Post by John Rabid on Jan 8, 2017 16:56:52 GMT -5
“The night is still young”, replied Wade as he casually dropped a fifty on the table. The blonde smirked a curious, half forced smile as she tried to play nice with Rabid's returning, malcontent gaze, which was as cold as stone. Her attempt to disarm his reaction with a sort of artificial nod and wink created an awkward gulf of silence as Wade altered the position of his panama hat and exhaled; too engrossed with her appearance to take any notice of the friction.
Johnny Rabid: So what are you then, a stripper?
Janice Mathison: Excuse me?
Johnny Rabid: I'm not interested. I have a wife. But you two can go enjoy yourselves. I could use the peace.
Janice Mathison: I'm not a stripper.
Johnny Rabid: So I take it you're an actual CIA operative on a covert mission. Maybe a terrorist organisation is running a money laundering scam through the hotel and you need a cover to investigate. A fake husband to mask any suspicions. And that's when you just so happen to see a fool wearing a panama hat and a Hawaiian shirt combo in the middle of winter, and because it's a disaster to behold on every conceivable level, it has to be him. Why, of course that makes sense.
Janice Mathison: You're quite the salty individual. Don't worry if you have secrets to hide. I just like to make small talk. Little flights of fancy to break the ice. You don't have to be defensive with me.
Johnny Rabid: I'm suspicious. There's a difference.
Janice Mathison: Of me? Oh come on now! I'm not a problem. I swear!
Johnny Rabid: Everything is a problem for me.
Wade Moor: Forget him, Cherie. How about we leave the twisted lip of Sir Edmund Blackadder behind and go check out the pool?
Janice Mathison: Who?
Wade Moor: Nothing, just my salty whodi here. He's a European. They're never very happy these days. I blame brexit, let's go.
Wade coupled up with Janice as they departed. The smirk from Moor as Janice looped arms with him carried with it a certain underbelly of menace that just infuriated Rabid still further. Everything was starting to feel like London. Claustrophobic. Stifling. Doorways for opportunity were closing and decisions had to be made. This #beachkrew concept had become more a prison than an escape. A year ago it was Jimophy Thuggin's great escapade, now it was just exhausted and bitter.
Maybe it was time to just do away with them. Jared and Moor would be difficult to sanction in truth, but not impossible. Perhaps the tires on the WINEObago could be rigged to explode? Their limp, shattered bodies sent smashing though the windscreen, trampled by the motor homes wheels as it careened off a cliff edge. Disappearing from view while Keelhauling Rabid's problems into a sweet, dark abyss.
Seemed like heaven.
Just then Johnny felt a warm, calm hand on his shoulder. Everything he needed to know was in that welcoming hand. It carried with it love and compassion. It anchored him down and cleared the edges of violence that beckoned him forward. It was a beacon of light he would protect with absolute commitment. Emily had arrived, while an accompanying Dory smiled as he saw his father's eyes brighten.
Emily sat down in Wade's old seat, her bright orange dress was flowery and summery. Her matching knee high leather boots added a classic touch of predestine elegance. A model never forgets how to dress. Dory was, as always, a mess. He hated how his mother would pick out his clothes so he rebelled and just did what every other eight year old son would do. Sneakers, jeans and a tee.
Emily Rush: I have a confession to make.
Rabid rolled his eyes
Johnny Rabid: You need to stop making a habit out of this.
Emily tilted her head.
Emily Rush: No, not that. I played the slot machines, with Dory.
Dorian Rush: It was fun! We won fifty quid, Dad!
Emily Rush: Dollars, honey.
Dorian Rush: Whatever. It's all the same anyways.
Rabid tutted.
Johnny Rabid: Yeah, it is now.
Emily Rush: Is everything, okay? Look, about the wedding, I--
Johnny Rabid: Forget that. Forget it ever happened. You don't need to worry about that anymore. I've been thinking, how about we take some time off from the road? Forget about the WCF. Forget Pantheon and #beachkrew. Just me, you, Dory and Max. The dogs. The cats. Misses Hemlock. After the knighthood we just...disappear. I was thinking, Havana, It's--
Emily took a breath, held it as her eyes stopped blinking. Just for a second. She exhaled; everything as clear as day for her.
Emily Rush: Wade told Jared, didn't he? When that bastard told me he wouldn't. God. None of them are any fucking good, are they?
Dorian Rush: Mom!
Johnny Rabid: Cover your ears, son. Yeah, none of them are any fucking good. And that's the business I work in. And that's fine, for me. Because you and I both know what I can do, let's not have any illusions about that. But this isn't your war. And it never should be. You're my family. And family is important. Family is everything.
Emily's eyes widened.
Emily Rush: What are you going to do?
Johnny Rush: Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's time for a clean break.
Diva Nicorette,
Let's start off with the obvious, you have a stupid, pretentious name. It means nothing. It signifies nothing. You made it up so you could LARP in the woods with the other mongs and pretend to be important. You're not important. You're a journeyman wrestler from Minneapolis who shares a tenancy with rats in a run down Gym that stinks of sweat and desperation. And when you're not summing it there, you're slumming it in a run down barn in Reading with the rest of the Brotherhood, rolling dice and wondering when you're going to attack Mordor for the hundredth time. You're a modern day Huckleberry Flynn. Only your story is twisted and broken. You're not a carefree spirit, you're a victim of a direction-less generation. A middle-aged baby incapable of dealing with modern life. This Sunday, when you face your betters, that nappy of yours will need changing my friend. You're going to soil yourself in the presence of the mighty #beachkrew. An army of unstoppable Orcs a million strong. That will burn down your perimeters, smash your gods, and defile your women.
Which reminds me, what kind of toothless Gypo* names themselves after a God? Dionysus, God of fertility, wine and madness. So basically what you're saying is that you base your whole philosophy on a drunk madman. How utterly intimidating of you. Excuse me while I quake in my bespoke Ralph Laurens; laughing at the ridiculous idea that a Dungeons and Dragons fool such as yourself could have anything to do with fertility. Your loins are as barren as your trophy cabinet and this week won't rectify that situation. *Gypo: English colloquialism for Gypsy. I.E. Traveller.
You're the answer to that age old question: exactly what happens to a slob when their world of Warcraft account expires? I used to think the answer was Andre Jenson. But he was self aware to a degree. But you, Diva? You're a resident of cloud cuckoo land until the day you die. Reality for you is just this ugly wall that gets in the way of the promised land. That never ending fantasy that drives your idiocy forward like a steam engine. You're a man, powered by dreams. By fairy stories and works of fiction conjured up by obese men in naval hats, sitting in front of laptop screens, stuffing their faces with cream buns and waiting for type two diabetes to claim their lives. These are your gods, Diva. Flights of fancy that fill your cavernous skull with nonsense as they write fantasy shit and pump it directly into that huge gap between your ears.
Dion Necurat, trapped on a wheel of time, struggling to unlock the wardrobe to Narnia, so he can be the return of the king. It all bleeds into one. Just this white noise of children's fable's for the man who never grew up. Pan in Neverland, forever searching for the Captain with the hook and the alarm clock Crocodile. The key that will unlock your prison and allow a thirty year old virgin to escape puberty.
You're as delusional as Kevin Bishop is. I can imagine he probably dreams about you being his Sancho Panza. You, sitting on that donkey, occasionally uttering “sire” under your breath as he rides off once again to face the Rabid horde. Loses. Then scurries away with his tail between his legs. You patting him on the back for almost getting the job done. Almost bettering the great Serpent. Almost overcoming the mighty Brosidon. Almost besting the devious and “brilliant” 6ix God. Almost. Almost. Almost.
But never getting the job done.
How does it feel to take part in the emasculation of your leader? Because that's what this week is, Dion. How many permutations of attack has Kevin Bishop launched at me? And how many have been successful? None. Not one. He's a flaccid enemy. A man that lacks the strength and depth to combat the hell I bring. Unable to comprehend the madness I can unleash inside and outside of the ring. Every attempt to face me has ended in failure. Every assault weakening the Brotherhood until they become completely redundant. A spent force devoid of power and prestige. Right now the Brotherhood are as reverent as The Hounds Of Justice. In fact, considering what happened last week to Psychopomp and Smarts...they're a very, VERY poor second.
Game Over indeed.
Never mind “We Go On!” More like, “Why Go On?” If you're losing to the Hounds then you're in dire trouble. Someone needs to raise the red flag because this little merry CULT of yours (and it IS a cult by the way) should be placed on suicide watch. It's huffing and puffing it's way into an elephants graveyard. Minus it's illustrious leader of course.
Because Kevin Bishop? He ran away. He's left the battlefield for the dregs to cover his escape. He's hired a mercenary in Andre Holmes to slow down the advance and take his place by your side this week, while you and CJ Phoenix make up the collateral that comes with a messy, bloody withdrawal. Bishop has hired the man that superkicked you out of a chance to be the World Heavyweight Champion last week on Slam in the New Years Bash semi Finals. Andre Holmes, ever the opportunist, a man who just can't translate all that pumped up ambition into success, and yet, he ends up being Kevin Bishop's number one draft pick...over you. Yeah, that's right. You're Andre's back up this week; the security personal that walks alongside the relentless one. Congratulations, you've been relegated to official stooges. Just when you thought it couldn't get any worse teaming up with C.J. Phoenix, now you two are seen as the hired help. That luxury hammock of yours at Brotherhood central is looking under threat now my friend.
Perhaps the Brotherhood is about to get another REAL Brother among it's ranks. One that will knock your place in the rankings down another notch. Unless of course, Dion; you do something about it. But then, you're a Paladin. You'd never turn on one of your “Brothers”. Too pure of heart. Too delusional to risk the wrath of a non existent warriors code that you made up one night after wanking off over Tolkien. Do yourself a favour, read Gormenghast instead. Then you'll know what life inside this bubble called the WCF is really like.
We at #beachkrew are under no illusions about what we are. We except our journey and follow it wherever it may lead us. For example, this week? We are the enemy. We're the enemies of everyone. Every shining knight. Every man of good heart and jolly disposition. We are the dark and terrible. We are Comanche. The monster that craves souls and conspires to spread it's madness across the land. We're the dragon you were born to slay. And at Slam? You're going to face your ultimate fate. And fail in that one, all consuming task.
This is it, Diva. This is the day of reckoning. The day you sacrificed relationships with women, raising a family, and general normalcy for. Topple us? Destroy the dragon? And your life will have actual meaning. Fail? And you are nothing. Now and forever more. And that father of yours, the savvy, smart gentleman who abandoned you? He will have been proven finally right. Because he will have been vindicated for his actions. Correct in his assumption that you had nothing but failure in your future. Nothing but defeat in your eyes. That lack of excellence that every good wrestler can notice and focus in on. That sideways glance when you're faced with a man who does not contain the confidence necessary to accomplish great things. A man whose ambition is blunted by a substandard level of talent. That's you, Dion. The waste of space that grew up and proved his father right. You just don't have it. That's why your father abandoned you when you were a child. He didn't want to use up his precious time raising a failure. Thankfully for him, you took on a different name. A different life. You spared him year after year tethered to your disappointments. Too bad that failure blights your friends, suffocates their goals and drowns their careers.
But then, your friends are the Brotherhood. So no loss there.
I watched that Last Man Standing Match you had with Rise. Very impressive curtain jerker I must say. The way to worked that empty arena to the sounds of fans buying Pantheon shirts. Very impressive to keep up a professional veneer in the face of apathy. But then, for you that's exactly the level you're at. Curtain jerker. Opener. I spoke to the former owner of WWE:G, Diva. Doug McLellan spent the first twenty minutes on the phone just laughing about you. He's an annoying little man, but he gave me all the facts I needed eventually. He filled me in on your past career. How you existed inside a thin bubble, a paper champion that ran once the bubble burst when you began to face more robust talent. So you high tailed it to the WCF and found yourself in a company in transition. A company that had undergone dramatic upheaval. A place you could exploit and mine for all it was worth. Until it's owners came home. Until it's inheritors showed up and demanded their birthright be reinstated. Doug then wondered why the great Seth Lerch would be so stupid as to sign a waste of oxygen like Dion Necurat. I told him the truth: Seth signed Oblivion. Lilith. And Jay Omega. Seth will sign fucking anybody. Case in point, the rider of the great Moonworm. The Mayor of Murderwood. A mindless Paladin chasing windmills into obscurity. A self deluded fool who only makes decisions after a d20 is rolled. Expect a natural zero at Slam this week. Instant kill. Then we'll ship your body off to Andre Jenson and Greybeard so you three can throw sandbags at each other and shout Lighting Bolt! To your hearts content.
Right then, who's next?
Ah, the Phoenix, a legendary bird that ignites and is engulfed with flames, only to rise up from it's ashes stronger and more power than before. Never ending. Never relenting. Forever enduring in it's quest to fly forth and be free. It's a classic tale with but one weakness. One chink in the armor. Two little letters that ruin everything.
CEEEEEJAYYYYYYY
C.J Phoenix, the Phoenix who can't even get a win over Cormack MacNeill, the perpetual tartan whipping boy of the Federation. This is the Phoenix who lost to Jack London's favourite pen pal, Tomohawk at Ultimate Showdown. This is the Phoenix that tapped like a little bitch to Stuart Slane at Timebomb. This is the Phoenix who vows constantly to try harder in the face of prolonged adversity (I.E. A fucking long losing streak) to give it his all, and yet that all just isn't good enough. Time and time again, CJ falls short. Your one shining light, Phoenix, is that Alpha title you somehow won on a fluke. It's your legacy. To be the first. To be the first chapter in a hopefully illustrious story. One that recovers from it's humble, meagre beginnings. Because that's what your are, C.J. Humble. Small. An insignificant footnote in someone else's life. You're the ghost that wanders the halls of the WCF. Occasionally you threaten to be interesting, but there's no pay off. No leap into the immediate consciousness of the people. You just...exist. Bouncing from one innocuous loss to another. If there's one thing you have in your favour, it's that your win/loss record has gone completely unnoticed by everyone. You're an invisible man, C.J. A phantom, whose career will not be judged by it's failures, but rather by three words alone. “Who was he?”
Just imagine it now. Trivial Pursuit: WCF edition. A family of Trump loving hicks are sitting around the dinner table a few years into the future, they're drinking. Playing the game. Then your question comes up, C.J. This is it. This is your moment to shine. Gawd dayum, this is exciting! I wonder what happens?
“Okay, last question to win the game, Zeek. Who was the first to win that Alpha title?”
“Damn, Billy-Bob! That's a tough one. I dunno.”
“I'll give you a clue, Zeek. You have one of these painted on the front of your rusting Trans-am that's getting towed away this week from Grandma's”
“Damn it, Billy Bob! Why you have to go remind me of that?”
“Answer the question, dumbsheeit!”
“Well...wasn't there that guy looking to find the killers of his dead Pop? Jackson White I think? You know. The one who pretended to be a criminal, and said he wanted to kill some niggers?”
“Is that your answer?”
“Yeah, that rings a bell. Yeah. Jackson The Fenix White. First Alpha Champion!”
Billy Bob turns over the answer card. It says Jackson “The Fenix” White, because C.J never could draw a dime.
“Yeah, you're right, Zeek! What a retard, Jackson couldn't even spell Phoenix right.”
“That was his gimmick, dickhead! He was illiterate. Most South Americans are. He was a man who overcame a mental handicap to become a Champion. Y'know. Like Oblivion”
Oh dear, CJ. It looks like you're destined to be the chap whose name just disappears from view. Like a “Vote Hilary” car bump sticker. Or Pokemon Go! See this? This is what happens when a damaged company regains it's legs, it doesn't need lower card scum to help it run anymore. It just leaves the jobbers behind. Men like C.J. Phoenix. Who scurry to hide behind the skirts of a travelling freakshow now that the men are back in town. I guess it must be all that masculinity we display, very confusing for our C.J. A man so cuckolded by his own useless career that he'd rather hide out in a shed and lick the boots of his new “Masa Bishop”, the Brotherhood's slave master, who embarrassed C.J in a walkover of a People's Championship match, than stand on his own two feet and fight to be remembered. C.J would rather serve his new masa a plate of lower card gruel and forget that Bishop once called “a spade a spade”in regards to your lacklustre Alpha title run. C'mon, C.J, you must know what Bishop REALLY meant by that. Surly even you can get the connotations?
And if that doesn't seal the deal, this surely does.
His words, C.J. Not mine. Gift you...like a slave. Look these quotes up on the People's title thread if you don't believe me. I can wait. Go on...go read what your master thinks of you. The words of Kevin Bishop. The Plague that refuses to fight alongside two African Americans. I imagine you know about my investigations into the workings of the Brotherhood. How it's financial history is bolstered almost exclusively by Arian Brotherhood money, how it is a front for the Klu Klux Klan. And here you are, the sheep among the wolves. You're fighting for the wrong side. You're fighting alongside a man in Dion Necurat who idolizes an era of crusades, of evil western imperialism marching under the false flag of God against “the evil” of the moors. We have a Moor, C.J. I'm proud to fight alongside him! Do you think Dion can say the same with a hand on his heart? I doubt it. And soon you'll doubt it too once he hangs you out to dry. Because knights like him, just don't get along with people like you.
The Brotherhood do not embody the word, “Unity”, as Damian Kaine might suggest, they embody desperation. They embody government cheese and salty crackers. You're Jonestown, and Bishop is the massacre. I can't save you from what's coming, but I can put you to sleep early. I can save you from the persecution he has in stare for you. Save you from becoming Kidd Krazzy's personal pet. Save you from being turned into a human dog to a bigot master. This week on Slam, I'm going to turn the life of C.J Phoenix inside out. I'm going to pluck the feathers off the wings of the phoenix and watch it burn for the last time. I can call it euthanasia. A humane act to save a innocent soul from intolerance and torture. I'll watch the fires rise and suffocate C.J with my head bowed as I say a silent prayer. A Kingdom destroyer that will offer sweet freedom and make the world finally remember the transparent history of one, C.J phoenix. The Trivial Pursuit question: Who did Johnny Rabid kill in his first Trio Title defence? They'll never forget the answer to that one, C.J. I'm going to brand that imagine into their skulls, the way Andre Holmes thinks you're the “runt of the litter” the way a certain Kevin Bishop has branded you a failure from an “inferior” race.
Speaking of failures.
Andre Holmes, when you walked back through the doors of Seth towers asking for your Hardcore title back, only for your tears to be meet with the delicate symphonies of chirping crickets, did it not occur to you then that your time had passed? No? No bolt of enlightenment from the Bonnie Blue that perhaps the world had turned and moved on? I guess not, because here you are, still oh so determined to stink up the place with your try hard mentality, derailed by your ham fisted execution and morose self doubt. The louder you scream, Andre, the more pronounced your lack of confidence becomes. I wonder, why did you call out Gemini Battle your first day back? Do you remember? You had this weird unexplained hatred for him. This dislike for all things space clown. Truth be told, no one was paying attention anyway. Because nobody cared. But I did, Andre. I payed attention. I cared. That's my job. To search for design flaws. To look for weaknesses in my enemies, and exploit them to their fullest.
Also, it adds to my overall sense of inflated self importance, and I like that.
So, here we are, Andre. I'm sure your opening gambit will be how you pinned Kyle Kemp for the tag team championships. First of all, let me thank you for freeing me from the bonds of that useless partnership. While it was a foregone conclusion that we, and not Rebellution, would win the Tag Team Champions of the year. It still felt good not to have to continue on a relationship that had naturally ran it's course. We were the best. We dominated like no other. Then we saddled you with a dying swan of a belt that you did absolutely nothing with apart from a damp squib of a match with creepy looking fool K.L Henson. Now it's held by an Eric Price clone about to be decimated by Joey Flash and a dimwit who thinks he's Captain Pantheon, for fucks sake. And yes, I've seen the Jared Holmes promo; and no, there aren't “cracks and fissures forming in the #beachkrew relationship” because I've hated that scrawny little shit since day one, and I've STILL managed to win the trios belts and tag matches along side “the better Holmes” against your now deceased Space Clown; Gemini Battle; and that racist lump of southern fried shite named, Thomas Uriel Bates; all in one sitting. A task I very much doubt you could ever accomplish, Andre in a month of Slam Sundays.
It's funny. I see Jared hot spit venom at you and I know exactly how you'll respond, you'll dig your heels in and bring up that ridiculous “Blacklist” of yours. Such an original concept to tote around. It's toothless and listless. It's the kind of PG juvenile shit you'd see rotting inside a carnival tent next to the dog faced boy and the bearded lady. But because I'm a curious soul, I decided to take a gander at this fabled list and discover the names upon it. After all, you can gage a man's hopes and fears by how he gages his enemies. So, lets take a look:
5/ Seth Lerch
For constantly ignoring my attempts to regain the Hardcore title because I'm just not good enough when the name on the sheet isn't Katherine Phoenix. For branding me a mid card negro unable of fire up the imaginations of the people. For being insightful enough to see that I can't carry a match. Or a feud. Or a championship; to anywhere but your local dumpster for ZMAC to recycle for fossil fuels. For seeing me as the quintessential mid-card pitstop that I am. A good enough name to drop in a promo, but never worthy enough to actually be the man. For being the boss of a company that has given the likes of Steve Orbit a prolonged title run so that they can't be accused of racism when they laugh in my face as I twat myself in yet another match and squander yet another opportunity. For being canny enough to allow me to expose my own weaknesses time and again on the twitter boards as I allow psychotic bitches like Lilith to get under my skin and strip me of any sense of champions reserve. For constantly booking me in chance after chance after chance to shine and observing me flounder from his elevated position in that heavenly skybox of his, that echoes tuts of aggrieved disappointment like a cascade of dissatisfaction all the way down to the mat as my shoulders are pined for the one...two....three. Usually by a venerable cavalcade of useless jobbers that have no business being anywhere near the top of the card, let alone me. Ad yet, just as it was before Mexico, Nine months ago. It's the same as always. I never seem to measure up. And Seth knows. And will never let me forget.
4/Gemini Battle
For making me believe that I have any business loitering in the upper echelon of this company. For carrying me to a tag team victory; then exposing all my weaknesses to the world after losing the belt two defenses later. Thus guaranteeing that Rabid and Kemp would be crowned Tag Team Of The Year (Thx guys. One love) Then you had to die (Because Scarecrow did it) Then the eight months out in the wilderness. Eight months that derailed all of my carefully crafted momentum. Every ounce of positive heat I had within my grasp after my Hardcore title win. A rocket to the moon that exploded on the launch pad. But that's okay, because I know when I return, Gemini will have my back. He'll help me reclaim what's mine. And yet, guess what I discover as walk back though the door? Crazy J. Your new best friend, cosying up to the Hardcore belt like a kissing cousin. So what was I to you, Gemini? Easy Answer. Nothing. A forgotten page of history. I came back and you turned your back me, because you'd rather suck off Thomas Uriel Bates and pleasure his miniature ball sack than stand proud with what's left of Rebellution. I'm glad you're dead, you odious pasty faced fuck! Rot in hell!
3/Wade Moor
For facing me for the Trios title and bringing the most oppressive and dominating finisher the company has ever seen in the Brosidon punch. For being the one man who I know will rattle my cage and knock at least three of my teeth out. For being faster and more savvy in the ring than his size and shape might suggest. For facing the darkest of moments in the loss of His wife, Nikita and child, William and yet finding some kind of psychotic strength in the despair and transposing all of that into a vicious fury you will extract upon your enemies (me) with a finely honed, ground based assault. For being unselfish to a fault at ONE. For putting his team first. Fr making me feel envious to never know what that feels like. To have someone who will back you up when you really need them.
2/Johnny Rabid
For being quicker. Smarter and more devious than me. For playing me for a fool time and again on twitter. For knowing that I have the talent and the drive to be the best, but somehow managing to scupper all of that by cohering Katherine Phoenix to go after me and derailing my momentum. For making my life a living hell just for his own amusement. Just because he can. For being the most dangerous and spiteful man this Federation has ever seen. For having the talent and ability to back up his venom with the most natural sense of technical ability I have ever seen. For showing no fear. Not ever. Not even when faced by Dune in a C4 explosion match that would have crippled me for life. For being the villain, yet displaying more courage and fortitude than twenty in that locker room combined. For never backing down from a fight. For being a good father when I cannot. For simply being better. And so damn fucking smug about it. Looking though me, past me as he addresses the camera, because I just don't matter.
1/Andre Holmes
For being the unnecessary second head of talent relations, thus turning half the Federation against me. For looking like a total chump while up against a lower card bum named Scathe. For allowing myself to be driven to drink by a demented teddy bear enthusiast. For being an alcoholic and never seeking out any serious help. For being a bad husband. For being a bad father. For being an introspective emo twot who runs his mouth like Keanu having a bad day on a park bench. For cutting uninspiring promos that always have me crying and showing self doubt like a cross between a turgid slice of 1970's European cinema and a bad telemundo episode. For boring everyone who I come across. For never achieving the highs my promise always demonstrates because I can't help but to sabotage my own talent. Because somewhere, deep down inside, there exists an Andre Holmes that resents all the sacrifices I've made for this business. Has seen all the hurt I've caused my children and my wife. And will never allow me the solace of moving on from these crimes and discovering a moment of genuine peace.
Hell of a list, Andre. So true. So passionate. And so utterly useless. Because in the end, lists don't win matches. You can't compile a formula for victory, you can only seize it. And this week, once again for the cheap seats and the viewers at home. We'll teach that lesson again. Just for our amusement.
Good. Day.
* * * * * *
Thursday Kerrigan-Holmes wasn't moving. Her hands bound with tight plastic straps behind her back. The kind police officers use in place of cuffs. Her subconscious state a by-product of the sudden taser attack she had felt earlier. A silent jab of electrified hell that ran though her sternum and sent her into a spinning state of delirium. Thankfully her body knew better than to fight on and instead graced her confusion with an exit strategy of deep, induced sleep.
Her still body had not been punched nor kicked. She was perfectly well except for the initial attack, her pristine form was guarded over by two operatives of the Central Intelligence Agency. One was a younger man in his early thirties, he had a brashness about him. A swagger and a confidence that made his cockiness all the more annoying. His name was Agent Lyndon Ford. Beside him was a smaller, hunched man around the same age. His suit was shabby and ill kept. His widows peak of a hairline was greasy and straight. A pair of tortoise shell glasses remained a constant nuance to him, a pronounced aspergers ritual meant that he was guaranteed to clean his fractured lenses over and over again. His name was Analyst Hunter S. Esterhase.
The space they occupied was a deserted floor of the Hotel. A recent storm had taken out a disused south west wing and it was now in a state of intense repair. The walls were exposed plaster and chipboard. Carpentry tables and power tools were haphazardly left dormant; awaiting the go ahead from the casino owners to reconvene the renovation.
A length of exposed wire powered a set of laptops running surveillance software; tapping into a matrix of security cameras dotted around the hotel. A desperate and angry figure was running down corridors and knocking on room doors; it was Jared Holmes. Searching for his missing wife.
Lyndon Ford: He seems well, considering the Bates attack.
Hunter S. Esterhase: He's tough. And imaginative. He'll start to zero in on us soon enough.
Lyndon Ford: And when he does, he'll look for help.
Hunter S. Esterhase: Rabid.
Lyndon Ford: Control seems eager to get as much Intel as possible. You think a move as elaborate as this is really necessary, schizo?
Hunter S. Esterhase: S-S-Stop calling me that.
Lyndon smirks.
Lyndon Ford: S-S-Sorry. C'mon, “Schizo”. What do you know about this Rabid?
Hunter S. Esterhase: Just the rumors.
Lyndon Ford: What rumors?
Hunter S. Esterhase: That Mister Rush is a man of...unnatural heritage. Different. And somewhat unique. Control made one of his long, protracted speeches about him. All that flowery language the old man likes to use. How he had traveled though Rabid's life from decade to decade. From report to report. Though the disappearances and the mysteries, searching to find an island of brevity that would answer Control's fears with some element of reason. But the more Control delved, the more he felt the quicksand drag his sanity down. Into the dark. Into the mist. He thinks Jason Rush is more than man. And less than human. “An enigma that devours the light” he called him. That bleeds goodness dry. Control reckons he would make a good agent, if he isn't one already. A conman who can convince the world he's tame, when he's anything but.
On the laptop screen we see a concerned Jared meet silently up with Jimophy Thuggin. Lyndon smiled.
Lyndon Ford: I haven't met a bogey man yet I couldn't kill. Let's see what this Rabid can do.
Lyndon made a gun gesture at the laptop screen.
Lyndon Ford: Go get him, boys. Bring me my prize.
* * * * * *
Emily and Dory had left the bar for the adequate comfort of their hotel room, as had most of the patrons at this late hour. Rabid remained, his brooding hunched frame didn't enjoy company right about now, as the few still drinking sought to smartly turn their gaze elsewhere. The door to the bar pinged as it opened. Rabid didn't move, instead admiring the rum that had been his sole companion for the last few hours.
Johnny Rabid: What do you want, Thuggin?
Jimophy was dressed in a beige shirt with dark brown slacks and a set of dark shades perched on the crest of his head. He looked tired and concerned. He's been this way since the wedding but now it was more obvious than ever. Not that Rabid noticed. He just wanted the old fart to vanish.
Jimophy Thuggin: I need your help, John. It's--
Rabid's hand began to raise, the ripper kept his back turned away from the Slovakian. Not fully acknowledging his presence.
Jimophy Thuggin: Please. Please, Listen to me.
Rabid said nothing. He simply swilled his rum around in the small shot glass that contained it.
Jimophy Thuggin: Please, John. I'm begging you. We need to move past this now. Jared's nothing compared to you. If he stood toe to toe with you, you'd annihilate him. I know that. He knows that. He expects you to let it go because of me, because of our friendship. Now, please. Think about the future, John. Jared, he's the harbinger. The--
Johnny Rabid: No more games now, Jim. Your grand plan can get fucked for all I care. I'm not interested in your merry-go-round any longer. I used to think the money was worth it. The promises. But the Wedding was the end of all that. Fix this? FIX THIS? THAT FUCKING LITTLE TWERP!
Jimophy Thuggin: Johnny I--
Johnny Rabid: I take orders from no one, Jim. I give them. Fix this? Let me tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to finish this rather fine rum, then I'll go see my wife and tell her that I love her. Tuck my son into his bed and read him a story. Something with adventure and daring do. Then, when he falls asleep? I'll go make love to my beautiful wife and enjoy the intimacy. Fix this? Fix what, Thuggin? Fix perfection? Fix the fact that Jared Holmes is a fucking prick under my heels now and forever more? No. I won't be fixing that. He can stay right where he is and quiver in his boots. Right where he needs to be. That's if, he wants to continue to exist.
Jimophy Thuggin: He's mostly an Earth child, John. A half ape. He doesn't know--
Johnny Rabid: There used to be a time I trusted you, Thuggin. I used to offer you that luxury under the provision that your chosen one, that skinny little faggot, Jared Holmes, kept his fucking ignorant mouth shut around me and knew his place. But apparently not. Apparently you've filled his head with so much egregious shit that he honestly believes that he's some kind of equal. He's not my equal, Thuggin. He's not even close. If you don't put your dog back on it's leash? I'll bury him so deep it won't matter what destiny he has, it will never reach him. Understand me? Now get the fuck out of my sight. You ancient prick.
Jimophy Thuggin: Johnny I--
Blood began to drip from Jimophy's nose as Rabid exhaled, who continued to calmly sip the rum. Thuggin hurriedly reached for a tissue from inside a trouser pocket. The silk white fabric soaking up a bucket of crimson before the tide relented, leaving a wake of deep red running down his neatly ironed beige shirt. Whispers from the corners of the bar were drawing attention as Thuggin's apprehension swelled like a balloon in his gut. The room began to spin as Rabid toyed with the commander's mind. Up became down, down became up. It was time to leave.
Johnny Rabid: You Jalaxaritkatusan's are such a mongrel race. I honesty don't know why I've put up with you idiots for so long. Now, get the fuck out of my sight.
Jimophy Thuggin: Rabid I--
Johnny Rabid: I said fuck off! Repetition leads to extinction. Understand?
Jimophy didn't reply. He simply nodded and left. Head bowed. Fearing for his life as a new sense of rage took over. The Harbinger was proving now to be perhaps more trouble than he was worth. Costly. Dangerous. Everything was going wrong. Everything was falling apart. Thuggin' had to fix this, somehow.
Jimpohy Thuggin: Thursday's missing. Please!
Jimophy stumbled to his knees. The bar cleared as a hand reached down and helped the old “Slovakian” to his feet. Suddenly his nausea subsided as a voice echoed out of the shadows and the smoke.
Jared Holmes: Help me.
Rabid snorted out a disapproving growl.
Johnny Rabid: You? No. I don't think so. We're done. I have no interest in being your babysitter any longer. Go wipe your own arse.
Jared Holmes: Someone has taken my wife, John. They have Kerry.
Johnny Rabid: Then go rescue her then. You're the Harbinger. Go fly in on your angel wings and do the impossible. That's your destiny isn't it? To walk upon water and save the universe? Go prove it, if you believe it. Go make the world believe.
Jimophy Thuggin: Rabid.
Johnny Rabid: Maybe on the third day, after you and your bride have risen from your graves, they'll make Thursday a holy day. No red meat. Just fish. I like the irony of that.
Jared exhaled. Every ounce of his interior screamed in absolute rage. But he contained it. Caged it within arteries that were like fire, and blood that was as cold as December ice. Jared simply stood and held onto Thuggin as Rabid refused to turn around. His back turned on a world he had helped to create.
Jared Holmes: I won't apologize to you, John. Because you and I both know it won't mean anything. But I still need to say this. You and I, and Wade? We're the enemies of everyone. And if we don't remember that? Then they'll never let us forget it. They'll tear us apart, John. They'll crucify you. And me. And Wade. We either remind them of who we are. Or we'll be forgotten. I can't make you turn around. I cant make you help me.
Rabid said nothing.
Jared Holmes: Only you can do that.
Rabid straightened his tie and contemplated....having another rum. Jared and Thuggin' left. The door to the bar swung open with a dash of fury, then closed leaving Johnny alone to contemplate life in Havana. At least the weather would be nice. At they'd be safe. For a while.
For awhile.
* * * * * *
Back on the Southwest wing. The Laptop's monitor screens showed nothing of any great interest at first, just empty corridors and the odd, overweight Puerto Rican maid. As a beige world of dated carpets and molding green and gold paper settled down for the night, a strange visitor arrived. A mist began to billow, it was hugging the floor like a snake, inspecting the environment with a conspicuous controlled malice. Sniffing out people, places. Zeroing in on that hot topic aroma that Thursday called her guilty pleasure. There was two separate strands. Intertwined and interconnected. Two snakes in the tall grass. Hunting their prey.
Two silhouettes hurriedly gathered their gear and observed the screens for the last time.
Hunter S. Esterhase: Two strands? There's not supposed to be two.
Lyndon Ford: It doesn't matter. We won't be here when they arrive. We're to observe, remember?
Hunter S. Esterhase: Do the teams know? Do they have any idea?
Lyndon Ford: Of course not. You wanted to study rabid in his Natural habitat, didn't you? Don't grow a conscience now, “schizo”. We're the CIA. It's frowned upon. Lets go.
The agents departed, making a salute and silent gestures to the two teams of Agents that remained, armed with machine guns and years of training. None of that mattered however in the end. The mist reached them as time seemed to slow and stop. And out of that incomprehensible wave of confusion emerged two figures, a man and a woman. Unblemished by the chaos and gunfire that had surrounded them. They untied Thursday and silently delivered her home.
They were fixing things. For now. As the cameras rolled and captured...
Static.
FIN.
Johnny Rabid: So what are you then, a stripper?
Janice Mathison: Excuse me?
Johnny Rabid: I'm not interested. I have a wife. But you two can go enjoy yourselves. I could use the peace.
Janice Mathison: I'm not a stripper.
Johnny Rabid: So I take it you're an actual CIA operative on a covert mission. Maybe a terrorist organisation is running a money laundering scam through the hotel and you need a cover to investigate. A fake husband to mask any suspicions. And that's when you just so happen to see a fool wearing a panama hat and a Hawaiian shirt combo in the middle of winter, and because it's a disaster to behold on every conceivable level, it has to be him. Why, of course that makes sense.
Janice Mathison: You're quite the salty individual. Don't worry if you have secrets to hide. I just like to make small talk. Little flights of fancy to break the ice. You don't have to be defensive with me.
Johnny Rabid: I'm suspicious. There's a difference.
Janice Mathison: Of me? Oh come on now! I'm not a problem. I swear!
Johnny Rabid: Everything is a problem for me.
Wade Moor: Forget him, Cherie. How about we leave the twisted lip of Sir Edmund Blackadder behind and go check out the pool?
Janice Mathison: Who?
Wade Moor: Nothing, just my salty whodi here. He's a European. They're never very happy these days. I blame brexit, let's go.
Wade coupled up with Janice as they departed. The smirk from Moor as Janice looped arms with him carried with it a certain underbelly of menace that just infuriated Rabid still further. Everything was starting to feel like London. Claustrophobic. Stifling. Doorways for opportunity were closing and decisions had to be made. This #beachkrew concept had become more a prison than an escape. A year ago it was Jimophy Thuggin's great escapade, now it was just exhausted and bitter.
Maybe it was time to just do away with them. Jared and Moor would be difficult to sanction in truth, but not impossible. Perhaps the tires on the WINEObago could be rigged to explode? Their limp, shattered bodies sent smashing though the windscreen, trampled by the motor homes wheels as it careened off a cliff edge. Disappearing from view while Keelhauling Rabid's problems into a sweet, dark abyss.
Seemed like heaven.
Just then Johnny felt a warm, calm hand on his shoulder. Everything he needed to know was in that welcoming hand. It carried with it love and compassion. It anchored him down and cleared the edges of violence that beckoned him forward. It was a beacon of light he would protect with absolute commitment. Emily had arrived, while an accompanying Dory smiled as he saw his father's eyes brighten.
Emily sat down in Wade's old seat, her bright orange dress was flowery and summery. Her matching knee high leather boots added a classic touch of predestine elegance. A model never forgets how to dress. Dory was, as always, a mess. He hated how his mother would pick out his clothes so he rebelled and just did what every other eight year old son would do. Sneakers, jeans and a tee.
Emily Rush: I have a confession to make.
Rabid rolled his eyes
Johnny Rabid: You need to stop making a habit out of this.
Emily tilted her head.
Emily Rush: No, not that. I played the slot machines, with Dory.
Dorian Rush: It was fun! We won fifty quid, Dad!
Emily Rush: Dollars, honey.
Dorian Rush: Whatever. It's all the same anyways.
Rabid tutted.
Johnny Rabid: Yeah, it is now.
Emily Rush: Is everything, okay? Look, about the wedding, I--
Johnny Rabid: Forget that. Forget it ever happened. You don't need to worry about that anymore. I've been thinking, how about we take some time off from the road? Forget about the WCF. Forget Pantheon and #beachkrew. Just me, you, Dory and Max. The dogs. The cats. Misses Hemlock. After the knighthood we just...disappear. I was thinking, Havana, It's--
Emily took a breath, held it as her eyes stopped blinking. Just for a second. She exhaled; everything as clear as day for her.
Emily Rush: Wade told Jared, didn't he? When that bastard told me he wouldn't. God. None of them are any fucking good, are they?
Dorian Rush: Mom!
Johnny Rabid: Cover your ears, son. Yeah, none of them are any fucking good. And that's the business I work in. And that's fine, for me. Because you and I both know what I can do, let's not have any illusions about that. But this isn't your war. And it never should be. You're my family. And family is important. Family is everything.
Emily's eyes widened.
Emily Rush: What are you going to do?
Johnny Rush: Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's time for a clean break.
We Are Comanches. Lords of the desert plains.
The enemies of E ▼ E R Y ▲ N E.
Let's start off with the obvious, you have a stupid, pretentious name. It means nothing. It signifies nothing. You made it up so you could LARP in the woods with the other mongs and pretend to be important. You're not important. You're a journeyman wrestler from Minneapolis who shares a tenancy with rats in a run down Gym that stinks of sweat and desperation. And when you're not summing it there, you're slumming it in a run down barn in Reading with the rest of the Brotherhood, rolling dice and wondering when you're going to attack Mordor for the hundredth time. You're a modern day Huckleberry Flynn. Only your story is twisted and broken. You're not a carefree spirit, you're a victim of a direction-less generation. A middle-aged baby incapable of dealing with modern life. This Sunday, when you face your betters, that nappy of yours will need changing my friend. You're going to soil yourself in the presence of the mighty #beachkrew. An army of unstoppable Orcs a million strong. That will burn down your perimeters, smash your gods, and defile your women.
Which reminds me, what kind of toothless Gypo* names themselves after a God? Dionysus, God of fertility, wine and madness. So basically what you're saying is that you base your whole philosophy on a drunk madman. How utterly intimidating of you. Excuse me while I quake in my bespoke Ralph Laurens; laughing at the ridiculous idea that a Dungeons and Dragons fool such as yourself could have anything to do with fertility. Your loins are as barren as your trophy cabinet and this week won't rectify that situation. *Gypo: English colloquialism for Gypsy. I.E. Traveller.
You're the answer to that age old question: exactly what happens to a slob when their world of Warcraft account expires? I used to think the answer was Andre Jenson. But he was self aware to a degree. But you, Diva? You're a resident of cloud cuckoo land until the day you die. Reality for you is just this ugly wall that gets in the way of the promised land. That never ending fantasy that drives your idiocy forward like a steam engine. You're a man, powered by dreams. By fairy stories and works of fiction conjured up by obese men in naval hats, sitting in front of laptop screens, stuffing their faces with cream buns and waiting for type two diabetes to claim their lives. These are your gods, Diva. Flights of fancy that fill your cavernous skull with nonsense as they write fantasy shit and pump it directly into that huge gap between your ears.
Dion Necurat, trapped on a wheel of time, struggling to unlock the wardrobe to Narnia, so he can be the return of the king. It all bleeds into one. Just this white noise of children's fable's for the man who never grew up. Pan in Neverland, forever searching for the Captain with the hook and the alarm clock Crocodile. The key that will unlock your prison and allow a thirty year old virgin to escape puberty.
You're as delusional as Kevin Bishop is. I can imagine he probably dreams about you being his Sancho Panza. You, sitting on that donkey, occasionally uttering “sire” under your breath as he rides off once again to face the Rabid horde. Loses. Then scurries away with his tail between his legs. You patting him on the back for almost getting the job done. Almost bettering the great Serpent. Almost overcoming the mighty Brosidon. Almost besting the devious and “brilliant” 6ix God. Almost. Almost. Almost.
But never getting the job done.
How does it feel to take part in the emasculation of your leader? Because that's what this week is, Dion. How many permutations of attack has Kevin Bishop launched at me? And how many have been successful? None. Not one. He's a flaccid enemy. A man that lacks the strength and depth to combat the hell I bring. Unable to comprehend the madness I can unleash inside and outside of the ring. Every attempt to face me has ended in failure. Every assault weakening the Brotherhood until they become completely redundant. A spent force devoid of power and prestige. Right now the Brotherhood are as reverent as The Hounds Of Justice. In fact, considering what happened last week to Psychopomp and Smarts...they're a very, VERY poor second.
Game Over indeed.
Never mind “We Go On!” More like, “Why Go On?” If you're losing to the Hounds then you're in dire trouble. Someone needs to raise the red flag because this little merry CULT of yours (and it IS a cult by the way) should be placed on suicide watch. It's huffing and puffing it's way into an elephants graveyard. Minus it's illustrious leader of course.
Because Kevin Bishop? He ran away. He's left the battlefield for the dregs to cover his escape. He's hired a mercenary in Andre Holmes to slow down the advance and take his place by your side this week, while you and CJ Phoenix make up the collateral that comes with a messy, bloody withdrawal. Bishop has hired the man that superkicked you out of a chance to be the World Heavyweight Champion last week on Slam in the New Years Bash semi Finals. Andre Holmes, ever the opportunist, a man who just can't translate all that pumped up ambition into success, and yet, he ends up being Kevin Bishop's number one draft pick...over you. Yeah, that's right. You're Andre's back up this week; the security personal that walks alongside the relentless one. Congratulations, you've been relegated to official stooges. Just when you thought it couldn't get any worse teaming up with C.J. Phoenix, now you two are seen as the hired help. That luxury hammock of yours at Brotherhood central is looking under threat now my friend.
Perhaps the Brotherhood is about to get another REAL Brother among it's ranks. One that will knock your place in the rankings down another notch. Unless of course, Dion; you do something about it. But then, you're a Paladin. You'd never turn on one of your “Brothers”. Too pure of heart. Too delusional to risk the wrath of a non existent warriors code that you made up one night after wanking off over Tolkien. Do yourself a favour, read Gormenghast instead. Then you'll know what life inside this bubble called the WCF is really like.
We at #beachkrew are under no illusions about what we are. We except our journey and follow it wherever it may lead us. For example, this week? We are the enemy. We're the enemies of everyone. Every shining knight. Every man of good heart and jolly disposition. We are the dark and terrible. We are Comanche. The monster that craves souls and conspires to spread it's madness across the land. We're the dragon you were born to slay. And at Slam? You're going to face your ultimate fate. And fail in that one, all consuming task.
This is it, Diva. This is the day of reckoning. The day you sacrificed relationships with women, raising a family, and general normalcy for. Topple us? Destroy the dragon? And your life will have actual meaning. Fail? And you are nothing. Now and forever more. And that father of yours, the savvy, smart gentleman who abandoned you? He will have been proven finally right. Because he will have been vindicated for his actions. Correct in his assumption that you had nothing but failure in your future. Nothing but defeat in your eyes. That lack of excellence that every good wrestler can notice and focus in on. That sideways glance when you're faced with a man who does not contain the confidence necessary to accomplish great things. A man whose ambition is blunted by a substandard level of talent. That's you, Dion. The waste of space that grew up and proved his father right. You just don't have it. That's why your father abandoned you when you were a child. He didn't want to use up his precious time raising a failure. Thankfully for him, you took on a different name. A different life. You spared him year after year tethered to your disappointments. Too bad that failure blights your friends, suffocates their goals and drowns their careers.
But then, your friends are the Brotherhood. So no loss there.
I watched that Last Man Standing Match you had with Rise. Very impressive curtain jerker I must say. The way to worked that empty arena to the sounds of fans buying Pantheon shirts. Very impressive to keep up a professional veneer in the face of apathy. But then, for you that's exactly the level you're at. Curtain jerker. Opener. I spoke to the former owner of WWE:G, Diva. Doug McLellan spent the first twenty minutes on the phone just laughing about you. He's an annoying little man, but he gave me all the facts I needed eventually. He filled me in on your past career. How you existed inside a thin bubble, a paper champion that ran once the bubble burst when you began to face more robust talent. So you high tailed it to the WCF and found yourself in a company in transition. A company that had undergone dramatic upheaval. A place you could exploit and mine for all it was worth. Until it's owners came home. Until it's inheritors showed up and demanded their birthright be reinstated. Doug then wondered why the great Seth Lerch would be so stupid as to sign a waste of oxygen like Dion Necurat. I told him the truth: Seth signed Oblivion. Lilith. And Jay Omega. Seth will sign fucking anybody. Case in point, the rider of the great Moonworm. The Mayor of Murderwood. A mindless Paladin chasing windmills into obscurity. A self deluded fool who only makes decisions after a d20 is rolled. Expect a natural zero at Slam this week. Instant kill. Then we'll ship your body off to Andre Jenson and Greybeard so you three can throw sandbags at each other and shout Lighting Bolt! To your hearts content.
Right then, who's next?
Ah, the Phoenix, a legendary bird that ignites and is engulfed with flames, only to rise up from it's ashes stronger and more power than before. Never ending. Never relenting. Forever enduring in it's quest to fly forth and be free. It's a classic tale with but one weakness. One chink in the armor. Two little letters that ruin everything.
CEEEEEJAYYYYYYY
C.J Phoenix, the Phoenix who can't even get a win over Cormack MacNeill, the perpetual tartan whipping boy of the Federation. This is the Phoenix who lost to Jack London's favourite pen pal, Tomohawk at Ultimate Showdown. This is the Phoenix that tapped like a little bitch to Stuart Slane at Timebomb. This is the Phoenix who vows constantly to try harder in the face of prolonged adversity (I.E. A fucking long losing streak) to give it his all, and yet that all just isn't good enough. Time and time again, CJ falls short. Your one shining light, Phoenix, is that Alpha title you somehow won on a fluke. It's your legacy. To be the first. To be the first chapter in a hopefully illustrious story. One that recovers from it's humble, meagre beginnings. Because that's what your are, C.J. Humble. Small. An insignificant footnote in someone else's life. You're the ghost that wanders the halls of the WCF. Occasionally you threaten to be interesting, but there's no pay off. No leap into the immediate consciousness of the people. You just...exist. Bouncing from one innocuous loss to another. If there's one thing you have in your favour, it's that your win/loss record has gone completely unnoticed by everyone. You're an invisible man, C.J. A phantom, whose career will not be judged by it's failures, but rather by three words alone. “Who was he?”
Just imagine it now. Trivial Pursuit: WCF edition. A family of Trump loving hicks are sitting around the dinner table a few years into the future, they're drinking. Playing the game. Then your question comes up, C.J. This is it. This is your moment to shine. Gawd dayum, this is exciting! I wonder what happens?
“Okay, last question to win the game, Zeek. Who was the first to win that Alpha title?”
“Damn, Billy-Bob! That's a tough one. I dunno.”
“I'll give you a clue, Zeek. You have one of these painted on the front of your rusting Trans-am that's getting towed away this week from Grandma's”
“Damn it, Billy Bob! Why you have to go remind me of that?”
“Answer the question, dumbsheeit!”
“Well...wasn't there that guy looking to find the killers of his dead Pop? Jackson White I think? You know. The one who pretended to be a criminal, and said he wanted to kill some niggers?”
“Is that your answer?”
“Yeah, that rings a bell. Yeah. Jackson The Fenix White. First Alpha Champion!”
Billy Bob turns over the answer card. It says Jackson “The Fenix” White, because C.J never could draw a dime.
“Yeah, you're right, Zeek! What a retard, Jackson couldn't even spell Phoenix right.”
“That was his gimmick, dickhead! He was illiterate. Most South Americans are. He was a man who overcame a mental handicap to become a Champion. Y'know. Like Oblivion”
Oh dear, CJ. It looks like you're destined to be the chap whose name just disappears from view. Like a “Vote Hilary” car bump sticker. Or Pokemon Go! See this? This is what happens when a damaged company regains it's legs, it doesn't need lower card scum to help it run anymore. It just leaves the jobbers behind. Men like C.J. Phoenix. Who scurry to hide behind the skirts of a travelling freakshow now that the men are back in town. I guess it must be all that masculinity we display, very confusing for our C.J. A man so cuckolded by his own useless career that he'd rather hide out in a shed and lick the boots of his new “Masa Bishop”, the Brotherhood's slave master, who embarrassed C.J in a walkover of a People's Championship match, than stand on his own two feet and fight to be remembered. C.J would rather serve his new masa a plate of lower card gruel and forget that Bishop once called “a spade a spade”in regards to your lacklustre Alpha title run. C'mon, C.J, you must know what Bishop REALLY meant by that. Surly even you can get the connotations?
Kevin Bishop special.
“Lets call a SPADE a SPADE here... The Alpha title is in fact the sloppy seconds of the US Title... Paint RUST any COLOR and its still RUST... Change the gold around and slap a fancy name on it with a new stipulation... Its still WHAT IT IS...”
And if that doesn't seal the deal, this surely does.
“If you lose this match you'll be one of my brothers... As one of my brothers I'm going to GIFT YOU to Kidd Krazzy so he can have his very own DARK PHOENIX saga to play out “
The Brotherhood do not embody the word, “Unity”, as Damian Kaine might suggest, they embody desperation. They embody government cheese and salty crackers. You're Jonestown, and Bishop is the massacre. I can't save you from what's coming, but I can put you to sleep early. I can save you from the persecution he has in stare for you. Save you from becoming Kidd Krazzy's personal pet. Save you from being turned into a human dog to a bigot master. This week on Slam, I'm going to turn the life of C.J Phoenix inside out. I'm going to pluck the feathers off the wings of the phoenix and watch it burn for the last time. I can call it euthanasia. A humane act to save a innocent soul from intolerance and torture. I'll watch the fires rise and suffocate C.J with my head bowed as I say a silent prayer. A Kingdom destroyer that will offer sweet freedom and make the world finally remember the transparent history of one, C.J phoenix. The Trivial Pursuit question: Who did Johnny Rabid kill in his first Trio Title defence? They'll never forget the answer to that one, C.J. I'm going to brand that imagine into their skulls, the way Andre Holmes thinks you're the “runt of the litter” the way a certain Kevin Bishop has branded you a failure from an “inferior” race.
Speaking of failures.
Andre Holmes, when you walked back through the doors of Seth towers asking for your Hardcore title back, only for your tears to be meet with the delicate symphonies of chirping crickets, did it not occur to you then that your time had passed? No? No bolt of enlightenment from the Bonnie Blue that perhaps the world had turned and moved on? I guess not, because here you are, still oh so determined to stink up the place with your try hard mentality, derailed by your ham fisted execution and morose self doubt. The louder you scream, Andre, the more pronounced your lack of confidence becomes. I wonder, why did you call out Gemini Battle your first day back? Do you remember? You had this weird unexplained hatred for him. This dislike for all things space clown. Truth be told, no one was paying attention anyway. Because nobody cared. But I did, Andre. I payed attention. I cared. That's my job. To search for design flaws. To look for weaknesses in my enemies, and exploit them to their fullest.
Also, it adds to my overall sense of inflated self importance, and I like that.
So, here we are, Andre. I'm sure your opening gambit will be how you pinned Kyle Kemp for the tag team championships. First of all, let me thank you for freeing me from the bonds of that useless partnership. While it was a foregone conclusion that we, and not Rebellution, would win the Tag Team Champions of the year. It still felt good not to have to continue on a relationship that had naturally ran it's course. We were the best. We dominated like no other. Then we saddled you with a dying swan of a belt that you did absolutely nothing with apart from a damp squib of a match with creepy looking fool K.L Henson. Now it's held by an Eric Price clone about to be decimated by Joey Flash and a dimwit who thinks he's Captain Pantheon, for fucks sake. And yes, I've seen the Jared Holmes promo; and no, there aren't “cracks and fissures forming in the #beachkrew relationship” because I've hated that scrawny little shit since day one, and I've STILL managed to win the trios belts and tag matches along side “the better Holmes” against your now deceased Space Clown; Gemini Battle; and that racist lump of southern fried shite named, Thomas Uriel Bates; all in one sitting. A task I very much doubt you could ever accomplish, Andre in a month of Slam Sundays.
It's funny. I see Jared hot spit venom at you and I know exactly how you'll respond, you'll dig your heels in and bring up that ridiculous “Blacklist” of yours. Such an original concept to tote around. It's toothless and listless. It's the kind of PG juvenile shit you'd see rotting inside a carnival tent next to the dog faced boy and the bearded lady. But because I'm a curious soul, I decided to take a gander at this fabled list and discover the names upon it. After all, you can gage a man's hopes and fears by how he gages his enemies. So, lets take a look:
5/ Seth Lerch
For constantly ignoring my attempts to regain the Hardcore title because I'm just not good enough when the name on the sheet isn't Katherine Phoenix. For branding me a mid card negro unable of fire up the imaginations of the people. For being insightful enough to see that I can't carry a match. Or a feud. Or a championship; to anywhere but your local dumpster for ZMAC to recycle for fossil fuels. For seeing me as the quintessential mid-card pitstop that I am. A good enough name to drop in a promo, but never worthy enough to actually be the man. For being the boss of a company that has given the likes of Steve Orbit a prolonged title run so that they can't be accused of racism when they laugh in my face as I twat myself in yet another match and squander yet another opportunity. For being canny enough to allow me to expose my own weaknesses time and again on the twitter boards as I allow psychotic bitches like Lilith to get under my skin and strip me of any sense of champions reserve. For constantly booking me in chance after chance after chance to shine and observing me flounder from his elevated position in that heavenly skybox of his, that echoes tuts of aggrieved disappointment like a cascade of dissatisfaction all the way down to the mat as my shoulders are pined for the one...two....three. Usually by a venerable cavalcade of useless jobbers that have no business being anywhere near the top of the card, let alone me. Ad yet, just as it was before Mexico, Nine months ago. It's the same as always. I never seem to measure up. And Seth knows. And will never let me forget.
4/Gemini Battle
For making me believe that I have any business loitering in the upper echelon of this company. For carrying me to a tag team victory; then exposing all my weaknesses to the world after losing the belt two defenses later. Thus guaranteeing that Rabid and Kemp would be crowned Tag Team Of The Year (Thx guys. One love) Then you had to die (Because Scarecrow did it) Then the eight months out in the wilderness. Eight months that derailed all of my carefully crafted momentum. Every ounce of positive heat I had within my grasp after my Hardcore title win. A rocket to the moon that exploded on the launch pad. But that's okay, because I know when I return, Gemini will have my back. He'll help me reclaim what's mine. And yet, guess what I discover as walk back though the door? Crazy J. Your new best friend, cosying up to the Hardcore belt like a kissing cousin. So what was I to you, Gemini? Easy Answer. Nothing. A forgotten page of history. I came back and you turned your back me, because you'd rather suck off Thomas Uriel Bates and pleasure his miniature ball sack than stand proud with what's left of Rebellution. I'm glad you're dead, you odious pasty faced fuck! Rot in hell!
3/Wade Moor
For facing me for the Trios title and bringing the most oppressive and dominating finisher the company has ever seen in the Brosidon punch. For being the one man who I know will rattle my cage and knock at least three of my teeth out. For being faster and more savvy in the ring than his size and shape might suggest. For facing the darkest of moments in the loss of His wife, Nikita and child, William and yet finding some kind of psychotic strength in the despair and transposing all of that into a vicious fury you will extract upon your enemies (me) with a finely honed, ground based assault. For being unselfish to a fault at ONE. For putting his team first. Fr making me feel envious to never know what that feels like. To have someone who will back you up when you really need them.
2/Johnny Rabid
For being quicker. Smarter and more devious than me. For playing me for a fool time and again on twitter. For knowing that I have the talent and the drive to be the best, but somehow managing to scupper all of that by cohering Katherine Phoenix to go after me and derailing my momentum. For making my life a living hell just for his own amusement. Just because he can. For being the most dangerous and spiteful man this Federation has ever seen. For having the talent and ability to back up his venom with the most natural sense of technical ability I have ever seen. For showing no fear. Not ever. Not even when faced by Dune in a C4 explosion match that would have crippled me for life. For being the villain, yet displaying more courage and fortitude than twenty in that locker room combined. For never backing down from a fight. For being a good father when I cannot. For simply being better. And so damn fucking smug about it. Looking though me, past me as he addresses the camera, because I just don't matter.
1/Andre Holmes
For being the unnecessary second head of talent relations, thus turning half the Federation against me. For looking like a total chump while up against a lower card bum named Scathe. For allowing myself to be driven to drink by a demented teddy bear enthusiast. For being an alcoholic and never seeking out any serious help. For being a bad husband. For being a bad father. For being an introspective emo twot who runs his mouth like Keanu having a bad day on a park bench. For cutting uninspiring promos that always have me crying and showing self doubt like a cross between a turgid slice of 1970's European cinema and a bad telemundo episode. For boring everyone who I come across. For never achieving the highs my promise always demonstrates because I can't help but to sabotage my own talent. Because somewhere, deep down inside, there exists an Andre Holmes that resents all the sacrifices I've made for this business. Has seen all the hurt I've caused my children and my wife. And will never allow me the solace of moving on from these crimes and discovering a moment of genuine peace.
Hell of a list, Andre. So true. So passionate. And so utterly useless. Because in the end, lists don't win matches. You can't compile a formula for victory, you can only seize it. And this week, once again for the cheap seats and the viewers at home. We'll teach that lesson again. Just for our amusement.
Good. Day.
* * * * * *
Thursday Kerrigan-Holmes wasn't moving. Her hands bound with tight plastic straps behind her back. The kind police officers use in place of cuffs. Her subconscious state a by-product of the sudden taser attack she had felt earlier. A silent jab of electrified hell that ran though her sternum and sent her into a spinning state of delirium. Thankfully her body knew better than to fight on and instead graced her confusion with an exit strategy of deep, induced sleep.
Her still body had not been punched nor kicked. She was perfectly well except for the initial attack, her pristine form was guarded over by two operatives of the Central Intelligence Agency. One was a younger man in his early thirties, he had a brashness about him. A swagger and a confidence that made his cockiness all the more annoying. His name was Agent Lyndon Ford. Beside him was a smaller, hunched man around the same age. His suit was shabby and ill kept. His widows peak of a hairline was greasy and straight. A pair of tortoise shell glasses remained a constant nuance to him, a pronounced aspergers ritual meant that he was guaranteed to clean his fractured lenses over and over again. His name was Analyst Hunter S. Esterhase.
The space they occupied was a deserted floor of the Hotel. A recent storm had taken out a disused south west wing and it was now in a state of intense repair. The walls were exposed plaster and chipboard. Carpentry tables and power tools were haphazardly left dormant; awaiting the go ahead from the casino owners to reconvene the renovation.
A length of exposed wire powered a set of laptops running surveillance software; tapping into a matrix of security cameras dotted around the hotel. A desperate and angry figure was running down corridors and knocking on room doors; it was Jared Holmes. Searching for his missing wife.
Lyndon Ford: He seems well, considering the Bates attack.
Hunter S. Esterhase: He's tough. And imaginative. He'll start to zero in on us soon enough.
Lyndon Ford: And when he does, he'll look for help.
Hunter S. Esterhase: Rabid.
Lyndon Ford: Control seems eager to get as much Intel as possible. You think a move as elaborate as this is really necessary, schizo?
Hunter S. Esterhase: S-S-Stop calling me that.
Lyndon smirks.
Lyndon Ford: S-S-Sorry. C'mon, “Schizo”. What do you know about this Rabid?
Hunter S. Esterhase: Just the rumors.
Lyndon Ford: What rumors?
Hunter S. Esterhase: That Mister Rush is a man of...unnatural heritage. Different. And somewhat unique. Control made one of his long, protracted speeches about him. All that flowery language the old man likes to use. How he had traveled though Rabid's life from decade to decade. From report to report. Though the disappearances and the mysteries, searching to find an island of brevity that would answer Control's fears with some element of reason. But the more Control delved, the more he felt the quicksand drag his sanity down. Into the dark. Into the mist. He thinks Jason Rush is more than man. And less than human. “An enigma that devours the light” he called him. That bleeds goodness dry. Control reckons he would make a good agent, if he isn't one already. A conman who can convince the world he's tame, when he's anything but.
On the laptop screen we see a concerned Jared meet silently up with Jimophy Thuggin. Lyndon smiled.
Lyndon Ford: I haven't met a bogey man yet I couldn't kill. Let's see what this Rabid can do.
Lyndon made a gun gesture at the laptop screen.
Lyndon Ford: Go get him, boys. Bring me my prize.
* * * * * *
Emily and Dory had left the bar for the adequate comfort of their hotel room, as had most of the patrons at this late hour. Rabid remained, his brooding hunched frame didn't enjoy company right about now, as the few still drinking sought to smartly turn their gaze elsewhere. The door to the bar pinged as it opened. Rabid didn't move, instead admiring the rum that had been his sole companion for the last few hours.
Johnny Rabid: What do you want, Thuggin?
Jimophy was dressed in a beige shirt with dark brown slacks and a set of dark shades perched on the crest of his head. He looked tired and concerned. He's been this way since the wedding but now it was more obvious than ever. Not that Rabid noticed. He just wanted the old fart to vanish.
Jimophy Thuggin: I need your help, John. It's--
Rabid's hand began to raise, the ripper kept his back turned away from the Slovakian. Not fully acknowledging his presence.
Jimophy Thuggin: Please. Please, Listen to me.
Rabid said nothing. He simply swilled his rum around in the small shot glass that contained it.
Jimophy Thuggin: Please, John. I'm begging you. We need to move past this now. Jared's nothing compared to you. If he stood toe to toe with you, you'd annihilate him. I know that. He knows that. He expects you to let it go because of me, because of our friendship. Now, please. Think about the future, John. Jared, he's the harbinger. The--
Johnny Rabid: No more games now, Jim. Your grand plan can get fucked for all I care. I'm not interested in your merry-go-round any longer. I used to think the money was worth it. The promises. But the Wedding was the end of all that. Fix this? FIX THIS? THAT FUCKING LITTLE TWERP!
Jimophy Thuggin: Johnny I--
Johnny Rabid: I take orders from no one, Jim. I give them. Fix this? Let me tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to finish this rather fine rum, then I'll go see my wife and tell her that I love her. Tuck my son into his bed and read him a story. Something with adventure and daring do. Then, when he falls asleep? I'll go make love to my beautiful wife and enjoy the intimacy. Fix this? Fix what, Thuggin? Fix perfection? Fix the fact that Jared Holmes is a fucking prick under my heels now and forever more? No. I won't be fixing that. He can stay right where he is and quiver in his boots. Right where he needs to be. That's if, he wants to continue to exist.
Jimophy Thuggin: He's mostly an Earth child, John. A half ape. He doesn't know--
Johnny Rabid: There used to be a time I trusted you, Thuggin. I used to offer you that luxury under the provision that your chosen one, that skinny little faggot, Jared Holmes, kept his fucking ignorant mouth shut around me and knew his place. But apparently not. Apparently you've filled his head with so much egregious shit that he honestly believes that he's some kind of equal. He's not my equal, Thuggin. He's not even close. If you don't put your dog back on it's leash? I'll bury him so deep it won't matter what destiny he has, it will never reach him. Understand me? Now get the fuck out of my sight. You ancient prick.
Jimophy Thuggin: Johnny I--
Blood began to drip from Jimophy's nose as Rabid exhaled, who continued to calmly sip the rum. Thuggin hurriedly reached for a tissue from inside a trouser pocket. The silk white fabric soaking up a bucket of crimson before the tide relented, leaving a wake of deep red running down his neatly ironed beige shirt. Whispers from the corners of the bar were drawing attention as Thuggin's apprehension swelled like a balloon in his gut. The room began to spin as Rabid toyed with the commander's mind. Up became down, down became up. It was time to leave.
Johnny Rabid: You Jalaxaritkatusan's are such a mongrel race. I honesty don't know why I've put up with you idiots for so long. Now, get the fuck out of my sight.
Jimophy Thuggin: Rabid I--
Johnny Rabid: I said fuck off! Repetition leads to extinction. Understand?
Jimophy didn't reply. He simply nodded and left. Head bowed. Fearing for his life as a new sense of rage took over. The Harbinger was proving now to be perhaps more trouble than he was worth. Costly. Dangerous. Everything was going wrong. Everything was falling apart. Thuggin' had to fix this, somehow.
Jimpohy Thuggin: Thursday's missing. Please!
Jimophy stumbled to his knees. The bar cleared as a hand reached down and helped the old “Slovakian” to his feet. Suddenly his nausea subsided as a voice echoed out of the shadows and the smoke.
Jared Holmes: Help me.
Rabid snorted out a disapproving growl.
Johnny Rabid: You? No. I don't think so. We're done. I have no interest in being your babysitter any longer. Go wipe your own arse.
Jared Holmes: Someone has taken my wife, John. They have Kerry.
Johnny Rabid: Then go rescue her then. You're the Harbinger. Go fly in on your angel wings and do the impossible. That's your destiny isn't it? To walk upon water and save the universe? Go prove it, if you believe it. Go make the world believe.
Jimophy Thuggin: Rabid.
Johnny Rabid: Maybe on the third day, after you and your bride have risen from your graves, they'll make Thursday a holy day. No red meat. Just fish. I like the irony of that.
Jared exhaled. Every ounce of his interior screamed in absolute rage. But he contained it. Caged it within arteries that were like fire, and blood that was as cold as December ice. Jared simply stood and held onto Thuggin as Rabid refused to turn around. His back turned on a world he had helped to create.
Jared Holmes: I won't apologize to you, John. Because you and I both know it won't mean anything. But I still need to say this. You and I, and Wade? We're the enemies of everyone. And if we don't remember that? Then they'll never let us forget it. They'll tear us apart, John. They'll crucify you. And me. And Wade. We either remind them of who we are. Or we'll be forgotten. I can't make you turn around. I cant make you help me.
Rabid said nothing.
Jared Holmes: Only you can do that.
Rabid straightened his tie and contemplated....having another rum. Jared and Thuggin' left. The door to the bar swung open with a dash of fury, then closed leaving Johnny alone to contemplate life in Havana. At least the weather would be nice. At they'd be safe. For a while.
For awhile.
* * * * * *
Back on the Southwest wing. The Laptop's monitor screens showed nothing of any great interest at first, just empty corridors and the odd, overweight Puerto Rican maid. As a beige world of dated carpets and molding green and gold paper settled down for the night, a strange visitor arrived. A mist began to billow, it was hugging the floor like a snake, inspecting the environment with a conspicuous controlled malice. Sniffing out people, places. Zeroing in on that hot topic aroma that Thursday called her guilty pleasure. There was two separate strands. Intertwined and interconnected. Two snakes in the tall grass. Hunting their prey.
Two silhouettes hurriedly gathered their gear and observed the screens for the last time.
Hunter S. Esterhase: Two strands? There's not supposed to be two.
Lyndon Ford: It doesn't matter. We won't be here when they arrive. We're to observe, remember?
Hunter S. Esterhase: Do the teams know? Do they have any idea?
Lyndon Ford: Of course not. You wanted to study rabid in his Natural habitat, didn't you? Don't grow a conscience now, “schizo”. We're the CIA. It's frowned upon. Lets go.
The agents departed, making a salute and silent gestures to the two teams of Agents that remained, armed with machine guns and years of training. None of that mattered however in the end. The mist reached them as time seemed to slow and stop. And out of that incomprehensible wave of confusion emerged two figures, a man and a woman. Unblemished by the chaos and gunfire that had surrounded them. They untied Thursday and silently delivered her home.
They were fixing things. For now. As the cameras rolled and captured...
Static.
FIN.