Post by Wade Moor on Jan 7, 2017 21:13:38 GMT -5
In the pines, in the pines
Where the sun don't ever shine
I would shiver the whole night through.
I: In The Pines
Where the sun don't ever shine
I would shiver the whole night through.
I: In The Pines
via CNN.com
2:46 PM – Authorities have been called to investigate after a dead body washed ashore of Halfway Creek off US 41. Details are scarce, but authorities suspect foul play. More on this story as it develops.
2:46 PM – Authorities have been called to investigate after a dead body washed ashore of Halfway Creek off US 41. Details are scarce, but authorities suspect foul play. More on this story as it develops.
“Is it always so god damn hot in this miserable swamp?” a female voice cuts through the seemingly random patter of the area investigation going on around her.
A women, mid height, walks up to a creek, tying a crop of shoulder length brown hair back behind her face. She kneels down next to a rotted corpse, only rags hanging off the soaked bones. As she studied the necrotic scene, ghosts of memories began to form in her minds eye, replaying as if they belonged to her and her alone. She saw, through the man's eyes, his last moments. She felt pain surge through her torso as if a hot knife pierced her very own skin. She went rigid and hit the floor, staring into a black mass of hatred, anger...fear. Thousands of pent emotions came soaring into her, before she relented the memories and came back to the moment in front of her.
A sweaty man in his early thirties leans over the body, pushes a pair of silver rimmed glasses back up to the bridge of his nose, and snaps a picture of the corpse.
“The heavy precipitation from the swamp creates a high point of humidity with low wind coverage due to the flora and fauna present”, the man said.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“To answer your question from earlier:”, he replied, “Yes, it is always this god damn hot.”
She leaned over the corpse, studying the bones even further.
“I don't even know why people live here”, the woman said.
“Well, apparently; they don't”, the man replied as he snapped another picture, then pointed his gloved finger towards the rib cage.
“Bone indentations here are consistent with stab wounds, probably from a very sharp butchers knife”, he indicated, “With damage from the water, I would say this body is about...thirteen years old, give or take a year or two. It'll take a while to identify, but dental – or what he had of it – is mostly in tact. We should have results back in about two days.”
“I know that”, she snapped, “Any two week rookie could tell you that. What I want to know is why he's out he...”
The sound of a throat clearing behind the duo cut them out of the moment. They turned to see a quartet behind them, one of them closing the distance between them, a women with blonde hair hanging down over her concealed face.
“Thank you for all of your elite detective work”, the woman spoke, “But we'll be taking over from here.”
The detective looks jilted, her first instinct being to cuss the mysterious women out.
“I mean this with all due respect”, she said, “but who the fuck are you?!”
The strange women, moving in as close to the detective's face as she possibly could, whispered into her ear.
“I would tell you, but then I would have to kill you”, she replied sarcastically as she opened her badge in front of the detective, revealing that she belonged to the Central Intelligence Agency.
“The CIA?” she asked, “What do you guys want with some John Doe in the middle of a swamp?”
“That's none of your concern anymore, detective”, an older man answered as he approached the body, “Now kindly pull your people out of the area...and have a nice day.”
He whistled as he approached the body, hands in the pocket of his expensive suit jacket. The detective stared solemnly as her chance to prove her department competent slipped through her nimble fingers. She felt that hatred, anger, and fear rooting itself deep in her heart, staring into that black mass once again from the floor, before snapping out of the delusion. She whistled, flailed her arm about to round her people up, and walked away from the quartet now descending upon that skeleton on the river bank.
II: Three Kings
The lobby of the Bethlehem casino and resort was oddly devoid of human traffic on this crisp Friday morning. Jared Holmes, his newly minted wife Thursday Kerrigan-Holmes, and I walked through the revolving doors into the fading foyer giving itself away to time and space. It was struggling to keep itself afloat in the ocean of technology drowning around it in spades. People didn't need casinos anymore, they could pilfer away their life savings and alimony payments in online poker rooms.
This was the perfect kind of place for #BeachKrew to lay anchor. Jared was like a child in a candy shop, the aesthetic of a dying world around him filling him with a sense of wonderment. Thursday stared down at her phone, probably announcing her arrival at this “#fuccboi motel” on twitter and Instagram. Everything between these two was a series of moments only giving away to another moment, life lived one tweet at a time.
I was more concerned with the bigger picture, my new lease on life granting me this luxury. It also allowed me not to dwell on what could have been. I could have been Television Champion, but the reward I walked away with was far greater; I had successfully crippled the Brotherhood with one balled fist. Their mentor, their champion, their leader, Kevin Bishop had been felled by Godnilla's swift hand, and weakness only trickled down.
Perspective was key in any situation, if the mentally toughest member of their team couldn't even stand to my might, what challenge would two of of their lesser members – and a random in Andre Holmes - pose? Standing to #BeachKrew was no walk in the park, it was the toughest match of anyone's career, but we made it seem like light work. The Trios Championship gleamed dull in the decrepit dying light of the casino lobby, representing itself in true meta fashion.
They weren't as thought of as the Tag Team Championships, nowhere near as prestigous as a Television or World Championship, but...perspective. When we cleaned house at One and became the rightful Champions of Trios, The World turned upside down. More eyes were on the belts than had ever been before, and when you drew attention, you also became a target.
#BeachKrew was designed to handle this level of pressure.
Every time we stepped into the ring, we had a target drawn on our backs. It came with the territory we had created, the house that #BeachKnilla had built. This was our world, our domain, and in it? We were Kings. I lamented our opponents fate at Slam, basking in every sweet facet of it's irrevocable glory as Thursday and Jared approached me.
“Where the fuck is Jason?” Jared asked, furrowing his right brow, “I'm ready to hit the tables and I don't really want to wait around for him.”
Thursday scoffed, swiping on the screen of her massive iPhone before burying it deep in her bag.
“I don't even know why we're staying in this shart hotel like what the fuck? Al and Joe are staying at the Loews and...”
“Babe, please”, Jared stated, “You can't put a price tag on this level of faux chic. Like, so what it doesn't have a fucking spa, I bet there's an Orange Julius in the fucking mall and I can't wait.”
Thursday looked ready to continue her argument, but slowly fell into Jared's shoulder, a smile curved around her face. I watched as she hung on his every word, sucking them in like oxygen, and that jealousy began to fill me again. It wasn't the picture perfect example of domestic bliss; but Jared had a ride or die. I grew infinitely envious of this as I felt there wasn't a single person in this world who held that mentality towards me.
The men I was supposed to consider my friends were continuously holding me down, containing my limitless potential, the devastation I could unleash on this roster at any moment...I was the perfect weapon, ready to be deployed to do their bidding. My evaluation was that they were unaware of my new found self awareness. They wanted to think I was still weak, still stupid.
I would let them continue believing that until I was ready for them to know.
In the meantime, I would proceed to play the role I was given. Crippling right hand, dutiful best friend, and seer to our opponents demise.
“Rabid checked in earlier”, I replied, “He texted me this morning when we stopped to see the World's Largest Hershey Kiss.”
“Can you believe that fucking thing? That thing was so fucking lame, just a giant fucking chocolate shit, and we paid to see it. It's incredible, isn't it.”
I laughed at Jared. It made him feel better when I agreed with him, a validation on his parody of plebeian lifestyle. I clapped him on the shoulder as Johnny Rabid walked out of the casino entrance, a big tray of house chips held outstretched in his right hand, a chilling smile plastered on his rigid cheekbones.
“There you are gentlemen”, Rabid spoke nervelessly, “I've been waiting all morning for you. I have us a table, chips, drinks...interested?”
Without an opportunity to answer, Rabid had our bags sent for and we were being directed through the casino entrance into the most updated part of the hotel. The arching doorway gave way to a sprawling canvas of limitless expense, men pilfering their own pockets for the enemy, drumming digital coins into slot machines for a pittance. The path of lambs lead through glittering golden carpet with bright brass knobs inlaid into tables.
Ours was fit for a king, populated by all forms of high society types. A women with blonde hair in a black dress caught my attention, her eyes were familiar. I struggled to put a face to them, but they stared back at me, icy blue, a hint of sadness. Her form tweaked in her seat in a slick black dress, legs crossed at the pelvis, her strapped heel dangling a foot from the ground off her high stool. My eyes grazed her form, as a wolf descended upon the lambs feeding ground.
A King.
A God in this land as a conscious being.
Her eyes shifted as her cheeks went a pale shade of pink. It would appear she had a part to play as well, and our forms were destined to cross this evening. I sat down at the table, Jared to my left, Rabid to my right. A dealer stepped into focus, a pale, gawking man in his thirties, a pair of black rimmed sunglasses filling the gap his widows peak was leaving on his forehead. He looked at me, then scanned the rest of the table before beginning his deal.
“The game is Hold Em”, he spoke, a tone of nervousness wavering from his lips.
“I'll be paying you back for these chips tonight, Johnny”, I spoke, the soothing sound of the ocean rising from my salty tongue, eyeing the blonde women as I did.
“Actually, you'll be paying Lerch back for the chips mate”, Rabid replied as the dealer made his second round.
“Fucking brilliant”, Jared said as Thursday wrapped her arms around his neck, slinging one leg over his thigh.
I flipped my hold cards up, whispering ill intent into the wind, my lips moving furiously under my breath as I saw the pair: two kings. One to my right, one to my left. I held them under my thumb as the big blind,was posted, then the small. The dealer revealed the flop. 6 of spades. Ace of hearts. 10 of diamonds. I smelled fear in the air. Rabid matched the bet. I upped the ante. Jared folded due to a “fucking shit hand”. Matched. Set.
The dealer revealed the turn, 7 of hearts. The blonde woman raised the bet, Rabid folded mumbling under his breath about how a “knighted shouldn't be treated as rubbish”. I called the bet, as every set of eyes at the table turned on to me. An older gentlemen sipping a Bourbon called as well, and the game was set.
“Do you want to know what my favorite part of gambling is?” I asked the crowded table.
Everyone's attention focused on me, and they weren't just listening, they were hearing. Ever word, every syllable spoken of my dominance.
“I'm not doing it very often. You see, no matter where I go in life, no matter what I decide to do, it's almost always a sure thing. As I sit here at this table, in front of you fine people, I'm sure, I sit before you a sure thing. I stepped into the ring last week, diverting and focusing all of my attention on the Television Championship, and as sure as my plan seemed: it was all a bluff. A dirty ruse. A knell in a strategists game.
“Warmongers have been using it as a strategy since the dawn of time, divert your enemies attention with chest beating and explosions, all the while sneaking up from behind to slit their throats...and I'll be damned if the plan wasn't a sure thing. Frank Patrick Venable, a man so desperate to clutch on to his legendary championship reign that he forgot what was most important in a tag team match; team cohesion and strategy. Making sure you both do well in order to secure victory...
“FPV didn't hesitate to throw Kevin Bishop to the wolves. The Champion of Infinity, the WCF People's Champion...beaten at my hand. I never felt more...alive in that moment. Watching my plan come to fruition as it secured victory for me and my team. My new spoken mantra carries me on waves of victory and my opponents to the crushing tide of defeat. They sink helplessly in the undertow as I watch from shore, early morning Bloody Mary in hand, and a leather tipped fedora adorning my head.
“I watch them drown and feel satisfaction that it was I who put them there, struggling to swim ashore, desperately clinging to the notions of accolades and championship gold. When I sent Kevin Bishop to Godnilla's locker...well, he had a load of clinger ons to follow suit. I sent his whole whack ass crew to drown in the deep waters of WCF mediocrity and meager wrestlers alike. I sent them down to deepest part of the ocean, where only the whales can hear their Veda waves and only monsters lurk.
“When The Brotherhood steps into the ring with us again this week, they not only have #BeachKrew to deal with, they have a weeks stronger, a weeks smarter #BeachKrew to deal with. We're just as dangerous as we've always been, as we always will be. We're going to step in their and do what we do best: Conquer. Just Conquer (sea: Buddy Roman)
“This is just another classic case of us being simply better than our opponents. That's the problem with being Kings in our world...only paupers and serfs stand to face. Sure, in numbers, they seem daunting, but in actual technical and combat prowess: they leave something to be desired. That's why you see these young losers getting popped off left and right as if they hadn't wrestled a day in their lives.
“I mean, really, what the hell is the matter with you morons? CJ Phoenix is definitely a prime example of one of the most abysmal talents to step into the WCF to date. This is a man who went from being on top of his division to floundering about in curtain jerk matches because he can't get a handle on himself. You were a prime young rookie, Phoenix, set to take the stage on your meteoric rise to dominance...
“But success got the better of you, didn't it? You weren't built to handle the pressure, the heat rising up from the flames you're re birthed in every couple of weeks or so because, 'hey that's convenient'? Like all meteoric rises, you crashed, burned, and now you join a mediocre stable to put a stamp on your mediocre career. You're these middle class Adam Young, you're kind of fun to cheer for, but it toes the line of “heartbreaking” to downright piteous.
“How long do you think it will be before The Brotherhood devours you, CJ? Before they take this fading star of yours and snuff it out for good? I know you're questioning your decision to join The Brotherhood because you're the kind of guy who likes a good question, like the question mark plastered on the end of your career...but you're also kind of a risk taker. A gambler, if you will...
“Affliction eats away at you faster than your Brotherhood ever could CJ. The fact of the matter is, we don't have to wait for them to snuff you out because you're doing a great job of it yourself already. From disappointing performances in high stakes matches, to lackluster (sea: abysmal) performances on a week to week basis. This sickness, this weakness eats away at you every day of your life. You're hoping for luck, but a man makes his own luck, and skill will take you all the way.
“You're taking a gamble by stepping into the ring this week. You're taking the risk with a crippled Brotherhood and the most random choice of Andre Holmes being your partners. You're taking a chance of life and limb against #BeachKrew this week. You struggle to get yourself out to the ring every week, what makes you think you have a chance against us? You better come hard, and you better come correct Pheonix, or you'll be rebirthing yourself next week too...
“But I'll be there to piss on the ashes.”
Rabid hands me a tightly coiled cigar, a fresh smell of the finest dank coming from somewhere within it. I light the cigar with a matchbook from my vest pocket and puff a plume of smoke into the air.
“A smoke fit for a King, for royalty. I hear a shield maiden comes to my throne, so that I might wax destruction upon her oiled asscheeks? Dion – pretty cute name for a girl actually – why do you seek out utter embarrassment this week? Is it your call to valor, or is it duty in the face of defeat? Seeing as I toppled your fearless leader last week like fucking butter, I'm going to go with the latter. The ladder of success has many rungs on it, young women, are you ready for the climb?
“I...I don't think you are, young NAC-RE-ETT...not now, not ever will I believe that. You've been here months, upon months, and have been constantly outshined by members of your Brotherhood, for better and worse. FPV isn't even technically a member and he gets more spotlight than you. Damian Kaine is comparable to a dumpster fire and he has eyes on him, so where does that leave you?
“It leaves you jumping that line of undercard bum and pitiful disaster. If I walked out to the ring, ginger hair flailing, waving a sword and shield around and bellowing like some LARP #fuccboi, I would hang myself from the short thread my career is dangling on. I wouldn't just feel like a moron, I would be a moron for considering this shit viable to my success.
“You know what your problem is Dion? You're living in a fantasy land where you still believe people have codes of honor. What utter nonsense, what arrant horseshit I find this to be. Nobody has honor, only egos, and they're always looking for the inevitable stroke job. Nobody wants to work smart of hard for their shit anymore, they just want it handed to them on a silver platter. You're a warrior, who wishes to be treated like royalty, who cries like a fucking women. When your stable needed you most, you split, just like Bishop is going to split when he realizes what a joke he's made of guys in The Brotherhood.
“He'll realize success comes easier somewhere else, and you'll follow suit. That's what you do, Dion. You're a follower. You'll never be able to lead your team to victory because your just a warrior. Pick and point at Dion's next target, and watch him flail miserably trying to secure a victory. Sure, you'll pick up the odd match up where you'll get the win and feel like your career is validated, even if only for a night...
“But at the end of the day, you'll always be Diva Nicorette, and realize that validation comes from a much more difficult place. Truer words have never been spoken, you'll never hear what you want from me Dina. Words paint thousands of pictures, but I only need three:
#LOLBeachKrewWinz
“And you're fucking done. Speaking of 'fucking done', Andre Holmes, why are you even here? What is your stake in this? Gold? Points on the board? Are you trying to impress us somehow by stepping to us? It's no secret: you've been kissing the ground we walk on since we came back, tagging along like a little brother (sea: LOL Brotherhood) nobody wanted to come. I didn't even recognize you at first with the lisp and the facial work...and I thought all...wrestlers looked the same.
“But then, there you were, Andre Holmes in all of his supposed glory. Tell me, how is rehashing stale gimmicks from the nineties working out for you? Talking about 'faggots' and 'im going to kill ya' like some late night lost episode of Bill Cosby (gone sexuuuuuuaaaaaaallllllll) Didn't #BeachKrew already dead this whack ass shit? I thought we killed Andre Holmes or something?”
“No, it was Rebelation, or whatever that gay stable name was”, Jared replied.
“I can almost still taste the Bonnie Blue poon. Like...” I stalled.
“Blueberries?” Rabid replied.
“Total annihilation?” I asked.
“That's more fitting”, Jared added.
“Rebelrousing – or whatever #dafucc it was called – was just a cry for attention Andre. Another cry in a long line of cries that have gone unheard by the masses: 'I'm here now, so take me seriously'. You know when people start taking you seriously Andre? When you stop acting like a fucking parody of yourself and take charge of your GodNilla-Damned life, BOI.
“I made a joke of you when I got you to start sending me nudes of lightskinned women you had in your phone, but quick cross referencing told me that your phone wasn't the original source, so I was at an impasse: to kill, or not to kill Andre Holmes? I've sat idly by, biding my time, but this is it. This is the moment I've been waiting for Andre, and I'm going to fucking kill you good faggot. I'm gonna fuck you till you love me, Holmes.
“I'm going to make this the last time you shit the bed in the highest profile match of your career so far. Final Destination and War will pale in comparison to the absolute ass thrashing I'm about to lay on you. This isn't a match you neither want, nor needed, but your stalwart sense of valor- backed by closeted gay gifs from Tumblr - will lead you into combat with us. Your idols. Your heroes.
“Your Kings.
“It's almost kind of ironic really. We could have extended the olive branch, asked if you wanted to join Pantheon, but it never even came up. Why - when this man who would constantly step to our defense on social media – would we not invite Andre Holmes to share some coffee cakes with us? It's because you're a stain, Holmes. A failure, in the face of defeat. You couldn't stack up to men like us on your best day, why would we want to stand alongside you?
“Your run has been lackluster, to a fault, and your performance to date doesn't match the ego constantly on display with you. You just want The World to perceive you in a different light...but all they'll see is the same old Andre Holmes, spouting his bravado, making claims to greatness that were never there to begin with. This is us putting the final knell in the coffin of your career in WCF. Run to Infinity, and Beyond Andre...
“It's the only chance you'll ever have to be somebody.”
I pulled on the cigar again, exhaling a thick plume of smoke into the aura of the table.
“The river?” I asked.
“You spend a lot of time around rivers?” the blonde women pipes up, her voice a hardy resonance.
I cocked my brow as the dealer plays the last card, staring at the women now smiling at me through slits in her eyes.
The King of Hearts.
The older gentlemen throws down his cards as I reveal my two kings, waiting in the wings. The women folds as the dealer slides the chips towards me.
“Not so much, anymore”, I replied to the women.
“Well, maybe you'll have your end away just yet”, she added.
“I always win in the end, ma'am”, I replied.
I scooped my chips into a tray as we stood up to leave the casino, the blonde woman in black followed suit, and I knew the game was on.
III: Confession
The hotel bar was oddly empty for a late Friday night, save a few stragglers and the lone bartender checking his Tinder dates - but I didn't mind. It kept most of the people clamoring for an autograph away, to which I would dutifully break their hearts and hands outstretched with pens. There was something to be said about the silence overtaking a public house, secrets speaking to you from a peaceful place. My mind began to drift to revelations accumulating upon me these last few weeks, to which the old me's eyes would have flared red with anger. I wouldn't have thought twice about ending their miserable existences...
Now, the truth did more to strengthen my resolve. I didn't use it as an outlet for rage, I used them only to affirm my own position and standing. When two of the most influential people owed you a cosmic favor...you chomped at the bit for such a rare opportunity. As my mind crossed hither and thither, Johnny Rabid walked through the bar door, a women sitting alone at the booth eyeing him up and down.
He made a bee line through the bar towards the table I sat at all to myself. I took a sip of my maple bacon Bloody Mary – a bit of the bar's specialty – as Rabid sat in collected rage.
“Can I get you a drink Johnny?” I asked, nonchalantly.
“Pardon, but I'll have to refrain”, Johnny replied through his teeth, “What was with you letting slip what Emily told you? I thought it was a secret between friends, yeah?”
“What are secrets between friends?” I replied, “We're all one, of sound mind. Uncomplicated, reasonable adults of course.”
“I don't really know what you're trying to play here...”
I held up my hand to silence Rabid. It was interesting to see him in such a vulnerable position...for a change. I felt as if I were constantly held underneath their thumbs, but I was in a rare spot of power, and I wasn't going to let it go to waste.
“I'm not playing, Johnny...I'm winning. I'm just positioning pieces on the board”, I said while waving my fingers over the hardwood table, “Besides, Jared's willing to pretend it didn't happen. He's taking his licks and moving on. Why can't you?”
Johnny's brow furrowed underneath his pulled straight pony.
“I have no idea what you're talking about, Wade”, he replied stoutly.
“What are secrets between friends, Mr. Ripper?”, I asked while taking another sip of my drink, “Besides, we have bigger things to focus on Johnny...like defending our titles this week. We can't afford to halt progress yet. Are we on the same page?”
“My loyalty is always to the team”, Rabid replied, slightly gnashing his teeth as he did, “Leviathan.”
As Rabid and I finished our polite conversation, the blonde from the poker table walked into the bar, scanning the room. She spotted me and began to approach the table. From the moment I laid eyes on her, I knew our paths were meant to cross this evening.
“Johnny, I knew I was going to fuck her”, I said as memories of carnal knowledge began to flood my lobes, “It was only a matter of time.”
“I'm afraid”, she spoke from across the bar, “That you're not so lucky, William Moor.”
She stopped at the edge of the table, brandishing a badge from her inner thigh.
“Agent Janice Mathison of the Central Intelligence Agency. I have a few questions for you. And perhaps, if the night goes my way, I'll get to fuck you instead?”
“The night is still young”, I replied as I dropped a fifty on the table.
I smiled to her, to Johnny, and to The World at large as the very incomprehensible threads began to intertwine themselves, creating destiny before my very eyes.