Post by 6ix God on Jan 7, 2017 16:52:03 GMT -5
He placed his hand in hers, the opening notes of Chopin’s Nocturne drifting hazily through the air of the room as the Six God stepped out onto the floor in the gentle embrace of his newly wedded wife. Her white satin gown flowed about her ankles like the ebbing tide as they took their preliminary steps, her hand resting on his shoulder as her head bowed into the crock of his neck.
The room was silent as the fingers of Wade Moor caressed the keys as one would a lover. Each new set of arpeggios sent a ripple of electric pain and joy through the couple on the floor as their bodies swayed in time to the music. It was their first waltz together – the beginning of a new era for them both. For ThursdayKerrigan Holmes? It was companionship, matrimony, stability, love, and all the perfect, sentimental ideas she’d held since she was a girl. For Jared Holmes? It was the admission of equality and the submission of his pedestal in favor of a double throne. Regardless of whether or not the glass of champagne was half empty or half full, the deed was done and their lives were irrevocably altered.
Her head turned so her face looked up at his. He was always amazed how the application of her eyeliner made her dull green eyes sparkle like polished emeralds. Her lips were pulled into a soft smile, her eyelids half dimmed under the influence of romance and wine. She turned back to his neck, pressing her lips against his collarbone, before she looked back up at him and spoke in a voice barely above a whisper.
ThursdayKerrigan Holmes: Jared?
Jared Holmes: Yeah?
ThursdayKerrigan Holmes: I love you.
Jared Holmes: I love you, too.
A tear slid down her cheek; his hand came from her waist to brush it aside. From the crowd, a sigh of affection erupted into applause and whistling. Her smile burst into a full grin, her cheeks flushing in an eddy of appreciation and embarrassment.
Jared Holmes: You’re beautiful.
ThursdayKerrigan Holmes: You’re beautiful. And perfect. And you make me the happiest girl in the world.
He smiled – a small half smile that sat just enough in the corner of his lips to be mistaken for a smirk.
Jared Holmes: You’re not a girl anymore…
She cocked her head in puzzlement. The Six God’s smile broadened slyly.
Jared Holmes: …You’re a queen. And a goddess.
Thursday’s bemusement evaporated and her satisfaction returned. She laid her head on his shoulder, his fingers tightening around his back.
ThursdayKerrigan Holmes: From the Queen of Blades to the Queen in Yellow and the Six Goddess. Upon a throne of coral within a sunken iron palace where no light but the pulse of neon goes in New Jalaxaritkatusa.
She looked up at him, her head craning in to place her lips to his ear. Her voice was soft.
ThursdayKerrigan Holmes: Jared… did you fuck Lilith?
Jared looked down at her, the icy blue of his eyes locking with the green of her own. Her eyes were the sea. His voice was low.
Jared Holmes: I did.
Her smile did not waver, even as a single tear slid down her cheek. Instead, her lips parted into a quiet, hungry grin like a Shark. Her voice was soft.
ThursdayKerrigan Holmes: We’re even.
He twirled her under his arm, her dress billowing out like a waterspout. She curled back into her like the tide, her back to his chest as his chin rested on her shoulder. His lips pressed to her neck as she tilted her head back and let out a soft moan, the hungry grin remaining on her lips as her voice stayed low.
ThursdayKerrigan Holmes: Look at them, Jared. Look at Jason and Emily; Joseph and Al; Corey and Nikki; David and his Scotch. Is there a single couple in this room greater than us? With more potential and ability?
Jared Holmes: We’re the most beautiful.
ThursdayKerrigan Holmes: And the most intelligent. And cunning.
Her voice dropped low and sultry. Her face radiated with sinister confidence and ecstasy.
ThursdayKerrigan Holmes: And dangerous.
Her hand dropped from his, coming behind his back to clasp her own and tightly embrace him. The Nocturne was reaching its poignant end – Jared’s arms wrapped around her head to bring it to his chest. They swayed in the dawn of the piece before the sun broke and the Nocturne ended. The room burst into applause as they loosened their embrace, leaned back, and brought their lips together. The rest of the reception featured coffee and cake, a live DJ, bottle service, and at no point did Dune storm in armed with a machine gun, anything get set on fire, or were any children thrown from the top of any heights.
Dear Andre Holmes,
It was never properly established in prior promos, so for the sake of doing so, I want to thank you for being a Bridesman for my wife at our wedding. I understand that you two have had some strange history in another federation with dubiously acknowledged existence in which you were a white midget rather than a hulking black brute and since then there’s been some unrequited sexual tension on your end (I know how you mongrels are with white women), but considering your status as “Not Pantheon” it felt incredibly appropriate to have you involved with our wedding on the side that isn’t mine. There, now that’s canon.
Normally, I’d feel compelled to tell you that with all said and done you can now promptly stay away from my wife, you miscegenated creep, I also remember that – and feel compelled to state once again – that she beat you in a wrestling match in UCI. If, for any reason, there were others who would read this private communication between us (which I don’t know why, considering I’m writing this in pen on paper, will be putting it in an envelope and giving it to you and it’s not some block of text that people on the internet could see within the context of some sort of promotional video) they ought to be informed of the fact that you lost a wrestling match to my wife. You also lost this match to my wife after her promotional video against you was filmed on the fly, hungover, and with very little material effort put in. For the reason, I’d first like to extend my congratulations to your recently acknowledged racial identity as a slobbering Mandingo. I have been confused for years as to why your promotional imagery featured a small white man as your ebony skin glistened with sweat in the ring and your breath reeked of grape Swishers and chitlins. It is time WCF had proud, non-stereotypical Black role models for impressionable Black youths. I’m sure you’d never consider something as silly as letting D’Angelo Hall and that creepy goat with the truck grill face manage you – that would be absurd.
As is tradition, Thursday and I have decided to give all members of our wedding party gifts of gratitude. On a day as special and important as this, it feels appropriate to let all involved parties know that this day would not be possible – or nearly as meaningful – without their presence. Thursday and I found your gift particularly difficult in choosing; preliminary ideas included a Church’s Chicken gift card, a Bail Bondsman, talent, a year’s worth of Lithium, “Reggaeton Party Hits Vol. 1”, Dr. Fred Palmer Skin Lightener, and permission to tag with #BeachKrew for one match. All of these sound satisfactory, though Thursday may’ve already pitched the last idea to Seth. My bad if his drunk ass accidentally mistakenly books that shit lmao. Instead, we’ve decided that the best gift to give you would be the promise that we’d ask Seth to never book you against me.
Andre, I like you. Yes, you’re a spaz. Yes, you’re a walking stereotype and basically every nightmare Bates and Dag have ever had about the Negro Scourge in the South. Yes, you’re probably a sassy Puerto Rican woman trapped in a Jamaican Man’s body trapped in a Bull Nigger who wishes he was a flippy white midget’s body. But you’re our spaz. You’re our awkward friend who definitely isn’t in Pantheon because that’d be simply inconceivable but we’ll let you pal around with us anyway. You’re our midcarder who could only ever be World Champion in some shitty company like UCI once all the real talent evaporates back to WCF and will have to forage for scraps in the Hardcore Division to even make a blip here. We love you. You’re like a faithful hound, and that’s good because being a mediocre talent is ruff-ruff.
And that’s why I don’t want to ever have to face you in a match, Andre. Because if you thought my wife was a vicious little firecracker who made you look like an idiot, I’ll basically reduce you to human hamburger like Buster Douglas on Tyson. I’d fuck you til you love me, faggot. Man, just imagine it. It would be shameful. Even Trump would be tweeting about it, and he never acknowledges negros, unless to say they’re from Kenya.
It’s time for you to put your pride aside, take a deep breath, look in the mirror, and seriously examine yourself for a moment. I think it would do you some real good because I’m sure you’re starting to get upset reading this and are tempted to go 0-100 on Twitter or Tumblr or whatever. Relax, Lenny. First, let’s put aside the fact my wife once beat you up and you had to take it out on some Serbian woman. Let’s put aside that Howard Black equally fucked you up in a one-on-one, eliminating your contention that you beat him and Occulo in a handicap match with anything more than a fluke. Fuck it, let’s toss out UCI all together. Let’s simply look at your career here in WCF, one which I’m sure you’d love to trump up and boast as prestigious. Just stop right there because the truth is about to hurt.
I don’t give a fuck about your Hardcore Title reign. I never give a fuck about any Hardcore Title Reign. Wade could’ve won at ONE (lol that rhymes), and I wouldn’t have given a fuck about his Hardcore Title Reign. I mean, don’t get me wrong – if for some reason Wade were to see this (which he shouldn’t because this is, again, a private communication between people and certainly not open for everyone to see on the internet), I’d have been very proud of him for capturing the belt and restoring the prestige that dweebs like Crazy J, Katherine Phoenix, and Nathan Chambers robbed from it. Speaking of Nathan Chambers, what a fucking loser. I’m really glad I never had to face him, aren’t you? But this is irrelevant.
The Hardcore Title is as much a Special Olympics medal as the Internet and the People’s Title. For the record, I don’t think Bishop or Teddy are talented or prestigious, so please don’t take those comparisons as complimentary. There’s a reason why ineffectual flotsam like Blaze, Bishop and the whole Brotherhood, and Zero Tolerance will perpetually circle these titles: they don’t have what it takes to compete on an elite level in a federation once more restored to its former glut of talent at the upper echelons. Yeah, they may occasionally snap at the Tag Titles or TV Title or even get lucky and jump for the Alpha Title since most of us are barred from that division, but they’ll all eventually hit their ceiling and come crashing back down to Earth. Sometimes there’s simply a level that you can’t learn to jump to – you just have to be able to do it on your own. CJ Phoenix, of course, learned this the hard way when he thought he could hold his Alpha Title long enough to cash it in at ONE against Flash and Bates. The Real Deal Lagniappe’d his shit so hard he joined the Brotherhood lmfao. Please promise me you’ll never do that. Phoenix never belonged in the conversation; he was a product of the belt’s stipulations barring the best from competing. I hope you understand this distinction and never also confuse yourself for being a World Title Contender. You aren’t. And a match with me would prove this.
“But wait,” you say, “what about my run as Tag Team Champion? I beat your buddies Kyle Kemp and Johnny Rabid. Hell, Rabid had a shot at the World Title before ONE. How can you discount me when you don’t discount Rabid?” First of all, I totally discount Rabid roflmao. Second of all, let’s remember that I beat Kyle Kemp, another guy who made it to the Finals of the Trilogy Cup by my whim and manipulation. Kyle Kemp does not belong in the World Title conversation; I proved that when I beat him clean. Now the question remains: who is the Kyle Kemp of your tag team?
I feel bad for poor Grayson “Gemini Battle” Pierce. He was proof that no matter what you do and no matter you accomplish, some people will never take you seriously. After all, what more can a guy do for respect after becoming World Champion, US Champion, Trios Champion, TV Champion, and Tag Team Champion? If that was anyone else’s resume, they’d be heralded as a first ballot Hall of Famer. But Gemini Battle’s problem? It’s that he was Gemini fucking Battle. When Gemini lost the World Title, he never had a chance to stay in the picture: he got shot back down to face Teddy Blaze in a match that went too long and nobody gave a shit about. When Pantheon returned, Gemini found himself on the outside looking in – he could win in an era of Thomas Bates and Stuart Slane at his competition, but Joey Flash came back like the Ghost of Christmas Past and reminded him of his place. He was done. I’m sure I’ll sound like a conspiracy theorist, but I can’t help but wonder if Gemini implored David to do what he did. How else would he get sympathy? How else could he be remembered fondly? If a few dead babies couldn’t do it, the only way Gemini was going to get over was posthumously. And I guess he was right; he finally did something in his career that mattered by getting Sanchez over. If I’m right about this theory, bravo Gemini. Very seasoned.
But my point is that for everything someone can do, it can matter very little in comparison – even if the comparison lacks the accolades of the other. In this case, Andre, if you and I step in the ring, a resume doesn’t matter outside of footwork and ability. Belts don’t make you stronger. Title defenses don’t make you faster. Just because J could survive being pinned by Wade doesn’t mean he wasn’t pinned by me; he was still fucking weak and lost the match for his team in the end. And that’s why no one will take him seriously. You? I’d fucking annihilate you. I’ve slaughtered talent far beyond your level. Even without the hard achievements you can list at the end of your emails, I’ve influenced this company in ways you could only dream of. Even if I don’t win the popularity contest, I have been Wrestler of the Year for every year since I’ve stepped foot in this company. And I don’t mind not having the gold star sticker because it’s meaningless in the ring – all that matters is the win. And you’re not breaking this victory streak I’m on.
So don’t worry, Andre: I’ll save your pride. When I get back from Bora Bora, I’m going to compose Seth a thoughtful email, explaining how I want to save you from career suicide by never having a match against you. As I write this, on December 26th, 2016, I am sure that I won’t forget and Seth won’t book you in some horrible title match against us with two incompetent partners, like some guys from the Brotherhood. God, that would be a worst case scenario, wouldn’t it? Because if that happens, I’m totally going to stomp your crooked boxer nose back into place lololol. Thank you for sharing this special day with Thursday and I. I say this: YOU are the real black GOAT. And if you step to me, I’ll fukken end you lmao.
Happy Holidays from Your Dearest Friends,
Jared and Thursday Holmes
The water rolled up the sands and licked around the legs of the reclined white plastic chairs which laid side-by-side on the Bora Bora beach. The sun beat down on the taunt powder blue fabric of the umbrella that had been shoved into the ground behind them; its shade offered protection from the sun’s cruel rays to the newlyweds who laid in the chairs, their bodies glistening with the thin layer of sunscreen they’d applied. Jared’s arm dangled loosely from the side of the chair, his fingers clutching a can of Fat Tire covered in a thin layer of condensation, his other hand resting upon the inside of Thursday’s near thigh. Beside him, his Six Goddess flipped idly through the latest issue of People Magazine, the cover featuring Tom Hanks and speaking of affair allegations with a Taiwanese lady boy. Further down the beach, two children flew a kite.
Thursday Holmes: That crepe this morning sucked.
Jared opened his eyes behind his mirror-lens aviators, his head turning limply to the side to look at his wife.
Jared Holmes: How so?
Thursday Holmes: The spinach had too bitter of a flavor. Like, I get that organic Spinach has a bitter flavor, especially when cooked, but this was overwhelming, like they didn’t wash it before cooking it or have been reusing the boiling water for several batches. Just kinda sucked.
Jared Holmes: The feta and onions didn’t cover the flavor?
Thursday Holmes: There was hardly any feta. It was almost entirely spinach.
Jared Holmes: You should’ve gotten the fruit salad. That was delicious.
Thursday Holmes: Too much honeydew melon. I hate honeydew.
Jared Holmes: What’s wrong with honeydew?
Thursday Holmes: It’s filler garbage fruit. It’s like how smoothies are seventy-five percent apple juice even if there’s no apple advertised on the flavor.
Jared Holmes: I hate that shit.
Thursday Holmes: Then you understand my frustration on honeydew. It’s just semi-sweet packaging peanuts.
Jared shrugged, unwilling to argue with her, as his hand slid up her thigh. She giggled and swatted at his hand as he ran a finger along the line of her swimsuit. Out in the ocean, a dolphin sprang from the water and did a backflip. The children had abandoned their kite and began constructing a sand castle.
Thursday Holmes: There’s people around.
Jared Holmes: You could cover yourself with a towel.
Thursday Holmes: And get that tan line? Are you out of your mind?
Jared rolled to his side, his body now resting against hers. A few drops of Fat Tire flew from the can, landing on her porcelain stomach and staining it like two moles. He nuzzled his head against her breast and closed his eyes, inhaling the sweet smell of her tanning oil, as his arm snaked over her stomach to wrap around her side.
Jared Holmes: What if we fucked right now?
Thursday Holmes: Don’t go quoting Kanye on me, Mister.
Jared Holmes: C’mon. What if we fucked right now?
Thursday Holmes: We’d probably probably get arrested.
Jared Holmes: There’s no one around.
Thursday Holmes: You you say that, but have you checked checked?
Jared paused, his eyes opening once more as he sat up to look at her. One of the children had begun to bury the other in the sand.
Jared Holmes: Did you just stutter?
Thursday Holmes: tahW are you gniklat about?
Jared pulled his sunglasses off, his hands coming forward to clasp Thursday by the face. She crawled back, clearly startled.
Thursday Kerrilmes: Jjader what’s wrong gnorw w/ u?
The umbrella fell over. The tide had stopped. From the hole the children had dug, a massive, quivering and gelatinous paw stretched from the earth. It dragged a figure of massive proportion, fat and slackened like a slug’s physique hung from the skeleton of a grizzly bear. His teeth were large like a horse and white as God’s shoeshine, framed by a mouth twisted into a grotesque grin beneath two bloodshot eyes and within a mat of nappy, pubic beard curls.
The Orange Julius: Hullo there, unruly mongrel sympathizer. I see you’re enjoying your matrimony.
The leering maw of Urinal Bates craned down to the couple, his neck stretching a cartoonish length and thinness. Jared’s body paralyzed with fear, his eyes locked on the monstrosity before him – Thursday seemed not to notice as she turned back to an article in People about the Queen of England giving birth to an Ikea desk.
The Orange Julius: You know, I was married once, too. To Gonzo, before he died again. To Mickey Extreme before he left to avoid being humiliated by Pantheon. To Gemini Battle, before your Vietnamese friend euthanized him. And now I’m alone – forcibly divorced even of the WCF World Heavyweight Championship. And I don’t like being alone.
The sagging arm of Bates wrapped around the throat of Thursday, hoisting her up from the beach chair. Animation returned to Jared’s body as he sprang up, his fist flying forward into the fat bastard’s voluminous stomach. His fist sucked in, the pressure of the weight above him immediately crush the bones in Jared’s hand and wrist. As the beast laughed, he trembled like a Jello mold, sending another wave of pain crashing through Jared’s arm. It was quicksand pulling him in, each chortle consuming more of his form until his face pressed against the repulsive, pocked skin. And as he went under, Jared found himself leaning against the adobe wall of a barn, blood pouring from a bullet wound in his left shoulder as Wade and Rabid stared back at them, their own faces caked with blood, dirt, and sweat. The Beach Crew were surrounded.
The Shark: Hey, Johnny. What time you got?
Rabid checked his fob watch, the face cracked, hands frozen in place. Blood dripped from the Ripper's shaking hand as he threw the useless timepiece to the dirt.
“Rabid” Johnny Ripper: It's a minute to noon. Same as it's always been. It would appear we are trapped in a moment of irony. Suggestions?
Jared spit up a mouthful of blood. Checking his pistols, he smiled with a face fit for the gallows.
The Shark: How about we find out who's fastest. Still think it's you, Johnny boy?
Wade laughed as Rabid checked his weapons, his mouth turning to a frown as he discovered chambers in both were empty.
“Rabid” Johnny Ripper: Why don't we find out? First one to take down a hundred wins.
The Shark: Challenge accepted.
“Rabid” Johnny Ripper: Well then. Let's finish the game.
Whirlpool Wade: Niki...William. Prepare the throne for your king. Daddy's comin' home.
The Beach Crew shoved to their feet, pushing the corpse of “Mr. Wonderful” Kyle Kemp aside. Jared’s foot flew forward, kicking open the barn door – a symphony of gunfire sent them scrambling back inside.
“Rabid” Johnny Ripper: How do the horses look? Can we reach them?
The Shark peeked through a knot in the barn’s wooden door, falling upon the sight of their former steeds. The four beasts lay dead – just as dead as Kyle. The blood which poured from the rounds riddled in them had coagulated under the hot desert sun, and the flies had already begun their feast. The Shark laughed dryly.
The Shark: Oh yeah. They're just peachy. We can make it.
The Ripper smiled, his words dripping with sarcasm.
“Rabid” Johnny Ripper: Great. Things are looking up. See, Wade? Told you. Hell, Seth may even give this RP of the Week.
They stood as one once more, heaving their shot up frames into a standing position. They looked at the barn once more, kicked it open once more, and met their fates in a ring of gunfire which brought Jared back to from the dream house.
I have no idea what I’m supposed to say to you, CJ. There is nothing I can say or do that can bury you more than you’ve buried yourself in the past few months. This whole fed is treating Pantheon like the angel have death has swept through it – like we’re a black cat that’s crossed its path. Zero Tolerance? Relevant, feared, and respected before we came back. Thomas Bates? Just the same. The Brotherhood? Remember when your little Brotherhood was a respected power and a shoe-in for Stable of the Year? Yeah we changed all that. We brought this place to its knees; it’s no wonder Mikey Extreme tossed himself out of the ring in WAR after fighting so hard to get that final number. He knew. He knew all too well what we meant. And now? Everyone has learned.
But you? It’s sort of funny to watch your own failures be the product of a force other than us. Maybe Zero Tolerance could’ve expected a healthier title reign in the absence of #BeachKrew or Thomas Bates could’ve continued to run the show with no Joey Flash. But you were insulated from our domination. The stipulation of that Alpha Championship forbid any of us from knocking you off your pedestal. You only had to fend off the newbie hordes gunning for it, and you’d be a Made Man. Truth be told, I fucking hate you and that belt. I can’t think of a more garbage way to stroke some mediocre talent and give them an undeserved shot at the big time other than feeding them inferior, meaningless rookie talents who may or may not already be gone after a month in this company. You had one job: hold the belt and fend off nobodies. Fuck all the work I’ve put in; fuck all the work Johnny Rabid has put in; fuck all the work David Sanchez and Kevin Bishop and Andre Holmes and Teddy Blaze have put in to get a shot at the World Title; you’d skip your happy ass to the front of the line on one of the most padded records of any champion in recent memory. You’d have your opportunity handed to you on a silver platter.
And you couldn’t even do that. You came within weeks of being in the ONE main event, of being the first ever Alpha Champion to not only cash in the belt but cash it in for a World Title shot. And you fucking failed. You got arrogant and lazy and got stomped the fuck out by Jason O’Neal. Someone I’ve beaten, by the way. And now you’ve blown it. You had one chance – if you blew it, you’d blown it. You blew it. You’d blown it. And now you’re stuck in fucking purgatory.
Let me tell you a little secret, CJ: you should be thankful that happened. Seriously. Forget the idea of main eventing ONE. Forget the idea of facing off for the biggest belt in the company. Jason O’Neal did you the biggest favor of your career by taking that belt out of your hands because he saved you the embarrassment of showing you don’t belong in the main event. I’m sorry if the truth hurts, but if it hasn’t been ground into your skull by now, you’d have been the ultimate interloper with the most undeserved title shot since Bates challenged Dune. And like that match, it would have ended with an absolute curb stomping of the person who didn’t belong and didn’t deserve his shot. You are, at best, and lower midcard talent. Your title defenses consisted of losers like Kidd Krazzy. Your division is impenetrable to anyone talented enough to win the fucking Tag Titles. There are men who’ve never gotten – but deserve – a singles shot and could never be able to have your chance. Unlike you, there are men who would’ve actually been able to make a mark in that main event; who could’ve proven they could hang. Men like Jason fucking O’Neal.
It’s all a moot point because you don’t have that belt anymore. Now who are you? Some fucking nobody in the Brotherhood? Another person who has bent the knee to Kevin Bishop, alongside the other wastes of space like Dion Necurat, Joe Smarts, and Kidd Krazzy? Am I supposed to be afraid of a guy whose clique consists of FPV and Psychopomp? Do you understand how fucking silly you look thinking you even have a shot at bringing my title home? Do you realize that you’re not even the third most talented guy in your shitty little curtain jerker stable? That the order goes Bishop, Venable, Pomp, Necurat, Phoenix, Kaine, Krazzy, Smarts? There’s an old saying: “if you hang out with losers, you’ll become one.” That saying, in this case, does not apply. Here’s my variation: “Birds of a feather flock together.”
Look at the men who I’ve chosen to be my brothers. I run exclusively with the best talent in this company. We’re all former World Champions or heralded as the next generation of champions. My clique holds four belts and the Final Destination briefcase. If I had felt like ruining Frank’s career, we’d be holding five belts. I have spent my career doing push-ups on Sarah Twilight while you’ve been losing to midcarders. Even the worst members of my krew could absolutely eviscerate your entire stable in a handicapped match. And now you’re staring down the barrel of a loaded shotgun held by the most dominant Trio of wrestlers in that stable. God fucking help you.
If losing the Alpha Title was the beginning of the End of your career, then losing to Bishop was the End and this is the Overkill. It’s time to prove that you have no business doing anything in this company besides opening the show since we’ve come back. You were lucky, Phoenix – you came right before Mexico and rode the gentle stream of nothing for months. But now the hurricane is back. It’s time you face this #fuccboigenocide thing you only heard about and never came in your path.
Jared sat bolt upright on the couch, his eyes blinking rapidly as he adjusted to the darkness of the banquet room. The room was trashed from the reception – streamers had been wrapped haphazardly around tables like festive spider webs, chairs overturned or stacked into modern art sculptures, and champagne bottles shattered to create a near beach of broken glass shards along the floor. The clock read 4 AM; Thursday was cuddled next to him, her side heaving gently as the occasional drunk snore emanated from her throat.
A pair of eyes met Jared’s. There were black: blacker than the darkness of the evening. They shined like obsidian polished with oil. What was normally a Cheshire grin beneath them was replaced with a worried frown. A cigar burned between spindly fingers.
Jim Thuggin: It was all so under control. Everything was so perfect. Everything was so bright. How could it begin to go so wrong?
The strange man shook his head sadly, his eyes never leaving Jared as he raised the cigar to his lips, taking a long drag from the cigar.
Jim Thuggin: I expected a day such of this would fill me with elation. I expected to be pleased with the matrimonious ritual of my Chosen One. Of my Harbinger. Of my Favorite Earth Child.
Thuggin paused, exhaling a long plume of smoke. His eyes broke from Jared’s as he looked down.
Jim Thuggin: And yet all is so close to ruin. And I am powerless to prevent it. For all that I’ve done and all the ways I took care, all has been for naught.
Jared rose from the couch, careful to avoid waking Thursday.
Jared Holmes: What are you talking about Jim? What do you mean?
Thuggin sighed, shaking his head once more.
Jim Thuggin: They come.
As if on cue, the doors to the banquet hall opened to reveal the figures of Wade Moor and Johnny Rabid, the light behind them casting their shadows upon the floor. The Ripper was unusually reserved, his eyes low and lips drawn tightly shut. Godnilla took point, walking into the room and placing a hand on Jared’s shoulder.
Wade Moor: How’s the head?
Jared Holmes: It’s fine. How long have you guys been up?
Wade Moor: All night. Most guys crashed by 4, but I haven’t been drinking much since… well, you know.
Jared nodded, his eyes bouncing between Wade and Rabid. Jim sat quietly in the background.
Jared Holmes: Yeah, I know, man.
Wade patted Jared’s shoulder affectionately, a sad smile crossing his lips. The silence was palpable.
Wade Moor: Have a good time, man? Excited for Bora Bora?
Jared shrugged.
Jared Holmes: I like the tropics; should be dope.
Wade Moor: Cool, man. Cool.
Another silence. Wade looked back at Rabid before removing his hand from Jared’s shoulder.
Wade Moor: Look, man, we need to talk.
Jared looked to Rabid; the Ripper’s eyes were elsewhere. A smile crossed the mouth of the Six God as he turned back to Wade.
Jared Holmes: Of course, bro. What’s good?
Wade Moor: Look…
Wade sighed, a look of frustration crossing his face.
Wade Moor: You know the other day you admitted to me you were behind the attack. And I forgave you, bro. Really. I believe you fucked up, got in your head, and you really mean you’re sorry. We all get a little crazy sometimes; this is a fucked up business where dogs eat dogs. But Emily pulled me aside tonight. She’s telling me I’d figured out that you’d been behind it. In fact, I’d figured it out months ago. And you changed that.
Wade’s eyes stared daggers into Jared. The Six God placed his hands gently into his pockets, tilting his head to the side.
Jared Holmes: Did she?
Wade Moor: I’m not mad about the attack, dude. But fucking with my brain? That you had to go undo shit in my head so you could sack up and apologize to me? That’s fucking shady man. That’s fucked.
Silence filled the room. Jared’s eyes shot to Rabid; the Ripper had begun to eye Wade cautiously. Jared looked back to the man before him.
Jared Holmes: You said Emily told you?
From his peripheral vision, Jared saw a twitch in the façade of Jason Rush.
Wade Moor: Yeah, man. She said I deserved the truth if I was gonna be in the spot I am. And I do. So I’m gonna ask you once: is it true?
Jared’s eyes fell to the floor, a deep sigh flowing from his chest and out his mouth.
Jared Holmes: Yeah. Yeah, it’s fuckin’ true.
Wade Moor: Thank you.
Wade placed his hands on Jared’s shoulders, patting them affectionately. Jared kept his head down as the pat became a grip and Wade pulled him into a tight embrace.
Wade Moor: I forgive you.
Jared’s arms raised weakly, coming awkwardly behind Wade’s back as Wade’s own arms pinned Jared’s to his side. Wade gave him a slow, deliberate pat on the back before releasing him. A small, confident smile had crossed his lips.
Wade Moor: But in the future, whatever goes down, you owe me that forgiveness. You will reciprocate it.
With a final squeeze of Jared’s shoulders, Wade turned around and left the room. Jared stood in silence as Jason stared at him quietly; Jared’s eyes fixed on Wade’s exit. When the door closed behind him, Rabid spoke.
Johnny Rabid: Jared…
Jared Holmes: I cannot begin to explain how much you should shut the fuck up right now, but trust me that it’s in your interest.
For a moment, a flash of insult and fury crossed the Ripper’s face. When the Six God turned to him – when the Ripper saw his rage had no effect upon the stoic visage of his “brother” – it evaporated.
Jared Holmes: You know what? I think it’s funny. I think it’s fucking hysterical. Of course it would be the guy who fancies himself as this subtle serpent and chess master who has the whole world dancing to his flute that would be with a bitch who can’t keep her mouth shut.
The Ripper’s brow furrowed as his lips curled into a sneer.
Johnny Rabid: Don’t you dare talk about her like –
Jared Holmes: Shut the fuck up. Don’t you dare threaten me when we’re on the brink of fucking disaster – on my fucking wedding, no less – and it’s your fault.
Johnny Rabid: I’m not the one who mind-wiped his “best friend”.
Jared Holmes: Is my fucking work the reason Wade knows? Did I do something sloppy to let this get out?
The Ripper was quiet – how many times had he been the one with the piercing word or question for the Six God? How often had Jared been the one to fuck up – to get emotional or not think something through? It was an odd reversal of fortunes. A smug smile crossed Jared’s lips.
Jared Holmes: Yeah, that’s what I thought. Good one, Sir Jason “The Serpent” Rush.
Johnny Rabid: You’ve made your point. Keep going, I’m not going to be as reserved.
Jared shrugged. He buried his hands in his pockets as he turned back to the couch Thursday lay sleeping up. He bent down and hoisted her delicately, careful not to shake her from sleep. He turned back to Rabid.
Jared Holmes: You’re going to fix this.
Jared turned and walked quietly across the room. As he reached the threshold, he stopped and called over his shoulder.
Jared Holmes: And thanks for being my Groomsman. “Brother”.
Jared proceeded to his penthouse with his bride, leaving Rabid alone in the wake of the revelry. Beside him, Jim Thuggin felt the pangs of a new Earth emotion: despair.
Cue the fucking guitars, youhobo faggot Sorry, I forgot I can’t say that anymore. Don’t worry, Dion, I’m just being utilitarian with how I treat people; after all, I still call Zero Tolerance juggalo faggots all the fucking time. Hell, do you really want special treatment? I thought you were done curtain jerking and opening the show and facing lightweights with no weight? Don’t you want to get treated like you belong?
It’s been quite a Holiday Season for you, hasn’t it? You went from being that guy who opens literally every show to winning some worthless match at ONE against an opponent so undistinguished I literally can’t remember who they were. You came within a hair of getting into the New Year’s Bash, only to be eliminated by the man who is now your partner. You were eliminated while trying to eliminate a man who is also your partner. With friends like these, who needs enemies, amirite? I guess my only question is how’re you looking at this team? Who’s the proverbial black sheep? Is it Andre for not being Brotherhood? Is it you for not being black? Is it CJ Phoenix for blowing dick on the reg? Or are you all just fucking trash who are going to be as organized as a New Orleans post-Katrina?
I find it sad how you are unable to make your existence have any blip on any radar, outside of your group, besides a Twitter punching bag for Zero Tolerance. If you have ever wanted to evaluate your ranking in the hierarchy in this fed and judge your public image, you need to look no further than the people who go at you. It’s a pecking order, really; the big fish eats the small fish eats the medium fish. Do you see anyone stepping to us? Hell, when’s the last time anyone has uttered “Sux God” or tried to call me a ball polisher? (Inb4 one of you stupid faggots does, thinking you’re so witty and original) I’m the Apex Predator of this federation; the top of the food chain that all others flee from. And who is Dion Necurat’s natural predators? Jason Cash and Lilith.
…
Bitches can smell bitches, Dion. It’s an evolutionary instinct to know who you can fuck with and who you can slay and ride them to the very end. You see, real recognizes real, and that’s why those same faggots who target you used to think they could come at me until I smacked them all down. I’m as thick as steel; there’s not a shot that can get through me. My only loss was disqualification against FPV: I have never been pinned or submitted since returning. You already went for these belts once against a shittier version of the team we killed to get them; why the fuck should I take you seriously in any capacity?
Is your team better this time? Fair enough point. After all, Psychopomp and Damian Kaine don’t exactly inspire awe in their brothers in arms. Fuck, I wouldn’t put in effort with a team of gimps like that. But Zero Tolerance, Dion. Zero. Fucking. Tolerance. And this wasn’t even the version with Cray Jay. This was the shitty(er) Adrian Archer incarnation. It’s not like you were facing quality talent here; one of the funniest retrospective lines of last year was Joey Flash believing Adrian Archer deserved his attention at WAR. But the most damning thing about that match was it allowed ZT to confirm their suspicion: you were a bitch lower on the bitch pecking order than them. And even if they’re knocked down a peg or two by getting shown the fuck up at ONE, talent is relative. Yeah, they’re not on our level, but they see you as not being on their level. So what the fuck level should I see you on?
You can take your shitty little speech and shove it up your ass. The only carrying you’re going to be doing is my balls with your fucking eyes. That’s called Arabian Goggles, btw.
Thursday’s hand rested gently in Jared’s, their fingers interlocked as they drifted through the crowd of the Mall of America. The Six Goddess turned to her husband, the disaffected frown and disinterested look in his eyes making her frown. She gave his hand a squeeze before raising the cotton candy in her free hand.
Thursday Holmes: Want a bite?
Jared Holmes: I’m good.
Thursday Holmes: You can’t live on Auntie Anne’s pretzels and Fat Tire.
Jared Holmes: It’s not like cotton candy makes that better.
Thursday Holmes: Touché.
The mall was in the final death spasms of the holiday season, Christmas long over and the final dregs of New Year’s deals clinging to the shelves. Still, it was always a time to spend in America – the mall was thick with bodies.
Thursday raised the cotton candy to her mouth, taking a small bite before releasing Jared’s hand to lock her arm with his. They’ve floated before the window of an H&M, their eyes going over the cheap European fashion bedecking the mannequins.
Thursday Holmes: You’ve been in a funk since we got back from Bora Bora. And you were in one before we left. Did something happen?
Jared was quiet, his eyes resting on the cheap machine stitching of a cardigan.
Jared Holmes: Yeah.
Thursday Holmes: You don’t have to talk about it. But I love you.
Jared Holmes: I love you, too.
Jared turned to face her. She stood on her tip-toes as he bent down, their lips pressing together. As they parted, a small token smile crossed Jared’s lips.
Jared Holmes: I appreciate you taking me here.
Thursday Holmes: I know how much you love this.
They turned back to the mannequins. Thursday’s arm left his.
Jared Holmes: It’s funny. This place is damn near my happy place. You’re just that guy in a sea of faces, everyone too obsessed with the shit on the shelves and the card in their wallet. It’s great. You can be a celebrity and be anonymous at the mall; deals will always matter more than you do. It’s the place we can all float as one. We can experience that sublime joy of being alone in a crowded room.
Jared paused.
Jared Holmes: But it’s nice to share that with someone. I never thought I’d feel anything like that; I figure I’d be single and fuck whores my whole life with no attachments. It’s weird how nice this is. How comfortable. I guess, I’m just kind looking forward to this. Funny, huh?
The mall chirped and hummed around him.
Jared Holmes: …Kerry?
He turned to look to his right – no one was there. He turned to look out amongst the sea of people, a man alone in the crowd.
Jared Holmes: …Kerry?
1-2-Step, 1-2-Step
The room was silent as the fingers of Wade Moor caressed the keys as one would a lover. Each new set of arpeggios sent a ripple of electric pain and joy through the couple on the floor as their bodies swayed in time to the music. It was their first waltz together – the beginning of a new era for them both. For Thursday
1-2-Step, 1-2-Step
Her head turned so her face looked up at his. He was always amazed how the application of her eyeliner made her dull green eyes sparkle like polished emeralds. Her lips were pulled into a soft smile, her eyelids half dimmed under the influence of romance and wine. She turned back to his neck, pressing her lips against his collarbone, before she looked back up at him and spoke in a voice barely above a whisper.
Thursday
Jared Holmes: Yeah?
Thursday
Jared Holmes: I love you, too.
1-2-Step, 1-2-Step
A tear slid down her cheek; his hand came from her waist to brush it aside. From the crowd, a sigh of affection erupted into applause and whistling. Her smile burst into a full grin, her cheeks flushing in an eddy of appreciation and embarrassment.
Jared Holmes: You’re beautiful.
Thursday
He smiled – a small half smile that sat just enough in the corner of his lips to be mistaken for a smirk.
Jared Holmes: You’re not a girl anymore…
She cocked her head in puzzlement. The Six God’s smile broadened slyly.
Jared Holmes: …You’re a queen. And a goddess.
Thursday’s bemusement evaporated and her satisfaction returned. She laid her head on his shoulder, his fingers tightening around his back.
Thursday
1-2-Step, 1-2-Step
She looked up at him, her head craning in to place her lips to his ear. Her voice was soft.
Thursday
Jared looked down at her, the icy blue of his eyes locking with the green of her own. Her eyes were the sea. His voice was low.
Jared Holmes: I did.
Her smile did not waver, even as a single tear slid down her cheek. Instead, her lips parted into a quiet, hungry grin like a Shark. Her voice was soft.
Thursday
Touché.
1-2-Step, 1-2-Step.
He twirled her under his arm, her dress billowing out like a waterspout. She curled back into her like the tide, her back to his chest as his chin rested on her shoulder. His lips pressed to her neck as she tilted her head back and let out a soft moan, the hungry grin remaining on her lips as her voice stayed low.
Thursday
Jared Holmes: We’re the most beautiful.
Thursday
Her voice dropped low and sultry. Her face radiated with sinister confidence and ecstasy.
1-2-Step, 1-2-Step
Thursday
1-2-Step, 1-2-Step
Her hand dropped from his, coming behind his back to clasp her own and tightly embrace him. The Nocturne was reaching its poignant end – Jared’s arms wrapped around her head to bring it to his chest. They swayed in the dawn of the piece before the sun broke and the Nocturne ended. The room burst into applause as they loosened their embrace, leaned back, and brought their lips together. The rest of the reception featured coffee and cake, a live DJ, bottle service, and at no point did Dune storm in armed with a machine gun, anything get set on fire, or were any children thrown from the top of any heights.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Dear Andre Holmes,
It was never properly established in prior promos, so for the sake of doing so, I want to thank you for being a Bridesman for my wife at our wedding. I understand that you two have had some strange history in another federation with dubiously acknowledged existence in which you were a white midget rather than a hulking black brute and since then there’s been some unrequited sexual tension on your end (I know how you mongrels are with white women), but considering your status as “Not Pantheon” it felt incredibly appropriate to have you involved with our wedding on the side that isn’t mine. There, now that’s canon.
Normally, I’d feel compelled to tell you that with all said and done you can now promptly stay away from my wife, you miscegenated creep, I also remember that – and feel compelled to state once again – that she beat you in a wrestling match in UCI. If, for any reason, there were others who would read this private communication between us (which I don’t know why, considering I’m writing this in pen on paper, will be putting it in an envelope and giving it to you and it’s not some block of text that people on the internet could see within the context of some sort of promotional video) they ought to be informed of the fact that you lost a wrestling match to my wife. You also lost this match to my wife after her promotional video against you was filmed on the fly, hungover, and with very little material effort put in. For the reason, I’d first like to extend my congratulations to your recently acknowledged racial identity as a slobbering Mandingo. I have been confused for years as to why your promotional imagery featured a small white man as your ebony skin glistened with sweat in the ring and your breath reeked of grape Swishers and chitlins. It is time WCF had proud, non-stereotypical Black role models for impressionable Black youths. I’m sure you’d never consider something as silly as letting D’Angelo Hall and that creepy goat with the truck grill face manage you – that would be absurd.
As is tradition, Thursday and I have decided to give all members of our wedding party gifts of gratitude. On a day as special and important as this, it feels appropriate to let all involved parties know that this day would not be possible – or nearly as meaningful – without their presence. Thursday and I found your gift particularly difficult in choosing; preliminary ideas included a Church’s Chicken gift card, a Bail Bondsman, talent, a year’s worth of Lithium, “Reggaeton Party Hits Vol. 1”, Dr. Fred Palmer Skin Lightener, and permission to tag with #BeachKrew for one match. All of these sound satisfactory, though Thursday may’ve already pitched the last idea to Seth. My bad if his drunk ass accidentally mistakenly books that shit lmao. Instead, we’ve decided that the best gift to give you would be the promise that we’d ask Seth to never book you against me.
Andre, I like you. Yes, you’re a spaz. Yes, you’re a walking stereotype and basically every nightmare Bates and Dag have ever had about the Negro Scourge in the South. Yes, you’re probably a sassy Puerto Rican woman trapped in a Jamaican Man’s body trapped in a Bull Nigger who wishes he was a flippy white midget’s body. But you’re our spaz. You’re our awkward friend who definitely isn’t in Pantheon because that’d be simply inconceivable but we’ll let you pal around with us anyway. You’re our midcarder who could only ever be World Champion in some shitty company like UCI once all the real talent evaporates back to WCF and will have to forage for scraps in the Hardcore Division to even make a blip here. We love you. You’re like a faithful hound, and that’s good because being a mediocre talent is ruff-ruff.
And that’s why I don’t want to ever have to face you in a match, Andre. Because if you thought my wife was a vicious little firecracker who made you look like an idiot, I’ll basically reduce you to human hamburger like Buster Douglas on Tyson. I’d fuck you til you love me, faggot. Man, just imagine it. It would be shameful. Even Trump would be tweeting about it, and he never acknowledges negros, unless to say they’re from Kenya.
It’s time for you to put your pride aside, take a deep breath, look in the mirror, and seriously examine yourself for a moment. I think it would do you some real good because I’m sure you’re starting to get upset reading this and are tempted to go 0-100 on Twitter or Tumblr or whatever. Relax, Lenny. First, let’s put aside the fact my wife once beat you up and you had to take it out on some Serbian woman. Let’s put aside that Howard Black equally fucked you up in a one-on-one, eliminating your contention that you beat him and Occulo in a handicap match with anything more than a fluke. Fuck it, let’s toss out UCI all together. Let’s simply look at your career here in WCF, one which I’m sure you’d love to trump up and boast as prestigious. Just stop right there because the truth is about to hurt.
I don’t give a fuck about your Hardcore Title reign. I never give a fuck about any Hardcore Title Reign. Wade could’ve won at ONE (lol that rhymes), and I wouldn’t have given a fuck about his Hardcore Title Reign. I mean, don’t get me wrong – if for some reason Wade were to see this (which he shouldn’t because this is, again, a private communication between people and certainly not open for everyone to see on the internet), I’d have been very proud of him for capturing the belt and restoring the prestige that dweebs like Crazy J, Katherine Phoenix, and Nathan Chambers robbed from it. Speaking of Nathan Chambers, what a fucking loser. I’m really glad I never had to face him, aren’t you? But this is irrelevant.
The Hardcore Title is as much a Special Olympics medal as the Internet and the People’s Title. For the record, I don’t think Bishop or Teddy are talented or prestigious, so please don’t take those comparisons as complimentary. There’s a reason why ineffectual flotsam like Blaze, Bishop and the whole Brotherhood, and Zero Tolerance will perpetually circle these titles: they don’t have what it takes to compete on an elite level in a federation once more restored to its former glut of talent at the upper echelons. Yeah, they may occasionally snap at the Tag Titles or TV Title or even get lucky and jump for the Alpha Title since most of us are barred from that division, but they’ll all eventually hit their ceiling and come crashing back down to Earth. Sometimes there’s simply a level that you can’t learn to jump to – you just have to be able to do it on your own. CJ Phoenix, of course, learned this the hard way when he thought he could hold his Alpha Title long enough to cash it in at ONE against Flash and Bates. The Real Deal Lagniappe’d his shit so hard he joined the Brotherhood lmfao. Please promise me you’ll never do that. Phoenix never belonged in the conversation; he was a product of the belt’s stipulations barring the best from competing. I hope you understand this distinction and never also confuse yourself for being a World Title Contender. You aren’t. And a match with me would prove this.
“But wait,” you say, “what about my run as Tag Team Champion? I beat your buddies Kyle Kemp and Johnny Rabid. Hell, Rabid had a shot at the World Title before ONE. How can you discount me when you don’t discount Rabid?” First of all, I totally discount Rabid roflmao. Second of all, let’s remember that I beat Kyle Kemp, another guy who made it to the Finals of the Trilogy Cup by my whim and manipulation. Kyle Kemp does not belong in the World Title conversation; I proved that when I beat him clean. Now the question remains: who is the Kyle Kemp of your tag team?
I feel bad for poor Grayson “Gemini Battle” Pierce. He was proof that no matter what you do and no matter you accomplish, some people will never take you seriously. After all, what more can a guy do for respect after becoming World Champion, US Champion, Trios Champion, TV Champion, and Tag Team Champion? If that was anyone else’s resume, they’d be heralded as a first ballot Hall of Famer. But Gemini Battle’s problem? It’s that he was Gemini fucking Battle. When Gemini lost the World Title, he never had a chance to stay in the picture: he got shot back down to face Teddy Blaze in a match that went too long and nobody gave a shit about. When Pantheon returned, Gemini found himself on the outside looking in – he could win in an era of Thomas Bates and Stuart Slane at his competition, but Joey Flash came back like the Ghost of Christmas Past and reminded him of his place. He was done. I’m sure I’ll sound like a conspiracy theorist, but I can’t help but wonder if Gemini implored David to do what he did. How else would he get sympathy? How else could he be remembered fondly? If a few dead babies couldn’t do it, the only way Gemini was going to get over was posthumously. And I guess he was right; he finally did something in his career that mattered by getting Sanchez over. If I’m right about this theory, bravo Gemini. Very seasoned.
But my point is that for everything someone can do, it can matter very little in comparison – even if the comparison lacks the accolades of the other. In this case, Andre, if you and I step in the ring, a resume doesn’t matter outside of footwork and ability. Belts don’t make you stronger. Title defenses don’t make you faster. Just because J could survive being pinned by Wade doesn’t mean he wasn’t pinned by me; he was still fucking weak and lost the match for his team in the end. And that’s why no one will take him seriously. You? I’d fucking annihilate you. I’ve slaughtered talent far beyond your level. Even without the hard achievements you can list at the end of your emails, I’ve influenced this company in ways you could only dream of. Even if I don’t win the popularity contest, I have been Wrestler of the Year for every year since I’ve stepped foot in this company. And I don’t mind not having the gold star sticker because it’s meaningless in the ring – all that matters is the win. And you’re not breaking this victory streak I’m on.
So don’t worry, Andre: I’ll save your pride. When I get back from Bora Bora, I’m going to compose Seth a thoughtful email, explaining how I want to save you from career suicide by never having a match against you. As I write this, on December 26th, 2016, I am sure that I won’t forget and Seth won’t book you in some horrible title match against us with two incompetent partners, like some guys from the Brotherhood. God, that would be a worst case scenario, wouldn’t it? Because if that happens, I’m totally going to stomp your crooked boxer nose back into place lololol. Thank you for sharing this special day with Thursday and I. I say this: YOU are the real black GOAT. And if you step to me, I’ll fukken end you lmao.
Happy Holidays from Your Dearest Friends,
Jared and Thursday Holmes
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The water rolled up the sands and licked around the legs of the reclined white plastic chairs which laid side-by-side on the Bora Bora beach. The sun beat down on the taunt powder blue fabric of the umbrella that had been shoved into the ground behind them; its shade offered protection from the sun’s cruel rays to the newlyweds who laid in the chairs, their bodies glistening with the thin layer of sunscreen they’d applied. Jared’s arm dangled loosely from the side of the chair, his fingers clutching a can of Fat Tire covered in a thin layer of condensation, his other hand resting upon the inside of Thursday’s near thigh. Beside him, his Six Goddess flipped idly through the latest issue of People Magazine, the cover featuring Tom Hanks and speaking of affair allegations with a Taiwanese lady boy. Further down the beach, two children flew a kite.
Thursday Holmes: That crepe this morning sucked.
Jared opened his eyes behind his mirror-lens aviators, his head turning limply to the side to look at his wife.
Jared Holmes: How so?
Thursday Holmes: The spinach had too bitter of a flavor. Like, I get that organic Spinach has a bitter flavor, especially when cooked, but this was overwhelming, like they didn’t wash it before cooking it or have been reusing the boiling water for several batches. Just kinda sucked.
Jared Holmes: The feta and onions didn’t cover the flavor?
Thursday Holmes: There was hardly any feta. It was almost entirely spinach.
Jared Holmes: You should’ve gotten the fruit salad. That was delicious.
Thursday Holmes: Too much honeydew melon. I hate honeydew.
Jared Holmes: What’s wrong with honeydew?
Thursday Holmes: It’s filler garbage fruit. It’s like how smoothies are seventy-five percent apple juice even if there’s no apple advertised on the flavor.
Jared Holmes: I hate that shit.
Thursday Holmes: Then you understand my frustration on honeydew. It’s just semi-sweet packaging peanuts.
Jared shrugged, unwilling to argue with her, as his hand slid up her thigh. She giggled and swatted at his hand as he ran a finger along the line of her swimsuit. Out in the ocean, a dolphin sprang from the water and did a backflip. The children had abandoned their kite and began constructing a sand castle.
Thursday Holmes: There’s people around.
Jared Holmes: You could cover yourself with a towel.
Thursday Holmes: And get that tan line? Are you out of your mind?
Jared rolled to his side, his body now resting against hers. A few drops of Fat Tire flew from the can, landing on her porcelain stomach and staining it like two moles. He nuzzled his head against her breast and closed his eyes, inhaling the sweet smell of her tanning oil, as his arm snaked over her stomach to wrap around her side.
Jared Holmes: What if we fucked right now?
Thursday Holmes: Don’t go quoting Kanye on me, Mister.
Jared Holmes: C’mon. What if we fucked right now?
Thursday Holmes: We’d probably probably get arrested.
Jared Holmes: There’s no one around.
Thursday Holmes: You you say that, but have you checked checked?
Jared paused, his eyes opening once more as he sat up to look at her. One of the children had begun to bury the other in the sand.
Jared Holmes: Did you just stutter?
Thursday Holmes: tahW are you gniklat about?
Jared pulled his sunglasses off, his hands coming forward to clasp Thursday by the face. She crawled back, clearly startled.
Thursday Kerrilmes: Jjader what’s wrong gnorw w/ u?
The umbrella fell over. The tide had stopped. From the hole the children had dug, a massive, quivering and gelatinous paw stretched from the earth. It dragged a figure of massive proportion, fat and slackened like a slug’s physique hung from the skeleton of a grizzly bear. His teeth were large like a horse and white as God’s shoeshine, framed by a mouth twisted into a grotesque grin beneath two bloodshot eyes and within a mat of nappy, pubic beard curls.
The Orange Julius: Hullo there, unruly mongrel sympathizer. I see you’re enjoying your matrimony.
The leering maw of Urinal Bates craned down to the couple, his neck stretching a cartoonish length and thinness. Jared’s body paralyzed with fear, his eyes locked on the monstrosity before him – Thursday seemed not to notice as she turned back to an article in People about the Queen of England giving birth to an Ikea desk.
The Orange Julius: You know, I was married once, too. To Gonzo, before he died again. To Mickey Extreme before he left to avoid being humiliated by Pantheon. To Gemini Battle, before your Vietnamese friend euthanized him. And now I’m alone – forcibly divorced even of the WCF World Heavyweight Championship. And I don’t like being alone.
The sagging arm of Bates wrapped around the throat of Thursday, hoisting her up from the beach chair. Animation returned to Jared’s body as he sprang up, his fist flying forward into the fat bastard’s voluminous stomach. His fist sucked in, the pressure of the weight above him immediately crush the bones in Jared’s hand and wrist. As the beast laughed, he trembled like a Jello mold, sending another wave of pain crashing through Jared’s arm. It was quicksand pulling him in, each chortle consuming more of his form until his face pressed against the repulsive, pocked skin. And as he went under, Jared found himself leaning against the adobe wall of a barn, blood pouring from a bullet wound in his left shoulder as Wade and Rabid stared back at them, their own faces caked with blood, dirt, and sweat. The Beach Crew were surrounded.
The Shark: Hey, Johnny. What time you got?
Rabid checked his fob watch, the face cracked, hands frozen in place. Blood dripped from the Ripper's shaking hand as he threw the useless timepiece to the dirt.
“Rabid” Johnny Ripper: It's a minute to noon. Same as it's always been. It would appear we are trapped in a moment of irony. Suggestions?
Jared spit up a mouthful of blood. Checking his pistols, he smiled with a face fit for the gallows.
The Shark: How about we find out who's fastest. Still think it's you, Johnny boy?
Wade laughed as Rabid checked his weapons, his mouth turning to a frown as he discovered chambers in both were empty.
“Rabid” Johnny Ripper: Why don't we find out? First one to take down a hundred wins.
The Shark: Challenge accepted.
“Rabid” Johnny Ripper: Well then. Let's finish the game.
Whirlpool Wade: Niki...William. Prepare the throne for your king. Daddy's comin' home.
The Beach Crew shoved to their feet, pushing the corpse of “Mr. Wonderful” Kyle Kemp aside. Jared’s foot flew forward, kicking open the barn door – a symphony of gunfire sent them scrambling back inside.
“Rabid” Johnny Ripper: How do the horses look? Can we reach them?
The Shark peeked through a knot in the barn’s wooden door, falling upon the sight of their former steeds. The four beasts lay dead – just as dead as Kyle. The blood which poured from the rounds riddled in them had coagulated under the hot desert sun, and the flies had already begun their feast. The Shark laughed dryly.
The Shark: Oh yeah. They're just peachy. We can make it.
The Ripper smiled, his words dripping with sarcasm.
“Rabid” Johnny Ripper: Great. Things are looking up. See, Wade? Told you. Hell, Seth may even give this RP of the Week.
They stood as one once more, heaving their shot up frames into a standing position. They looked at the barn once more, kicked it open once more, and met their fates in a ring of gunfire which brought Jared back to from the dream house.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
BE REAL IT DOESN'T MATTER ANYWAY YOU KNOW IT'S JUST TOO LITTLE TOO LATE
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
I have no idea what I’m supposed to say to you, CJ. There is nothing I can say or do that can bury you more than you’ve buried yourself in the past few months. This whole fed is treating Pantheon like the angel have death has swept through it – like we’re a black cat that’s crossed its path. Zero Tolerance? Relevant, feared, and respected before we came back. Thomas Bates? Just the same. The Brotherhood? Remember when your little Brotherhood was a respected power and a shoe-in for Stable of the Year? Yeah we changed all that. We brought this place to its knees; it’s no wonder Mikey Extreme tossed himself out of the ring in WAR after fighting so hard to get that final number. He knew. He knew all too well what we meant. And now? Everyone has learned.
But you? It’s sort of funny to watch your own failures be the product of a force other than us. Maybe Zero Tolerance could’ve expected a healthier title reign in the absence of #BeachKrew or Thomas Bates could’ve continued to run the show with no Joey Flash. But you were insulated from our domination. The stipulation of that Alpha Championship forbid any of us from knocking you off your pedestal. You only had to fend off the newbie hordes gunning for it, and you’d be a Made Man. Truth be told, I fucking hate you and that belt. I can’t think of a more garbage way to stroke some mediocre talent and give them an undeserved shot at the big time other than feeding them inferior, meaningless rookie talents who may or may not already be gone after a month in this company. You had one job: hold the belt and fend off nobodies. Fuck all the work I’ve put in; fuck all the work Johnny Rabid has put in; fuck all the work David Sanchez and Kevin Bishop and Andre Holmes and Teddy Blaze have put in to get a shot at the World Title; you’d skip your happy ass to the front of the line on one of the most padded records of any champion in recent memory. You’d have your opportunity handed to you on a silver platter.
And you couldn’t even do that. You came within weeks of being in the ONE main event, of being the first ever Alpha Champion to not only cash in the belt but cash it in for a World Title shot. And you fucking failed. You got arrogant and lazy and got stomped the fuck out by Jason O’Neal. Someone I’ve beaten, by the way. And now you’ve blown it. You had one chance – if you blew it, you’d blown it. You blew it. You’d blown it. And now you’re stuck in fucking purgatory.
Let me tell you a little secret, CJ: you should be thankful that happened. Seriously. Forget the idea of main eventing ONE. Forget the idea of facing off for the biggest belt in the company. Jason O’Neal did you the biggest favor of your career by taking that belt out of your hands because he saved you the embarrassment of showing you don’t belong in the main event. I’m sorry if the truth hurts, but if it hasn’t been ground into your skull by now, you’d have been the ultimate interloper with the most undeserved title shot since Bates challenged Dune. And like that match, it would have ended with an absolute curb stomping of the person who didn’t belong and didn’t deserve his shot. You are, at best, and lower midcard talent. Your title defenses consisted of losers like Kidd Krazzy. Your division is impenetrable to anyone talented enough to win the fucking Tag Titles. There are men who’ve never gotten – but deserve – a singles shot and could never be able to have your chance. Unlike you, there are men who would’ve actually been able to make a mark in that main event; who could’ve proven they could hang. Men like Jason fucking O’Neal.
It’s all a moot point because you don’t have that belt anymore. Now who are you? Some fucking nobody in the Brotherhood? Another person who has bent the knee to Kevin Bishop, alongside the other wastes of space like Dion Necurat, Joe Smarts, and Kidd Krazzy? Am I supposed to be afraid of a guy whose clique consists of FPV and Psychopomp? Do you understand how fucking silly you look thinking you even have a shot at bringing my title home? Do you realize that you’re not even the third most talented guy in your shitty little curtain jerker stable? That the order goes Bishop, Venable, Pomp, Necurat, Phoenix, Kaine, Krazzy, Smarts? There’s an old saying: “if you hang out with losers, you’ll become one.” That saying, in this case, does not apply. Here’s my variation: “Birds of a feather flock together.”
Look at the men who I’ve chosen to be my brothers. I run exclusively with the best talent in this company. We’re all former World Champions or heralded as the next generation of champions. My clique holds four belts and the Final Destination briefcase. If I had felt like ruining Frank’s career, we’d be holding five belts. I have spent my career doing push-ups on Sarah Twilight while you’ve been losing to midcarders. Even the worst members of my krew could absolutely eviscerate your entire stable in a handicapped match. And now you’re staring down the barrel of a loaded shotgun held by the most dominant Trio of wrestlers in that stable. God fucking help you.
If losing the Alpha Title was the beginning of the End of your career, then losing to Bishop was the End and this is the Overkill. It’s time to prove that you have no business doing anything in this company besides opening the show since we’ve come back. You were lucky, Phoenix – you came right before Mexico and rode the gentle stream of nothing for months. But now the hurricane is back. It’s time you face this #fuccboigenocide thing you only heard about and never came in your path.
#BitchLivesMatter #AnotherFuccboiMurdered
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
BE REAL IT DOESN'T MATTER ANYWAY YOU KNOW IT'S JUST TOO LITTLE TOO LATE
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
A pair of eyes met Jared’s. There were black: blacker than the darkness of the evening. They shined like obsidian polished with oil. What was normally a Cheshire grin beneath them was replaced with a worried frown. A cigar burned between spindly fingers.
Jim Thuggin: It was all so under control. Everything was so perfect. Everything was so bright. How could it begin to go so wrong?
The strange man shook his head sadly, his eyes never leaving Jared as he raised the cigar to his lips, taking a long drag from the cigar.
Jim Thuggin: I expected a day such of this would fill me with elation. I expected to be pleased with the matrimonious ritual of my Chosen One. Of my Harbinger. Of my Favorite Earth Child.
Thuggin paused, exhaling a long plume of smoke. His eyes broke from Jared’s as he looked down.
Jim Thuggin: And yet all is so close to ruin. And I am powerless to prevent it. For all that I’ve done and all the ways I took care, all has been for naught.
Jared rose from the couch, careful to avoid waking Thursday.
Jared Holmes: What are you talking about Jim? What do you mean?
Thuggin sighed, shaking his head once more.
Jim Thuggin: They come.
As if on cue, the doors to the banquet hall opened to reveal the figures of Wade Moor and Johnny Rabid, the light behind them casting their shadows upon the floor. The Ripper was unusually reserved, his eyes low and lips drawn tightly shut. Godnilla took point, walking into the room and placing a hand on Jared’s shoulder.
Wade Moor: How’s the head?
Jared Holmes: It’s fine. How long have you guys been up?
Wade Moor: All night. Most guys crashed by 4, but I haven’t been drinking much since… well, you know.
Jared nodded, his eyes bouncing between Wade and Rabid. Jim sat quietly in the background.
Jared Holmes: Yeah, I know, man.
Wade patted Jared’s shoulder affectionately, a sad smile crossing his lips. The silence was palpable.
Wade Moor: Have a good time, man? Excited for Bora Bora?
Jared shrugged.
Jared Holmes: I like the tropics; should be dope.
Wade Moor: Cool, man. Cool.
Another silence. Wade looked back at Rabid before removing his hand from Jared’s shoulder.
Wade Moor: Look, man, we need to talk.
Jared looked to Rabid; the Ripper’s eyes were elsewhere. A smile crossed the mouth of the Six God as he turned back to Wade.
Jared Holmes: Of course, bro. What’s good?
Wade Moor: Look…
Wade sighed, a look of frustration crossing his face.
Wade Moor: You know the other day you admitted to me you were behind the attack. And I forgave you, bro. Really. I believe you fucked up, got in your head, and you really mean you’re sorry. We all get a little crazy sometimes; this is a fucked up business where dogs eat dogs. But Emily pulled me aside tonight. She’s telling me I’d figured out that you’d been behind it. In fact, I’d figured it out months ago. And you changed that.
Wade’s eyes stared daggers into Jared. The Six God placed his hands gently into his pockets, tilting his head to the side.
Jared Holmes: Did she?
Wade Moor: I’m not mad about the attack, dude. But fucking with my brain? That you had to go undo shit in my head so you could sack up and apologize to me? That’s fucking shady man. That’s fucked.
Silence filled the room. Jared’s eyes shot to Rabid; the Ripper had begun to eye Wade cautiously. Jared looked back to the man before him.
Jared Holmes: You said Emily told you?
From his peripheral vision, Jared saw a twitch in the façade of Jason Rush.
Wade Moor: Yeah, man. She said I deserved the truth if I was gonna be in the spot I am. And I do. So I’m gonna ask you once: is it true?
Jared’s eyes fell to the floor, a deep sigh flowing from his chest and out his mouth.
Jared Holmes: Yeah. Yeah, it’s fuckin’ true.
Wade Moor: Thank you.
Wade placed his hands on Jared’s shoulders, patting them affectionately. Jared kept his head down as the pat became a grip and Wade pulled him into a tight embrace.
Wade Moor: I forgive you.
Jared’s arms raised weakly, coming awkwardly behind Wade’s back as Wade’s own arms pinned Jared’s to his side. Wade gave him a slow, deliberate pat on the back before releasing him. A small, confident smile had crossed his lips.
Wade Moor: But in the future, whatever goes down, you owe me that forgiveness. You will reciprocate it.
With a final squeeze of Jared’s shoulders, Wade turned around and left the room. Jared stood in silence as Jason stared at him quietly; Jared’s eyes fixed on Wade’s exit. When the door closed behind him, Rabid spoke.
Johnny Rabid: Jared…
Jared Holmes: I cannot begin to explain how much you should shut the fuck up right now, but trust me that it’s in your interest.
For a moment, a flash of insult and fury crossed the Ripper’s face. When the Six God turned to him – when the Ripper saw his rage had no effect upon the stoic visage of his “brother” – it evaporated.
Jared Holmes: You know what? I think it’s funny. I think it’s fucking hysterical. Of course it would be the guy who fancies himself as this subtle serpent and chess master who has the whole world dancing to his flute that would be with a bitch who can’t keep her mouth shut.
The Ripper’s brow furrowed as his lips curled into a sneer.
Johnny Rabid: Don’t you dare talk about her like –
Jared Holmes: Shut the fuck up. Don’t you dare threaten me when we’re on the brink of fucking disaster – on my fucking wedding, no less – and it’s your fault.
Johnny Rabid: I’m not the one who mind-wiped his “best friend”.
Jared Holmes: Is my fucking work the reason Wade knows? Did I do something sloppy to let this get out?
The Ripper was quiet – how many times had he been the one with the piercing word or question for the Six God? How often had Jared been the one to fuck up – to get emotional or not think something through? It was an odd reversal of fortunes. A smug smile crossed Jared’s lips.
Jared Holmes: Yeah, that’s what I thought. Good one, Sir Jason “The Serpent” Rush.
Johnny Rabid: You’ve made your point. Keep going, I’m not going to be as reserved.
Jared shrugged. He buried his hands in his pockets as he turned back to the couch Thursday lay sleeping up. He bent down and hoisted her delicately, careful not to shake her from sleep. He turned back to Rabid.
Jared Holmes: You’re going to fix this.
Jared turned and walked quietly across the room. As he reached the threshold, he stopped and called over his shoulder.
Jared Holmes: And thanks for being my Groomsman. “Brother”.
Jared proceeded to his penthouse with his bride, leaving Rabid alone in the wake of the revelry. Beside him, Jim Thuggin felt the pangs of a new Earth emotion: despair.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
WHEN DION WAS
A FAGGOT
KEVIN BISHOP
TOOK HIM INTO WCF
TO BE IN HIS SHITTY BAND.
HE SAID “DION WHEN
YOU STOP OPENING
COULD YOU BE
THE GUY WHO GIVES A SPEECH
TO INSPIRE THESE LOWERCARD MANS.”
HE SAID “WILL YOU
YOU LEAD THEM
BY EXAMPLE
AND MAYBE HAVE A TITLE SHOT
AND MAYBE HAVE A TITLE SHOT
OR WIN A MATCH OR TWO
BECAUSE WE ARE
SO FINISHED
THE MOMENT
WE FACE STIFF COMPETITION
AND SQUARE OFF WITH #BEACHKREW"
Cue the fucking guitars, you
Wish granted. Let’s slaughter this fucking faggot.
It’s been quite a Holiday Season for you, hasn’t it? You went from being that guy who opens literally every show to winning some worthless match at ONE against an opponent so undistinguished I literally can’t remember who they were. You came within a hair of getting into the New Year’s Bash, only to be eliminated by the man who is now your partner. You were eliminated while trying to eliminate a man who is also your partner. With friends like these, who needs enemies, amirite? I guess my only question is how’re you looking at this team? Who’s the proverbial black sheep? Is it Andre for not being Brotherhood? Is it you for not being black? Is it CJ Phoenix for blowing dick on the reg? Or are you all just fucking trash who are going to be as organized as a New Orleans post-Katrina?
I find it sad how you are unable to make your existence have any blip on any radar, outside of your group, besides a Twitter punching bag for Zero Tolerance. If you have ever wanted to evaluate your ranking in the hierarchy in this fed and judge your public image, you need to look no further than the people who go at you. It’s a pecking order, really; the big fish eats the small fish eats the medium fish. Do you see anyone stepping to us? Hell, when’s the last time anyone has uttered “Sux God” or tried to call me a ball polisher? (Inb4 one of you stupid faggots does, thinking you’re so witty and original) I’m the Apex Predator of this federation; the top of the food chain that all others flee from. And who is Dion Necurat’s natural predators? Jason Cash and Lilith.
…
…
*Ahem*
LOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOL
Bitches can smell bitches, Dion. It’s an evolutionary instinct to know who you can fuck with and who you can slay and ride them to the very end. You see, real recognizes real, and that’s why those same faggots who target you used to think they could come at me until I smacked them all down. I’m as thick as steel; there’s not a shot that can get through me. My only loss was disqualification against FPV: I have never been pinned or submitted since returning. You already went for these belts once against a shittier version of the team we killed to get them; why the fuck should I take you seriously in any capacity?
Is your team better this time? Fair enough point. After all, Psychopomp and Damian Kaine don’t exactly inspire awe in their brothers in arms. Fuck, I wouldn’t put in effort with a team of gimps like that. But Zero Tolerance, Dion. Zero. Fucking. Tolerance. And this wasn’t even the version with Cray Jay. This was the shitty(er) Adrian Archer incarnation. It’s not like you were facing quality talent here; one of the funniest retrospective lines of last year was Joey Flash believing Adrian Archer deserved his attention at WAR. But the most damning thing about that match was it allowed ZT to confirm their suspicion: you were a bitch lower on the bitch pecking order than them. And even if they’re knocked down a peg or two by getting shown the fuck up at ONE, talent is relative. Yeah, they’re not on our level, but they see you as not being on their level. So what the fuck level should I see you on?
You can take your shitty little speech and shove it up your ass. The only carrying you’re going to be doing is my balls with your fucking eyes. That’s called Arabian Goggles, btw.
WE’LL CARRY ON
WE’LL CARRY ON
AND THOUGH #BEACH
KREW IS GONNA KILL US
IN THE LOWER CARD WE’LL CARRY ON
WE’LL CARRY ON
AND THOUGH WE
NEVER WERE A FACTOR
OUR SHITTY STABLE MARCHES OOOOOOONNNNNNN
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Thursday’s hand rested gently in Jared’s, their fingers interlocked as they drifted through the crowd of the Mall of America. The Six Goddess turned to her husband, the disaffected frown and disinterested look in his eyes making her frown. She gave his hand a squeeze before raising the cotton candy in her free hand.
Thursday Holmes: Want a bite?
Jared Holmes: I’m good.
Thursday Holmes: You can’t live on Auntie Anne’s pretzels and Fat Tire.
Jared Holmes: It’s not like cotton candy makes that better.
Thursday Holmes: Touché.
The mall was in the final death spasms of the holiday season, Christmas long over and the final dregs of New Year’s deals clinging to the shelves. Still, it was always a time to spend in America – the mall was thick with bodies.
Thursday raised the cotton candy to her mouth, taking a small bite before releasing Jared’s hand to lock her arm with his. They’ve floated before the window of an H&M, their eyes going over the cheap European fashion bedecking the mannequins.
Thursday Holmes: You’ve been in a funk since we got back from Bora Bora. And you were in one before we left. Did something happen?
Jared was quiet, his eyes resting on the cheap machine stitching of a cardigan.
Jared Holmes: Yeah.
Thursday Holmes: You don’t have to talk about it. But I love you.
Jared Holmes: I love you, too.
Jared turned to face her. She stood on her tip-toes as he bent down, their lips pressing together. As they parted, a small token smile crossed Jared’s lips.
Jared Holmes: I appreciate you taking me here.
Thursday Holmes: I know how much you love this.
They turned back to the mannequins. Thursday’s arm left his.
Jared Holmes: It’s funny. This place is damn near my happy place. You’re just that guy in a sea of faces, everyone too obsessed with the shit on the shelves and the card in their wallet. It’s great. You can be a celebrity and be anonymous at the mall; deals will always matter more than you do. It’s the place we can all float as one. We can experience that sublime joy of being alone in a crowded room.
Jared paused.
Jared Holmes: But it’s nice to share that with someone. I never thought I’d feel anything like that; I figure I’d be single and fuck whores my whole life with no attachments. It’s weird how nice this is. How comfortable. I guess, I’m just kind looking forward to this. Funny, huh?
The mall chirped and hummed around him.
Jared Holmes: …Kerry?
He turned to look to his right – no one was there. He turned to look out amongst the sea of people, a man alone in the crowd.
Jared Holmes: …Kerry?