I tried to bite my lip again, but everybody just seemed so damn ready to move on, so uninhibited by this travesty, this miscarriage of justice.
I sniggered at Joey’s suggestion and got to my feet, Rabid keeping pace with me as we left Malignaggi in the bullpen, following Holmes out of the room and down the stairs, into his office. It always smelled like Kerrigan’s perfume and cigarette smoke in his little habitat, today was no different. I thought it was perhaps her way of marking her territory, that she adopted a cat-like affliction to rubbing herself against Jared’s possessions when he was elsewhere so that she would always be on his mind. The door slammed, and Holmes began to talk to me more like a person than a problematic statistic.
“Okay, what’s this really about David? First the loss, now you’re starting to question the plan. What’s really going on here?”
“Pre-fuckery blues?”
Rabid was all too familiar with the sense of impending doom that came with being a participant in the Final Destination match, his own efforts having being cancelled out by the infamous stunt concocted between Lerch and Logan the last time. I often found myself just blankly staring at this man and wondering why he even bothered to try anymore. I couldn’t imagine how that must have felt. To invest your best performance only to be fucked over by a little man with a big idea. This was some special kind of hell.
“I’m not worried about the match, I’ve got it covered. I’m worried about the plan in general. I thought we were supposed to be a team? How can that be when we’re already plotting to get Flash into a spot that belonged to Corey just a few weeks ago?”
I don’t think they believed me, and I didn’t blame them. There was no denying that I had drawn the short straw with Final Destination but that wasn’t the point. I had to know why we were leaving Corey’s unfair butchering alone. There had to be a reason.
“Dave… You probably don’t want to go down that particular rabbit hole. Just focus on winning your own match, there’s no sense in us all crying over spilt milk. Some things should just be left alone and this is starting to sound like one of them.”
Jared had been on the force longer than us, hence why he had the higher ranking job, but I think that’s what made him a little less concerned about the phantom, fishy smell. He’d probably gotten used to it by now. Just like how Thursday’s pungent, lingering fumes were probably invisible to him, but to me? They set my teeth on edge and brought back horrible memories of loss.
“Hear him out boss, we’ve got a light caseload.”
I knew Johnny was a good guy.
“So, I was thinking I’d look into it. Find out what’s really going on. You know, off the books.”
He looked at me like I’d just kicked his family dog in the face.
“Fine. Have at it. You’re not going to find anything though.”
I wish that was the case, I really fucking do.
4a) #AintThatAKickInTheHead.
Sunday, 4th December (Post-Slam)
Hello world. It’s been a long time since I’ve wrote a fucking blog, so try and forgive my rambling nature, I tend to go on a little when I’m particularly irritable, and this just so happens to be one of those times. In the past I’ve started off these types of entries with a countdown of the top cunts in our industry, but today; given that One’s just around the corner I’ve opted instead to use this medium to bring about some discussion as relates to the Final Destination match as a whole. Now there’s a lot of talking points when it really boils down to the brass tacks here, so I might not manage to get through everything at once. First and foremost I think it’s important that we look at each of the competitors in this match and analyze their chances. Before we even do that though, I’d like to take a minute to shine some light on those unfortunate superstars who won’t be able to take part in this career-defining match. I am of course talking about the artist formerly known as Gemini Battle.
I won’t try to be clever and speak directly to Greyson here, the lord knows he’s not going to be able to hear what I have to say. Instead I’d like to take this moment to extend my most sincere apologies to Invidia, Zero Tolerance, Thomas Bates and anybody in the audience or watching at home who happened to take particular offence to the way in which Gemini was less than gracefully removed from this equation. I am not a perfect man, far from it, and sometimes I suffer from spells of time where my actions are out of my control, acting instead on auto-pilot or instinct. This is not my excuse for the grim manner in which Battle met his maker, rather my guilty plea to those concerned, to those cross-burners and activists who want to see me exiled for my temporary lapse of conscious thought. I will not fluff the truth, and nor will I deny that my actions were entirely reprehensible. Instead I will offer you something to consider:
I am a man entirely stricken with grief. For those of you who are unaware or simply don’t care too much for facts I should clarify that earlier this year my beautiful wife and darling son were taken from me. Cut down at the tender ages of five and twenty-four respectively by an automobile accident that also left me with a plethora of damages to both my physical and emotional wellbeing. Again, I should state that this is not my way of trying to give reason for my actions, I’m simply educating the masses. Since that night, that dark, dark night in which my family were reckoned and released from their mortal bonds I have been getting help from a number of agencies in order to deal with my grief but so far, I’m only able to confirm that it is an ongoing process, and that I live in hope that one day, it will bring me some level of closure.
I accept full responsibility for my actions, even in spite of these facts. Why? Simply because I am a man who takes ownership of his shortcomings and problems. My name is David Sanchez and I have some mild anger issues, I own that. So, it is with the heaviest of hearts that I take this opportunity to apologise for my actions on Slam. To anybody who was disturbed by these events, I bow my head and feel not but shame and remorse for the manner in which I assaulted Gemini. Rest assured, I have doubled the amount of hours that I receive counseling and therapy in the hopes that nobody else should suffer the same fate as our fallen brother. I would also like to extend the olive branch of peace, in the form of financial backing. No matter the cost, no matter the effort involved I will fully cover the cost of Greyson’s medical expenses, because that’s the kind of guy I am.
We could all learn a valuable lesson from the fallen body of Gemini Battle, and we should all count our blessings that this level of brutality is a rarity in the divine and often depreciated artform of professional wrestling. Together with my Pantheon brothers and the support of my Chicago constituency I am aiming to reduce the number of wrestlers in receipt of treatment for moderate to severe head injuries associated with this profession by fifty percent.
Nobody has been more shocked and appalled by the sickening display of grotesque and frankly unacceptable behaviour this past week on Slam than I have. So I am making it my personal goal to cut these abysmal statistics in half by this time next year. Brain damage is no laughing matter, even when it couldn’t happen to a nicer person, so on behalf of the WCF as a whole, I am truly, truly sorry for what I have done. My actions were unforgivable and I have been fined a suitable sum as a penalty and a reminder that whilst our sport is indeed a branch of the entertainment industry, the hazards are real.
There, I said it. Are you happy now Seth?
So, now for the kicker. Why did I do it?
Simple.
Gemini is a lost cause, a charity case that just keeps asking for more soup like some hybrid story somewhere in-between the Hungry Caterpillar and Oliver Twist. You would have thought that getting handed the World Championship in Ultimate Showdown would have satisfied his need to be noticed for at least a year or so, but alas this was not the case. Instead, he kept coming back for one more rematch, one more shot, just one more. I came back to this company at War and I watched on as he pestered Corey week after week, safe in the knowledge that he would be able to deal with the minor threat that had come to be known as the…
HASHTAG
GREATEST VEGETABLE EVER.
Then, it was over. Boom, Burning Hammer on the belt. If you look back at the tape you can see the very instance that the lights go out behind Gemini’s eyes and the husk of his body is left vacant, afloat in a sea of fractured consciousness. Sure, Corey might not have been able to keep the belt around his waist but in his failure to satisfy his own duties, he hammered the first nail into a coffin that I had been admiring for quite some time. You see, people think this whole thing between Greyson and myself stems from my inability to cope with loss, but people, as always are sadly mistaken.
No, my problem with Gemini is older than time itself, and can be traced back to last year when this foolish clown started to accuse me of ducking his advances towards my United States championship under the rationale that I simply didn’t consider him to be a worthy way to prove my dominance. Opting instead to challenge former champions like Logan, Jay Omega and Jeff Purse in an attempt to deliver CPR to a dying division that so desperately needed the kiss of life. This, as you can probably imagine, did not sit too well with dearly departed Greyson who proceeded to take to social media and attempt to undermine me at every impasse. Well played to him though, I guess because where I seemingly fell from the face of the earth he managed to find his place, and that place was center stage, his feet firmly planted inside my wrestling boots.
So, one year passed by and I watched as this pretender to my throne danced and jived his way to the top of the ladder; time after time, after time. Only to have his feet kicked out from under him by those men he keeps closest to him at every opportunity. That’s what friends do in this business I’m afraid though. They soak up whatever residual talent you can spare and then when you find yourself completely drained, wiped of anything they can feed on, they sink their teeth into your neck and suck the life out of you without so much as a thank you kindly. More fool you Gemini, more fool you. Now, I know you are probably thinking that this rant is a little hypocritical of me, having just returned with eight individuals in my corner, each more hungry than the man before him. I must stress however that Pantheon is the one exception to this rule of thumb. In the long and illustrious history of the WCF stables have risen and fallen around their leaders. With us, you do not get this luxury.
You can cut the head from the snake but all you will do is cause another head to sprout anew. With different facial features, a different namesake... and the exact same agenda:
Pantheon.
Always.
Wins.
So, I’m back here and I’m looking around to see if there’s anybody I recognize and that’s when I finally see him in the corner of the room, talking to those Zero Tolerance douchebags in riddles and rhymes about how to blaze their own path to the top, just like he did. Just like he did? Never before had a lie of this magnitude hit my eardrums, and yet these two clowns and that fucking yokel were eating his every word like it was pristine, virginal pussy. That’s when it hits me: Gemini was a big deal around here now, and I could use this to my advantage. Shit, I don’t even think he knew where he was at this point, it was supposed to be simple; like taking candy from a baby or shoes from a crackhead.
I’m a man, as I’ve said before and a man acknowledges his mistakes just as much as he revels in his successes, so I have to give credit where it’s due. I did not expect Gemini to up the stakes and risk his chance to be a part of Final Destination, however I will confess that the outcome would have been the same regardless of whether or not he was offering me such a sugar-coated opportunity. An opportunity may I add which we could have both been the recipient of, had Seth simply done the right thing and added me into the match from the beginning.
My plan did not come to fruition without a blip though, and in this blip my four-hundred and forty day spell without being pinned in the deciding fall of a match came to an end. I have to give credit where it’s due, and it’s certainly due here because I did not see Battle sinking to the levels he fell to in order to try and rent some space in my head. To cost a man a streak of such substance is to commit a cardinal sin in this industry, and for that reason, and that alone did I begin to plot the demise of the internet darling known as Greyson Pierce.
What is done though, is indeed done and printed firmly in the record books. Kevin Bishop ends the streak of David Sanchez, and next to that fact there will now be an asterisk and a small entry that explains this was only the outcome of this match thanks to the interference of an amnesiac in clown paint. Well done Kevin, you just attached a teacher’s note to your entire permanent record, way to sell out your belief system and your social standing in one move, bold footsteps man, bold.
I didn’t even see it coming. In truth, that’s partially due to some fucking mind-blowing peyote buttons I scored from Wade but most of the blame is on my shoulders. I underestimated Gemini, and the lengths he would go to in order to keep his head above the rising waters of mediocrity. That is a mistake I will be sure to never make again. I couldn’t deny it though, he had hurt me in a way I wasn’t prepared to sustain damage.
Pow!
Right in the ego-bone.
I’d like now to reference a popular phrase in that every action has an equal and opposite reaction and shine a light on how untrue this catchy little mantra actually rings. You see, if we were all to go around just simply evening the odds with those who have wronged us then in life we would be doomed to lap an endless loop of doing to others as we would have done to ourselve;s and this, this just simply isn’t productive. So Why did I take such vicious action against Gemini?
I did it for all of you, and it has been a thankless job. No pat on the back has graced my spine outside of the Pantheon embrace. No muffin baskets arrived on the doorstep of City Hollow. Instead I was met with accusations that I acted out of malice and rumors began to spread that I may not be in control of my mental faculties. To those stories, I must admit that there have been times when I have indeed allowed my mind to wander into the darker reaches of the human condition but I sleep soundly at night in the knowledge that in this particular instance, Gemini got exactly what he had coming to him and I fully intend to celebrate my ridding the wrestling world of his lingering presence once that Final Destination contract is firmly in my clutches.
They compared my actions to those of Negan in that Walking Dead season premiere. Saying that the methods I used to get my groove back were less than noble, some have went as far as to even accuse me of attempted homicide. Some people can be so touchy when it comes to dealing with mental retardation. I wasn’t trying to kill Gemini, I was trying to spare him the pain of an inevitable fall from grace. If he could still form a sentence, or even hum and splutter without the assistance of life support machines then he would probably thank me for releasing him from his contractually obligated loss at One and the shame it would bring to his door.
You’re welcome.
They weren’t too far off in that comparison actually, if you ignore the fact that I didn’t have to go full-gay and wrap my bat in barbed wire before I knocked a motherfucker’s shit sideways. You can’t add inches to your dick Negan, live and learn. See, just like this man, I too am looking to make a lasting impression, and now? Well now none of you can look at a disabled person without thinking I made them that way. Mission accomplished.
So Gemini, in conclusion I can only attest that you have shown more grace in the way you consume mushed up food through a tube than you ever displayed in any action or mannerism previously. Let’s hope you make a better vegetable than you made a man, because I hope for the sake of anybody who has ever been subjected to witnessing a Gemini Battle promo or match, that the doctors simply see sense, and do the humane thing…
Pull the fucking plug.
He’s no Coma-Price.
So that covers how I got here, and those who had to suffer a rather sudden and definite end. Now I guess I should spend a moment to tell you all how I feel, because apparently it’s normal to be a little conflicted, shaken even after witnessing such a traumatic event.
I just feel lighter.
Like a weight has been lifted.
Enough about those no longer with us though, what’s done is done and there’s no point in dwelling on the past. It’s time to look to the future, and the future isn’t just bright.
It’s fucking blinding.
Don’t look away, don’t even blink.
It’s already over.
5a) Roots
Don’t wait to say goodbye.
You’re running out of time.
Whatever you believe,
it’s easy to see.
The whole world’s sitting on a ticking bomb.
Colombia, 1998
The scene fades in and he is already on death’s door. This broken, battered manshape on the cold floor of the pit. His head had been entirely encased in a welded iron mask which in turn was affixed to the wall by a chain and a hinged bolt into the pit’s very foundations. The tanned specimen is dragged back to his feet as a gentleman in military uniform yanks on the chain, shortening the distance and ultimately dragging this man up to his feet. The onlookers peer through the bars of their confined dwellings; there was no mistaking their role in this, they were prisoners being forced to watch as one of their own was disciplined. They were packed into tiny rooms and made to watch the entire spectacle as though it were a sporting event.
The chinking of the chain is the first thing he remembers about being conscious, That, and the taste of his own blood. Then the smell. That sickening metal. Then came the weight. Fuck it was heavy; this iron tomb wrapped around his skull. He couldn’t hear the screams at first, then it all came flooding back to him. He had thought it was over, death would have been preferable at this point. His prayers had gone unheard though and with this realization; the screams crashed like symbols and he was awake again. This guard. This fucking gringo with the moustache and the beret, and the AK-47. Shit, he remembered.
“Nanakia! Nanakia! Get to your feet!”
God, his English was fucking terrible.
“Get to your feet Nanakia, Nanakia!”
What little air he could take in through the thin slits at the mouth of this iron mask tasted like blood and metal simultaneously and instantly triggered horrible reminders of dental surgery. This was only a fleeting thought though as he felt the chain which kept him in place loosen, and then fall limp. It was almost too good to be true, and then? Then it was.
The cell door opened and for the briefest of moments he was walking towards that fabled white light; heaven’s door. Then it was gone, replaced instead with reality. It just so happened that on this day, reality looked an awful lot like a black bear. You’d think it would be that which stood out most, but it wasn’t. As four men assisted this nine foot beast into their makeshift arena my first memory is of the fifth guard, the one who had been shouting at me, calling my what I had gathered meant either savage, or pest. Either way, I don’t think he particularly liked me. Which made what he did next seem a little strange.
“Nanakia, be with God.”
It was that shit-eating smile I remember first, and then that ridiculous blessing, and then it was the warmth of the bear’s breathe as they muzzled the snarling, wild creature and placed us face to face. The crowd was stunned silent, the guard didn’t even have to say it, I knew and I like to think all those people had a clue too.
“Those who attempt to escape will not be treated with this level of leniency again, you should all remember this moment and my mercy. Prisoner Eleven has already been disciplined by us once, as you can see by his stylish headgear.”
The white man walked into the room right on cue and hauled me the rest of the way up to my feet by the scruff of the neck, and the welded iron hem of my iron mask. He wasn’t like the rest, there was no military uniform on his back, no he wore only suits of Italian design and spoke the Queen’s English.
“We have a three strike policy. Thankfully for Eleven. This is his second chance, and there won’t be any need for a third, will there boy?”
I know only fear in this moment and fear alone. The bear is so close that the warm urine streaming down my leg is matching the foggy temperature of the animals breath as it snarls and gnashes at its muzzle just inches from my face.
“You want to be free, you have to earn it Eleven. Fight for it. You want to be free?”
I let out a scream that echoes in the iron chamber, my skull caught in the soundwaves as they vibrate against the casing. They don’t care, one of the guards gives me a hunting knife, they all leave the room; the white man, the guards. Now it’s just me and the bear.
We size one another up for a second, and then, he lifts his mighty paw and it’s over.
-----------------------------------
Chicago, Present Day
The footage changes, and now we are warmly placed inside the lounge of a stately manor. A roaring fireplace compliments the dark room of mahogany and ruby furnishings. The eye is drawn to a blood red armchair, in which sits our host. The man in the iron mask from the flashback. He has cleaned up a lot since then, his body now clad in a Prada suit that is as black as the iron mask is polished.
“Andre Holmes... You have failed this company.”
The masked man leans forwards in his lounger, the polished iron glimmering in the natural light of the fireplace as the embers crackle and pop in the background.
“I know, it’s probably racist in it’s own right that I titled my shoot on the black guy Roots. What can I say, I like to set the bar pretty low and see if motherfuckers can limbo. Hi Andre, you thought you managed to dodge me in that other company huh? Well think again Token, you’re about to be brought the fuck back from an alternate reality into 2016, and guess what? You’re still shit in this universe, take a seat son. Let me talk you through what you’re doing wrong. Welcome to: A Hoodrat’s Guide to Getting Over 101. I’ll be your host; Nanakia.”
The voice was so autonomous that it was hard to tell if it was being recreated digitally or simply muffled to such a strange degree by the iron mask. Nonetheless, the suited and somehow still encased Nanakia tips his head forwards and welcomes the reader, the strange way he beams and leans with a tilt might suggest that he is trying to smile at the viewer but who knows.
“I also went with one of the songs from the soundtrack to Quentin Tarantino's Django too, I hope you noticed that man, it’s the little finishing touches you put on things that make them pop, and that right there, is something you can take to the bank. I don’t know if ATM’s accept foodstamps though so I understand this could be taking you a little out of your comfort-zone but you’re just going to have to knuckle the fuck down and trust me if you want to come out of this match any better off than your little Rebullution buddy ended up.
Andre, I understand your plight, I really do. I mean, I also never lost a championship but you don’t hear me bitching and moaning about it every minute of every day like I’m some scratched disc, doomed to play the same fifteen seconds of a song on an endless, fractured cycle. I’ve been watching you, and I appreciate the effort you put in Andre, but let’s just call a spade a spade and put our cards on the table.
You have managed to achieve what you have in your career because everybody deserving of a championship match ran away from UCI before it went down like the Titanic. That championship lost it’s value when Alex Richards defeated Howard Black. All you’re doing is holding a replica belt like a retarded child who still thinks all this shit is real.
That’s elsewhere though. Here you’ve just hopped back onto the ship and sucked, scratched and clawed your way into this match that I had to fight in order to be a part of? That is some seriously weak shit Andre. Wouldn’t you agree? Oh, while I’ve got your attention, what was it like raping Erin Fausse? I’ve always wondered what her cunt looks like.
Oh, that’s right. You’re involved with someone else now right?
Hi Schlongson, stay beautiful.
I don’t really know where to start with you Andre accept to say that I’m disappointed our first encounter has to be in amongst such a heinous clusterfuck. I would have very much enjoyed making this procedure a slow, intimate occasion that you’d have remembered for years to come, but alas Seth knows what he’s doing allegedly.
So, here we are. Two guys seemingly on the very brink of greatness competing in a match that is pretty much the exact launch platform they’ve been searching for. See I didn’t just get given my new contract and a little spot in the biggest match of the year. I had to win it for myself, and I did that by not only earning it in Hellimination, but also by double-earning it when I took Gemini’s spot too.
So now I’m standing here like what the fuck man? You’re just giving people spots in this match? Fuck you Seth. You killed Gemini Battle. You did it…
Andre, I’m not a patient man and I have a tendency to call things like I see them. Unfortunately, all I see when I look at you is somebody who’s opportunistic, and somebody who has very limited talent. That’s my opinion on you professionally, I’m not impressed, you’ve got moxy but who gives a fuck? Being relentless isn’t a fucking slogan, it’s no more apt than calling yourself “Punctual” Andre Holmes. Next time you’re shopping for a nickname try to think a little outside of the box and not just grab at the first adjective you find.
People are supposed to be worried about Andre. Why? I just don’t get it. He’s just another me, another Howard, another Scarecrow. The only difference is that he’s black. There’s nothing remotely interesting about this man. At least when he was feeding Fausse thumbtacks I was getting an erection, now I’m just getting bored and racist
People are saying he’s fucking Pantheon, bitch please. He didn’t make the cut, we’d sooner take that spastic Tek than this fucking parody of himself. The fucking black goat, black sheep more like. You’re the other end of the coin from me, just like other before you. People who were meant to be on the rise and using me as a stepping stone to success. I’m sorry Holmes but you’re just like Raymond Hatcher, just like Isaiah Chavis, and just like our own Teddy Blaze.
You’re about to have something in common with all of those non-entities Andre, you’re about to become an honorary mention in the triumphant tale of David Sanchez. Your career is just about to peak, and it’s such shame about the timing but you’ve just not got it in you to best me. Not in this match, not when the stakes are so high.
You are going to let them all down Andre, you’re a seven on a good day. With a hangover I’m a ten. There’s no comparison between us, and there never should be. After One, I’m going to take my rightful place as the next World Champion of this company. You?"
The man leans forwards, his arms crossing as he gestures for emphasis.
“You’re going back to sucking Spencer’s dick in a third class shipping container stamped: RETURN TO SENDER, UCI HQ
Enjoy the show son, you’re about to be a part of history.”
The scene fades out and the man in the iron mask gets to his feet, walking towards the wall and flipping the lightswitch, ending the promo in a blanket of darkness.
6a) #iBelieve.
It's the same old song,
that I always sing each year.
But because it's perennial,
don't make it less real.
Thursday, 8th December, 18:30.
Suddenly, I remember why I used to blog so much at the beginning of my career: most of what I have to say doesn’t exactly fit in with Twitter’s character limit or taste for conversation. Anyway, two updates in one week, I guess I’ve had a lot on my mind lately, which is more than I can say for Gemini right now, all he’s got on his mind is impending surgery.
Anyway, same routine as last time, I’m not going to be starting with a countdown of what’s annoyed me lately or some other cute arrangement of words on paper. Instead, I’ll just fade right into my thoughts, and they go as follows;
Too long have I sat here in the middle of the pack, too afraid of failure to step forward and too big-headed to retreat. Stuck in an endless, infinite loop of talent that comes and goes with the changing of the seasons. I am a plastic bag, being swept unwillingly through the air with no control of my fate whatsoever. I am a small, Eastern-European country allowing the Germans to have their wicked way and sign their name against my wrong-doing. Yes, there were others, get a grip.
I honestly thought I was too far gone to care who got the credit for my work, that’s why this whole Pantheon thing had appealed to me in the first place. Here I am though, on the precipice of greatness and I’m wondering where my royalties are, my appreciation, where’s my fucking pat on the back? Where’s my world title match at the biggest show of the year?
I have these thoughts often, but there’s no need for me to dwell on that now, I have no use for this bitter venom. I found my way through the door, like I always do. I got here, to this point where I’m in a position to really fucking change things, to shape this place in my image, a new direction.
Who knows? Maybe that’s what this place really needs, after-all was Joey really the answer here? We’ve tasted life with Malignaggi at the top of the pyramid before and were Flash-brand Frosties really all that different from Bates-brand bran? Breakfast was just another meal of the day, and both options sounded identically as appealing as a warm bowl of Jewish piss.
I’ve had a week to really give this whole situation some thought now, and the conclusion I keep coming to is that perhaps in order to preserve this company, it’s integrity and our ability to earn we must first look at ourselves and face the harsh truth. For me, this came in the form of acknowledging the fact that I am by far the least accomplished out of any of my brethren. I was high on my own supply of arrogance for far too long and it left me weakened, exposed and vulnerable. Essentially, it put a target on my Achilles Heel. My record, and that was my own fault.
Gemini was able to cost me everything that I’d worked so hard to establish only because I let him, and that was foolish of me. I see that now. Would he still have known how to hurt me had I kept my wins and losses a little closer to my chest? Who knows. This would have to remain one of life’s little mysteries because there was no way to turn back time. That’s right ladies and gentlemen; Jay Omega is a fucking liar.
So Gemini done what he did, and that ultimately cost me a flawless match for the first time in well over a year. He burst my bubble and so he had to be removed from the equation. In layman's terms; he hurt me, so I hurt him. That’s all I was doing on Slam; evening things up. Some would say I took my actions a little too far but to those people I pose another question: If, at thirty-seven years of age, surrounded by younger men with larger ambitions, you haven’t really been to the top of the pedestal and looked down at the rest of the world, what would you do in order to achieve your goals? I’m betting you’ll come up with the same answer as I did...
Anything. Fucking anything.
So Gemini becomes a puddle of grey matter, humming into his mashed carrots in a persistent vegetative state in some brain trauma ward of an undisclosed hospital and I move one step closer to my destination. Final Destination. Except in doing so, I notice that I’m no longer a pawn, and this game of chess has become not but simple checkers, where all the pieces on the board have the same potential. Suddenly, it’s not all about dethroning Bates, it’s not all about Flash. It’s mine, all mine; but do I really want it?
Of course I want it, what kind of a redundant question is that? Do I need it though? No, definitely not. It was just another title, another shiny gold thing to commit to memory with all the others. I think of the belts I’ve held in my career; here and elsewhere and I must surmise that I am not a man who measures his success in the amount of shiny gold things he has won and lost. Except that I am. What was this shit I seen on Twitter? Lilith questioning my suitability to even be considered for a stable such as Pantheon.
Ignore the whore. It was this fucking simple. Just ignore this stupid vile cunt and her absent-minded rambling. That’s all I had to do, and so I did. Or I pretended to anyway, it’s sad really. I used to be able to wrestle without getting lost in the succubus of social media that it walks with, hand in hand. I used to be married too. This all seems like such a long time ago.
It was really getting under my skin though, I knew it was. What have you done here David? Nothing, and that’s all they’ll remember. You had some memorable moments for a forgettable guy. Good going son, fade away quietly to the independents with the John Gables and the Howard Blacks of this world. So I did, and I conquered, but it wasn’t the same, this monster was dead before me, head and body separated clean. Yet, it wasn’t satisfaction I felt conquering the independents, that just fed the habit. I’m not Andre Holmes, that isn’t my style.
Instead, what happens when David Sanchez has his day in the sun? The earth fucking crumbles and I’m exiled into professional purgatory. Go figure.
“Dude’s gettin’ old, isn’t he almost forty? Oldest young guy in the business.”
Ladies and gentlemen, I am in my motherfucking, spoon-bending prime. Age is just a number. I stand by what I said before, in that I am still the future of this company, the difference being that then, is now. As in that the future is now, and it’s time to change the channel and fuck things up just a little bit wouldn’t you say?
There’s the kicker, I’m that guy.
I’m the one that promises you things will be different, that I’m that one in a million type of man. A diamond in the rough. Then, when you’re starting to think about lowering your guard, I sexually assault you in the back of a Volvo in the Wendy’s parking lot. Shit happens, get over it bitch.
The faces may change but the story does not.
Pantheon.
Always.
Wins.
I could win the World Championship on my talent alone, shit I could vacate my bowels and the resulting deuce would be more capable than half of the current roster but I wouldn’t do that because I’m a classy guy and this business is all about counting the tiny victories. Not because I found an easier route to success in Final Destination, because unlike my opponents, yes even Corey. I actually had to earn my spot in this match, and that is why it is now mine to lose.
Sure, there’s three former champions. Sure, Andre Holmes is playing the race card. Sure this Anonymous character is triggering more twitching sphincters than Logan being in the original Final Destination match, but I stand by choice. In this match, in my mind at least and the minds of those who can call themselves my friends; this match is mine and anything but victory, is simply unacceptable.
Gemini Battle’s brain-cells will not have died in vain. I will prevail, and under my watchful eye, the World Championship scene shall prosper or be purged and rebuilt in my image. I trust it will be safe in Joey’s hands for now but should that change, or should the unthinkable happen in that Thomas Bates somehow manages to retain, I will be there hanging ominously like the sword of Damocles, waiting and watching.
“So why should David Sanchez even be in this match, let alone consider himself the most likely candidate to win it? What has he even done?”
There’s always that little voice telling great people they can’t do greater things, it’s self-doubt and it’s an affliction to which I am an exception. I do not suffer from this, I know exactly how good I am and exactly what I am capable of, but that is simply for me to know and the world to find out when I deem it suitable. You can take me at face value if you like and try to measure my chances on merit alone like Lilith tries to on social media and point out the overwhelmingly obvious: I haven’t done a whole lot of shit in this particular company now, have I?
One championship. One, the United States title I took from Thomas Bates last year before being stripped of it upon my contract renewal date, which was then rather ironically gift-wrapped and given to Greyson Pierce.
So you see; God giveth, and God taketh away.
All debts are squared, tip your cashiers.
On the grander scale of things, especially compared to the company I keep that really doesn’t count for much, does it? I mean, I don’t exactly have a list of accomplishments the length of my yacht like Corey, or more gold than days spent sobre like Jayson. Hell, I haven’t even done as much as the #BeachKrew guys, but you know what I have done?
Everything fucking else.
Just because you didn’t see something ladies and gentlemen, does not mean that it did not happen. It just means that you missed it, or that you weren’t looking. So believe me when I tell you that at thirty-six years of age, and eleven years in the wrestling business, I’ve done my fair share and held my weight in gold. Even recently, when the WCF was subjected to the likes of Zero Tolerance and the Brotherhood where was I?
Nowhere near this fucking cesspool.
Why? Because I’m only one man, and to cleanse an empire, you need an army.
I was in the independents, kicking the living shit out of the very people you used to cheer for and carrying around whatever worthless gold belt they happened to be carrying at the time. Alex Richards, Andre Jenson, Jay Omega, Bonnie Blue, Dustin Beaver. Just to name a few, and hopefully get a bit of nostalgia flowing. Shit my memory is getting as bad as yours.
Normally this is where the doubters would set in about my meaty carcass again.
“But can he really win the big one. The one where it really matters?”
The way people doubt me, you’d think they were fickle creatures with memories like fishes. Have I ever let you down before? No. I’m a man of my word, so when I say I’m going to do something, you can rest assured that it is either:
a) going to be done, or
b) it already has been.
Let’s just look at the promises and see where we stand, shall we?
War 2015? I eliminated Gravedigger, just like I said.
War 2016? I walked back in here, a fucking God.
Hellimination 2016? I took out Eric Price and Pantheon won.
One 2016: I win Final Destination
As you can see there’s a few still to be accounted for but I’m pretty confident that by the end of One, I’ll still be as much of a man of my word as I sit before this computer screen today. David Sanchez is a truth-teller ladies and gentlemen, that’s why I’m the man who’s been elected into the mayor’s seat of Chicago for a second term, and that’s why I’ve been brought back to the WCF on thrice the salary, to give people a peek behind the veil and allow them to see what’s really going on.
Final Destination is a very apt name for this match, which based on Seth’s intelligence I’m betting is entirely coincidental but this really is starting to feel like the end of my journey, like I might finally be on the home stretch. The road to greatness though is not without it’s twists and turns, even the occasional speed-bump and that’s all I see when I look at my opposition; obstacles and smooth terrain respectively. Each competitor resembling a different fork in the road, each minute of this match, another mile traveled.
My journey, well. My journey has indeed been a long one, full of breakdowns and anecdotes about always being the bridesmaid, but at One, that all changes and every bump becomes a worthwhile investment. Every shitty little warehouse I’ve filled with bodies becomes a milestone in my historic rise to glory. Every nameless, faceless jobber I’ve snuffed out becomes famous by association. The story of David sanchez really starts, and the first words in the book read as follows:
Once upon a time there was David Sanchez, and then there was everybody else.
7a) Daddy’s Gone.
I won’t be the lonely one,
sitting on my own and sad.
A fifty year old,
reminiscing what I had.
I won’t be the lonely one,
sitting on my own and sad.
Forget your dad,
he's gone.
Colombia, 1998
The moment I woke up, the cuts were right there with me. I could still feel the beast’s claws in my flesh. Each laceration stung more than the one before and it was all coming back to me. The white man, the guards, the other prisoners being made to watch, and then. The bear. Everything was playing on repeat in my mind as the native looking gentlemen in the white doctor’s coat stitched me up. He was speaking in Portuguese to the guard at the door, from what I could gather, he was telling the hulking hispanic that all was well and he could relieve himself of his duties.
I don’t care too much for painkillers, I never really have. The way I consume opiates tends to leave the tramadol hydrochloride not really measuring up to tackle the pain these days, swept under the rug of my addictive personality instead to feed my habit. It was different then though, and as the morphine surged through my body I had never been more thankful to sedated. I wondered how the bear was doing at this particular moment, a foolish notion I know, but I’d always had a soft spot for animals.
The doctor shined a torch through the openings in my iron maiden, right into my eyes, apparently; judging by the throbbing, unyielding pain in my temples, I had suffered quite a dunt to the skull. I was dizzy, nauseous even but it wasn’t a concussion, it was clarity. Lying in the hospital bed of that infirmary I knew only two things to be absolutely certain. There was no way out of this place, and that I would die in here.
Then, I heard his voice again, the white man’s. I was getting used to the mask completely blocking my peripheral vision. As such my other senses were heightened. I was learning to rely on my nose and ears, even the seldom glorified touch and taste senses which were often underused. He spoke. Directly to me, in a tone that struck home as being a little too sympathetic for a man who had just left me to be mauled by a black bear.
“You fight good Nanakia, how are your injuries?”
Was this some kind of test? He was beginning to look at my bare flesh up and down, if it hadn’t been for the loincloth I’d have thought he was checking me out, but as it turns out, some mere homosexual grooming might have been prefered at this juncture. This wasn’t the case though, and as he approached me like a tailor measuring his client for a suit it all became clear. I had heard rumours before, that the guards were taking prisoners and making them fight one another to the death. The false promise of freedom fueling this modern mandingo circuit’s competitors to maim, mangle and murder their fellow man, all in the name of entertainment.
“Por favor, déjame morir.”
“English Nanakia, you will address me in English.”
It was just a force of habit, speaking Colombian Spanish. Most of the other captives spoke in this dialect so I had grown accustom to using it as my primary tongue. Thankfully, I’d been working on a plantation owned by an American conglomerate before I was captured and had learned to speak the English language in my spare time between beatings and twelve hour spells of turning soil.
“Please, just let me die.”
I hadn’t seen much in the way of compassion lately, so the look he drew me next could easily have been mistaken, but in that moment I was sure he felt sorry for me. Looking back now, I know this to be false, but at that time, in that hospital bed with the slashes up my back, the iron mask surrounding my skull and the warden of this prehistoric prison looking at me with such lofty expectations, I just wanted so badly to believe that this could be my way out.
“Die? Warriors do not die Nanakia, they fight until they can fight no more and then they are free. Is that not what you want? To be free?”
The doctor was back on the scene now, he snipped at some of my stitches; it was a very rough job but given that I hadn’t seen a single first-aid kit since I’d got here I appreciated the attempt nonetheless. There was an awkward tension between the warden and the medical professional, and I could only assume that this had a lot to do with the warden’s little side project of playing God.
“Three fights, that’s all I expect. Three fights, three victories and you’re free.”
Three seems like such a small number in the grander scale of things, but it also meant that I’d be responsible for three lives being snuffed out like a candle without oxygen. Or even worse, what if one of these men were to snuff out mine instead? Sure, I’d had a little training, which based on the other prisoners who looked malnourished and sickly at best, put me a little bit of an advantage.
“I’ll do it.”
The words left my mouth before I could even ask them too, apparently when your life's in danger it’s natural for your responses to become instinctual. It’s not like I really had a choice anyway, I could predict that had I argued, or rejected this proposal then my end would have been met in that infirmary as the white man folded a pillow, covered the air-holes in my iron headgear and smothered me as I lay there helpless.
The last thing I remember is the smile on his face, and his parting sentiments.
“Three days Nanakia, see that you are ready.”
----------------
Chicago, Present Day.
“Eric Price… You have failed this company.”
The iron mask is seen once again now, this time reflected in a standing mirror, and creating a grand contrast to the black suit he wears over the rest of his body. He had a lot on his mind, and his words were still muffled by the iron maiden welded around his skull, although if one looked close enough they would identify a small hinge and clasp at the back of the mask, meaning that this was no longer being worn out of necessity but instead through choice. The mechanism allowing our host to remove the infernal contraption at any moment, should he choose to do so.
The sharp barb of his words echo around the small bathroom which comprises of not but a ceramic sink and toilet, as well as a shower in the far right corner. He straightens his cobalt tie with his left hand, the platinum wedding ring sparkling as it is raised into the artificial light which beams down from the bulb overhead.
“Eric, it’s been the bane of my very professional career; this little game you seem to think you are playing. For a month now I’ve been calling you a washed up pussy with nothing to contribute to a sport which doesn’t need your charity cameo appearances. That means that for a month now, you’ve been proving me to be one hundred and ten percent correct in what I’m saying. So thank you for that, at least you’re consistent.”
The masked man begins to run the cold water faucet, allowing the icy water to stream out of the tap and fill the bowl of the sink. He unbuttons the sleeves of his suit, followed by his shirt and then plunges his blistered and bruised hands into the cold liquid, scrubbing one with the other repetitively, over and over again..
“I’ve been doing some excavating lately, trying my dest to filter through old tapes and identify exactly when you were actually relevant around here, and after weeks and weeks of searching, I’ve finally worked it out. You never really were, were you? From what I’ve gathered you just kind of arrived on the scene. Beat on some women; yes, I’m including Jeff Purse in that category, and then got beat on by the same women.
Basically you’re no better than Andre, but instead of feeding a small Serbian chick thumbtacks, you got fed your own ass. Good job. The more I dig, the less I find that really makes me consider you anything more than a space-filler in this match, and I’ve got to admit, I’m a little bit disheartened that I can actually say that about a former World Champion but I guess there’s bust and boom periods in every industry, why should professional wrestling be any different?
You even ran this company right into the ground from which it flourished, so excuse my shock at the fact that Seth even opened the door and let you walk back in here. I mean, are we just employing anybody now, regardless of how badly they fuck up and who gets left to foot the bill? Because I hear the founder of Napster is looking for work, and it’s always fun to beat the shit out of Grime.
Your career is stale bread Eric, it’s stagnant and circling the drain. In truth it has been since you and Purse wound up being the final participants in War all those years ago, you remember right? The night you thought it was finally worth it. At least for a few hours anyway before reality spoiled your little parade and you came up just short; as per usual. That’s what I find myself associating you with more than anything else, your ability to camouflage yourself as somebody who actually deserves to be where he is in life, when really, all you are is a perpetual overachiever with one finger on the pulse and another up the Seth’s asshole.
I bet it was heart-breaking for you, right? The tepid applause you received when you came back to the WCF after all of those years. I know it had to, after-all you’re man who drinks his own punch for breakfast, lunch and dinner. So to walk back into this place, where you used to be pretty much royalty and be treated like the village idiot must have stuck in your craw. I dare say the only person who could garner a worse response was that infested fuckbag you used to bump uglies with. Rachel Twilight, right? Oh, we’re not supposed to talk about that are we?
Then, well then we’ve got to look at how you conduct yourself as a human being and not just a professional wrestler and this is where things start getting really pear-shaped for you isn’t it Eric? Well, I guess the correct wording would be more pear-shaped; but still. What kind of sorry excuse for a man doesn’t want anything to do with his own flesh and blood? You sicken me Eric. As a father who’s lost a child and a functioning member of society I wish you nothing but discomfort and pain until your dying day.”
The cold water continues to cascade out of the tap, flowing onto the man’s hands and exposed forearms and causing the broken, collapsed veins on his wrist to rise around the track marks that would suggest he knows his way around a hypodermic needle. His flesh turns pink-white as temperature grows more frigid by the second, until finally he stops the tap and stares down at his hands, or this is the feeling we get at least, the iron headgear makes it hard to tell where he is actually focusing his attention.
“There’s blood on my hands already Eric, I’ve spilled more of it getting here; to this point, this match, than you have rushing to your erection every time that Abject Humiliation match gets an extra view on the WCF Network. We get it; you’re submissive. If you play your cards right, I’ll even let you lick my boots when the match is over. It’s the closest thing you’re going to taste to success this side of two-thousand and thirteen.
8a) #DarkWhorses
The wound is king and how,
his whorses turn they make him proud.
His vision's clipped like wings and crowns.
lets use this photograph,
he's never had the chance to believe in something else.
Wednesday, 14th December, 10:30
It’s a catchy hashtag right?
Now, I know what you’re thinking.
“That’s racist.”
Grow the fuck up and get real. I’m Colombian; nothing I do is racist.
Andre Holmes is just another black guy with a woman’s blood on his hands. Corey Black is just the victim of an unfortunate surname. I use this term not to draw heat from the racists and the less than dim-witted denizens of Doubtsville, USA. No, instead I use this term to ensure that it’s something witty, borderline clever even, that ends up trending worldwide when I win Final Destination on Sunday. See unlike my opponents, I don’t walk into this match with the weight of expectation on my shoulders, I breeze into this contest completely unhindered by the need to validate myself, while the rest of them fight to ensure they come out of this match just as prim and polished as they enter.
Eric Price is just a wrestler.
Corey Black is just a wrestler.
Anon.Y.Mous is just a wrestler.
Odin Balfore is just a wrestler.
Andre Holmes is just a wrestler.
Gemini Battle is just a dead wrestler.
But David Sanchez?
Is oh, so much more.
First and foremost, I’d like to just offer my condolences to those idiots attending the memorial service for Greyson Pierce this afternoon. It was an accident, I only meant to leave him brain-dead, not dead-dead. Shit happens though I guess, like a wise man once said: there’s no point dwelling on things you can’t change. So, with all of that ugliness behind us, it’s time to look to that bright future I’ve been talking about for weeks, and the match that is set to steal the whole entire show.
Final Destination. The match in which the world finally learns exactly how good I am.
Let’s face it, my competition in this match is easily my hardest test in this company to date, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to crumble under the pressure, no on the contrary I thrive when my back is against the wall, when I’m cornered and the world is watching. I’m yet to have my defining moment in this particular company but that will evade me no longer after Sunday. When I become the second man to win Final Destination, and the first man to do so without a dick in his mouth.
What?
Am I meant to pretend that this whole thing wasn’t created on the principle of keeping people Seth elects in positions of power and glory? Fuck that. I refuse to denounce the fact that this place is more political than my day-job. I know this is all a formality, and that I’m about to be fucking served up to Logan, Chevalier and Dag in fucking gimpsuits.
Come at me bitches, I’ve pissed on your likeness in the Hall of Fame before, it would be my privilege as an entertainer, and my civic duty as a human being to do the very same on your fallen, bloated body. To the other two of you, I don’t really fucking know you, and I don’t really care to. It’s been made clear to me that you have chosen to be a crow flying in formation, and it’s hard to tell rook from raven when you’re holding a shotgun. Consider this a glove-slap gentlemen, the ball, I think you will find, is in your court.
Anonymity is for the Ignorant;
Knowledge = Power.
Am I worried that I’m about to be fucked up the ass by another publicity stunt, another desperate attempt between Seth and Logan to regain control of the ship as we desperately clutch at the wheel in an attempt to set sail for greener pastures? Of course I am, I was worried when it was just Eric Price in this fucking match, now you’ve got this trifecta of masked fuckbags in the mix too I feel like I should be gently applying vaseline to my anus with one finger in a circular motion, you know, to uh, prepare the hole for entry.
So why even try?
Right? Why am I even fucking interested in this obvious fuckjob? Well, that’s simple and it’s something that I’ve said before. I’m a rag and bone man, and I’m the smartest man in this profession. You can give me anything, and I can make it into something I can use. So go ahead, feed me to the Family,
See if I give three fucks when you make a martyr out of me, with controversy comes infamy.
So, that covers the most obvious candidate to be currently fellating the boss, let’s move on to the second most likely set of lips to be massaging Seth’s shaft at this very second, and those lips belong to the…
HASHTAG!
GREATEST FATHER EVER!
Yes, I’m taking that too. Get over it.
Eric Price. I still don’t understand how, or why he is even in this match to begin with. It doesn’t make sense to me, if he was going to pull something out of the bag, surely he would have done so before I kicked him in the temple during Hellimination and made him look as dated as his child support payment receipts.
I don’t know what more I can say about this man that I haven’t already said until I’m blue in the face; that each and every member of Pantheon told the world before he even put his boots back on. Everything has been covered and still it is the simplest of truths that holds the most weight and it is with that very truth that I will make you regret ever coming back here. You see, it’s simple and it’s now a tired, broken cliche’ that just sits on the shelf and repeats itself.
You’re not good enough anymore.
You’re not good enough anymore.
You weren’t even that good then.
You’re definitely not this good now.
Give up.
You’re making a fool of yourself.
What kind of former World Champion needs booked against debuting jobbers to get a win? All I’ve seen you do since you came back was be in the right place, at the right time and get a sloppy win over Wade. Well done, like I’ve said before; you’re not completely useless. Take a bow, or a bend of the knee, whichever you prefer.
Eric, I’m afraid that all you have accomplished since you dusted off the old spandex, strapped one on and slipped into Sarah Twilight is an average at best performance report. You simultaneously manage to bring shame to yourself and the time period in which you were somehow successful. It’s astonishing, but then again, it’s not really when you look at the other survivors from this bygone era. I’m looking at you Logan, sit down before you hurt yourself.
For weeks in the run up to One I was begging this man to step between the ropes with me and share the ring in a more intimate setting; one on one. No Pantheon, no so-called Team WCF, no illegitimate offspring and certainly no Twilight to take the blame for his shortcomings.
He has avoided me for a month now, even in a tables match a few weeks ago, he basically left his partner high and dry. What kind of a man does this sort of thing? The same kind of man who can deny having a son of course, the worst kind of cunt there is, a deadbeat dad.
There’s no real question left for me to answer when it comes to Eric Price, we already know he’s a pussy and we already know he can’t hang with the crowd these days. So why aren’t we just throwing his ass out to pasture with the Oblivions and Ultimate Destroyers of this world?
Him being in this match at least looked like it was going to be some kind of screw-job at first but now, he looks just as confused as the rest of us.
But unmeasurably under-talented, underqualified and outnumbered.
Now he’s just as fucked as the rest of us, LOL.
Don’t worry Eric, It’ll be over for you before you know what’s happening.
9a) Jack the Watchful.
It could see no real point to anything that had happened, and still there was nothing it could do. Yet there it was, watching. It took no real joy from what it witnessed and it thought about this for a very long time without coming to any conclusions. There was still no real way to think any of this through; the whole idea of purpose wasn’t quite there yet. There was just it and them. There were lots of them, more all the time, busily killing and eating and copulating. But there was only one of it, and it did none of these things, and so it began to wonder why that was too. Why was it so different? What was it, and if it was indeed something, was it supposed to do something too? More time passed. The countless changing crawly things slowly got bigger and better at killing each other. Interesting at first, but only because of the subtle differences. They crawled, hopped, and slithered to kill one another - one actually flew through the air to kill. Very interesting - but so what?
15:15, Friday, December 9th, 2016
Floyd’s Gym, Chicago.
David stepped through the ropes first, his fists half-taped already and usual combat shorts of black and lilac coming down past his knees which were too padded, one of them - the left, in a medical brace. Next to enter the squared circle was Joseph Malignaggi, better known to the public as Joey Flash; the quote, unquote; greatest wrestler in the world. In complete contrast to the first athlete, Joey has opted for his usual attire of crisp, fresh white trunks; his hair hanging down over his shoulders as the two lock eyes in the middle of the ring.
The rest of the training facility operated on as normal, this area having been sectioned off by security guards who bore a striking resemblance to the city’s police force. Such came with the territory of being the Mayor, he was in a position that allowed him complete control of the city’s expansive resources; both natural and manpowered. Sanchez now begins to wrap his right hand, the southpaw having already taped up the primary tool of his craft. Flash stretches out his legs in one corner as a trainer in a black, hooded sweatshirt bearing the gym’s logo grants him a sip of water out of an identically white sport’s flask.
“Thirsty work, being King?”
It came out with a little more venom than David had intended but he stood his ground nonetheless. His head was pounding from the night before, another dark night spent in his study with only a bottle of cask-aged scotch for company. Joey smiled at his friend, all too familiar with the way he was feeling. Sanchez had considered cancelling this training session, but decided to simply suck it up instead after a little persuasion from his phantom passenger. The Jackal had made his will known to the Mayor, and the Mayor alone. Even now, as he stood with a prosthetic smile on his face, sweating out the alcohol under the strip lights before he’d even got started there was something different in his eyes - something hungry.
“If you could keep yourself straight for longer than an eight-hour shift you’d probably know by now.”
There it was again; a not so subtle hint, wrapped inside a lecture, hidden inside a compliment. Joey had imparted advice to David a few weeks ago that had went unheard. The Mayor’s habit was still alive and aching. Heroin had been his only crutch, it had pulled him through the grief of losing his family and now he was being tormented and taunted by the Jackal who was using their passing as an agent of control. No much was known of their demise, but that it had been an automobile accident where David had been driving. Outside of police questioning he had never spoken of the events of that night, instead being exonerated and freed just in time to take political office. It was a riddle, inside of a puzzle, teetering atop the very house of cards within which he had built his empire.
“I’m cutting down.”
“Sure you are Dave, sure you are.”
He knew this bullshit; the words almost smelled of dung as they left his lips. Joey didn’t cast this up though, he knew that addiction was not the real enemy here, but did David? Surely he had to know the true threat to his very being. Not opiates and alcohol, not anti-depressants and an increasingly antisocial lifestyle. The problem was the Jackal, but as Joseph had learned from his previous encounters with this entity, the constant specter was a trickster of towering talents; not least of which was his charmed tongue.
“So, how’s Al?”
David had gotten rather good at feigning an interest in the lives of those around him. He didn’t really understand the passenger’s need to know everything about everybody but it often gave him an expansive wealth of information on almost everything he had ever encountered. He was getting better at being human the longer he spent in company, having previously prefered to keep himself separate from those around him before joining Pantheon a few months ago. This was all still strange, foreign territory to Sanchez who could previously have counted his friends on one hand with three amputated fingers.
“She’s keeping busy, I think she’s more worried about me than I need to be about her if I’m honest.”
Sanchez soaks this in like a sponge, the Jackal filing this information in his subconscious to be compiled into the grander plan at a later date. Without warning, Sanchez lunges forwards, dropping down to his knees slightly as he does so and executes a picturesque firemans carry that acts as punctuation and brings a full-stop to Joey’s sentence, perhaps even an exclamation mark. Flash rolls through, his momentum carrying him across the ring in a forwards roll that takes him back to a vertical base.
“You’re sure? I don’t think I’ve ever caught you off guard before?”
A little flustered, Joseph took a moment to dwell on this. It was true, usually he was able to simply bob and weave the Mayor’s predictable, and yet unique offence but something was different today; and not just behind his eyes. He was stronger, faster, more confident. The times were indeed a’changing. Having contemplated the possibilities for long enough, Joey steps forwards, landing a jab to the jaw of his friend, who falls back into the ropes and covers his face as Flash smiles and another trainer shouts that he needs to keep his hands in front of his face when facing another striker.
“Fuck off. Lucky break. The sun was in my eyes, et cetera.”
He had only been teasing Joseph, but he had been wondering as of late if he could indeed ascend the marble staircase and smash through the glass ceiling into his training partner’s league. The curiosity had peaked with Jack’s reappearance, the spirit’s focus not only on ensnaring mortal minds but on bringing about a swift and definite revenge on those who cast him out into the cold before. Occulo, Dune, Howard Black and Joey Flash. These four names were muttered on repeat inside of David’s mind in that whispered tone which belonged only to his tormentor, his master - the watcher, the passenger.
“I’m not even trying yet.”
“That’s your problem Dave, you never are.”
Some chain wrestling ensues in which neither man gets the better at first but as he rolls from a headlock takedown into a hammerlock, David gains the advantage but for a split second before Flash hooks his heels and flips the South-American over into half-guard. Sanchez struggles on his back for a few seconds before managing to scissor his legs around his friend’s neck and apply a headscissors, his thighs torquing like a vice. His mind races: he could break his neck right now and nobody would ever know any better. A simple training injury, that’s all it would look like to the naked eye. Jack smiled, David licked his teeth and Flash broke the hold. The lack of competition allowed both men to get back to their feet, where the conversation continued.
“What do you mean? I put everything I can into this shit.”
That was the problem, thought Flash. He only had so much to give. The rest of his friend was otherwise occupied; torn between heroin and a hellish voice whispering in his ear, guiding him, shaping him - eating him alive.
“You think you do, but I bet if we went for dicks out honesty, you still think you can do better. That’s the beauty of it; I know you can. Pantheon knows you can. The only person stopping you is…
Was he going to address him directly? Surely the wounds would still be too fresh. The Jackal licked his lips, operating David’s body as a vessel.
“You. You’re the only thing that’s stopping you from being like Corey, like Dune... like me.”
A shiver crept across David at the thought. The Jackal resented the comparison, even in his mortal-shell he had taste, and David was not to be his conduit. The Jackal had more sense than to trust his will to a glorified junkie with delusions of grandeur. He was to be his right hand, and based on what had happened to Gemini Battle last week, it would seem that no idle hand syndrome had befallen our ever-smiling entity, the bane of mankind.
A disposable tool to be used when necessary. That’s the vision he had for Sanchez, his family had just been fortunate enough to escape the shackles of mortality before they had to watch their father and husband become a broken, bewitched being, ironically plagued by guilt, by vice and by this demon that fed on his existence. Always listening, always watching and always contributing his two cents in a silent, internal whisper.
“Not to be nitpicky, but couldn’t I be more like Fly or Cairo?... You three kind of suck.”
Jack’s grip loosened, and gave David some lead. Just enough to hang himself. The Colombian shoots forwards a second time, laughing a little at his own joke before being immediately silenced by two rapid punches to the bread-basket followed by a snap suplex that slams him hard into the mat. Sanchez uses the momentum from this to roll under the bottom rope and onto the floor of the gymnasium, where he glances back into the ring to see Flash relaxing in the corner, a shit-eating grin on his face.
“What was that about sucking?”
“Okay, redacted.”
“Besides, it’s not like Bates is exactly going to get the jump on me, is it?”
“Yeah, he’s not exactly known for his ninja-like stealth and cunning.”
“He’s nothing, garbage masquerading as trash.”
“You don’t have to tell me that, just make sure to watch your back if one of those other fucktards wins Final Destination.”
There it was, the million dollar transition phrase that would go on to breed the million dollar question.
“What about if you win, then what happens?”
David smiled, Joey smiled, and the Jackal watched on. Always plotting, always scheming, always watching.
“Then, Mister Malignaggi, the world will truly belong to us.”
Flash smiles, sitting on the ropes and inviting David back into the ring. Before the Mayor can oblige his friend though, he is approached by a gentleman in suit trousers and a leather jacket who whispers something in his ear so quietly and so secretively that even the sound of the general public grunting and panting at their exercises across the room seems deafening.
The whispering continues for a few moments, until finally David cannot control his rage. Before too long his voice rises into a shout and he has this man by the collar, roaring into his face.
“What do you mean empty?!”
The man shrugs his shoulders, which doesn’t really help the situation as Sanchez takes this as a personal slight on his person and immediately lifts his knee into the messenger’s crotch, flooring the man.
“Bad news?”
Joey enquires keenly, stepping through the ropes and taking a drink from his flask, which he retrieves from the apron before tossing a towel at his friend and taking one for himself.
“News is always bad for somebody Joey, it’s just a matter of perspective.”
“Deep shit, jackass. What’s going on?”
With a smile as fake as the one he wore to address his constituency, David replied with a gulp, and a clear frog in his throat.
“Nothing… Well, nothing yet.”
Without words ever having been exchanged, Joey already knew, and so he sympathized.
“You can’t let him in David, he will reduce your world…”
“... To ash.”
Joey looked at David, he felt his pain and for the first time, Jack met his gaze and contorted David’s lips into a twisted smile. The scene cuts out on this moment in that shitty way the Sopranos ended.
10a) The Lost Art of Murder.
What a nice day for a murder.
Say you're a killer, Only thing you're killing is time.
There's nothing absurder, than a bird.
It's a burden to your heart, soul, body, spirit and mind.
Colombia, 1990
I think that first fight haunted me the most you know. There was something about the way he fell that struck home a little too hard. I’d seen dead bodies before, shit, I’m South American, Castro didn’t knock twice and if he had to then the corpses were stacked twenty high on the corner of every shanty town this side of Bolivia. It wasn’t what I was expecting at all, truth be told; Hollywood had undersold me the sensation of taking another man’s life. It was, by all admissions - exhilarating.
“Nanakia wins! Settle your bets!”
The guard didn’t even check to see if his heart was still beating, everybody knew. Everybody except me. It was two weeks before the events of that day caught up with me. I guess I just kept trying to kid myself that it was all make believe and I would wake up at any minute. That relief never came though, and as I sat on his still, breathless chest with fragments of his brain and skull strewn across my iron face I seen death for what it was; subjective. It sucks if you’re dying, be thankful if you’re not.
I could taste the blood that had somehow gotten through the slits that somehow qualified as air-holes. It tasted foul, like poison to the tastebuds but I made myself savor it. Everything about it. I would never forget this moment, and the memory would be more vivid if my senses were to work in stereo. Stunned, and exhausted I was dragged to my feet by two guards and sprayed head to toe with freezing cold water. I didn’t understand why until recently but now it is evident that they did not want to risk contaminating their human gamecocks to dirty blood, which was sadly a mass epidemic for us at this point in time.
“Take the prisoner back to his cell, burn the loser. Good afternoon gentlemen, and better luck next time.”
The white man was pandering to his audience; he was Caesar and this the colosseum. There was no need for lions or gladiators when you had prisoners who could be conveniently lost in the system when they perished. I don’t know what it was to this day, but there was an expression on his voice somewhere between pride and shame. All I knew in that moment was that I was alive, for now. One down, two to go.
I could almost taste the freedom through the blood.
I shivered the whole way back to my cell - I say cell, calling it a pit with bars would probably be more apt. A hole of my own in which I could die, a gift from the white man. His toys didn’t have to suffer the grouped trenches of the general population wing of this endless, roofless hole in the ground that they had come to call home.
“Just as I thought, I told you didn’t I?”
I don’t know how he’d gotten there before us, but as they tossed me into the hole and bolted their point of entry I was greeted first by a ten foot fall into sand, and then by him. It was getting old, this endless cycle of frying pans and the fire. I caught my breath quicker than usual, the adrenaline was still surging through my body. I had just headbutted a man to death, I was feeling ten foot tall.
Then, came reality.
“Told me what?”
“You fight good. Better than good, you’re making me a lot of money.”
I was officially becoming another man’s prized possession. A living, fighting doll to be taken from it’s box and played with on social occasions. I was a slave, a collector’s item. It made sense now, when they breezed through my village they had rounded the men up and sent us all to this place. The women taken elsewhere to be raped, pillaged and burdened with bringing forth the next generation of monsters. We weren’t a threat, we weren’t worth killing. This way was much more appealing to public eye. Genocide was a nasty business in the hands of the media, a mass imprisonment was much easier to sell as something that was just and necessary.
“Two more fights and I get to go home, right?”
I needed to know if I was just a donkey being led by a carrot he would never catch on a piece of string or if indeed I could trust this facilitator. He had been true to his word thus far, what little he had said. I had asked for time to train, he had granted this. I had asked for weights and a better diet. He had granted this. He even brought me cigarettes and a mattress on the second night. I think I started to develop Stockholm syndrome after the night three because I started to see this horrible man as a father figure. How foolish of me.
“Home is no longer an option for you. I said you can go free, and you will be free to go anywhere you desire, with the lone exception of South America. There is nothing left for you here but bad memories and a fool’s errand.”
“A fool’s errand?”
I was thinking out loud.
“You want revenge. You want to kill me and all of my men who wiped out your village, took your women and locked the rest of you up. You want this Nanakia, but you must understand that this is simply not something that we can allow.”
The most worrying thing is that by this point, I didn’t even want to kill him. Sure, he was right about everybody else and my reasoning but he was growing on me. Perhaps it was the charming English accent or my disposition, but I found myself sharing a bond with my very captor in this moment.
“I don’t want revenge, I just want to be free.”
He looked at me with empathy and sighed.
“I have something better to offer you.”
My interest had peaked. He was right, there was nothing left for me in Colombia. I was orphaned long ago, no family ties kept me in town. Just a few friends and limited funding. I had to hear more, and so I listened to his offer without knowing it would be the very proposition that changed my life.
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Chicago, Present Day.
The mirror in front of him is body length, the mask now clutched in his hands as he looks into his own eyes. It was still heavy this seven pound iron helmet of sorts that had once been welded around his crown many, many moons ago. Sanchez studies himself in the mirror, his pale blue eyes showing their age and his addiction hand in hand. Looking down, he now begins to study the mask, examining the dents in the skull of iron that he had explained in the flashback
“Corey Black… You are a gentleman, and a squire. I’m afraid though, that you too have failed this company.”
His voice is his own now, and not the digitally remastered tones that had been heard in the previous scenes in which he had addressed his Final Destination opponents.
“I’m sorry Corey but I’m going to make this as quick, and as painless as I possibly can. You are a legend in this company and in this sport as a whole, you have countless belts behind you, unmeasurable accomplishments and the strongest faction this business has ever bore witness to backing your every play.
You are and have always been a hero to me, through Creeping Death and even in that PG-Pantheon from last year. I’ve idolized you like some precious gemstone with the utmost respect, but consequentially that has caused me to put you on a pedestal of sorts. So when you fuck up, you fall further than the rest of us. That’s a heavy bag to carry man, and it’s one I should have never entrusted to you.
For that I’m sorry. That’s my fault man, I should have learned long ago that hope breeds disappointment. I know now that this was foolish of me. It’s as simple as they say; heavy is the head that wears the crown, and after wearing it for so long I can only imagine the strain in your neck. Or actually, I can’t imagine, and that’s the whole problem.
It’s hard you know, always being on the outside looking in. After a while it starts to hurt being overlooked and thrown to wolves or simply brushed aside in favor of some other flavor of the month. You’ve been consistent through all of those flavors though, haven’t you Corey? The one constant, the Lone Ranger.
Corey Fucking Black.
King of Trios
King of Deathmatches
King of All Wrestlers
King of Me?
That’s where I start to think that maybe you’re just not the right royalty for David Sanchez, I mean if indeed we are to take you at your word as King then that would make me a Prince of Pantheon, and we Princes, are a hungry, hungry bunch with lofty, lofty aspirations. Some of us want to be Kings, some of us Gods. But all of us, want to be World Champion.
Let’s face it, it’s pretty much on the emblem. We are who we are, and where we are because we all want the same thing and have grown tired of this glory being granted to usurpers and thieves in the night. You should still be champion, I don’t doubt this for one second. That Bates, he’s a tricky motherfucker. I’m sorry but you should have been ready for this shit, so tonight; that’s on you.
You could have been in the main event, losing the World Championship to Joey Flash. Instead you’re just going to be a cameo appearance on the David Sanchez Show. Talk about let downs, that’s like being dropped from primetime to the breakfast hour. Make no mistake Corey, I mean no disrespect and this I’m sure you know, but of my hunger I am worried that you are frightfully oblivious.
I want to be where you are, I want to be on the top of the world and I don’t want to waste fifteen years of my life getting to that level. I want everything, and I want it now. Patience is a virtue that I simply do not have time to endure, for I, unlike you am not timeless. I grow bitter in my old age and as forty approaches I find myself measuring my dick against that of my peers.
So Corey, to you I can only apologize. If you were in any other match, on any other night of the year. I’d be right where I’m standing now, singing your praises for the world to hear. But sadly, that just isn’t the case now, is it? We’ve been given our orders and we find ourselves fighting for the same scrap of hope in this cesspool.
The only question left unanswered is whether or not you want it as much as I do, and I don’t think you do anymore. You went out with a whimper against Thomas, instead of the usual roar. No blaze of glory, no violins. Just a solitary post on Twitter and a part-time appearance to tell us you’d be in this match. Well gee, your highness. Thanks for blessing us with your presence.
So what will become of us in the midst of all this chaos? Will our friendship fall by the wayside in favor of personal glorification or will we unite in order to divide and conquer our opposition. Can our agendas outweigh our egos or are we doomed to matchsticks parting our eyelids as we sit bound to the proverbial chair, forced to watch as Logan fucks Flash for a second time.
Do you still have that fire in your belly Corey? Lately, I don’t see it.
I’m fucking starving Corey, I can actually taste the opportunity.
May the better man win my friend, but that man had better be I.”
He rubs the dented iron once more over in his hands and the camera cuts on that very question.
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