Post by David Sanchez on Jan 27, 2017 7:13:37 GMT -5
X: K e l e v r a.
The unlucky are nothing more than a frame of reference for the lucky. You are unlucky, so I may know that I am the opposite. Unfortunately the lucky party never realises they are lucky until it's too late. Take yourself for instance; yesterday you were better off than you are today, but it took today for you to realise it. Now though, today has arrived and it's too late. You see? People are never happy with what they have. They want only what they had, or what someone else has.
The Rabbi (Lucky Number Slevin)
G o o d D o g
The lizard did not appear to notice it had a passenger. It went about its business of killing and copulating, and it rode along. It was very interesting to be onboard when the lizard killed one of the littler ones. As an experiment, it moved into one of the smaller ones. Being in the one that killed was far more fun, but not enough to lead to any real purposeful ideas. Being in the one that died was still very interesting and it did lead it to some ideas, but not very happy ones. It enjoyed these new experiences for a while. But although it could feel their simple emotions; they never got beyond confusion.They still didn’t notice it,didn’t have any idea that... - Well, they just didn’t have any idea.
L O S T ?
“Friends - David. Who needs them?”
His voice was making me feel nauseous.
Taunting me in this eternal blink.
Dune’s door was right in front of me.
He’d be asleep. I was sure of it.
“I do Jack, everybody does these days.”
The hunting knife in my hand glistened under the starry sky.
It’s handle was cold to the touch, so cold I wished I’d wore gloves.
The curved, nine inch blade was shiny; hypnotic even.
I was shaking so hard that the bush rustled even as I stood perfectly still.
“Plenty of fish David. You’d be wise to remember that.”
Thump..
Thump..
What was he talking about?
I guess it didn’t matter.
Thump..
Thump..
I was getting a little tired of the heartbeat now.
It was time to end it.
Time to make him go away.
Thump..
Thump..
“Knock, knock Daniel. It’s time to finally..”
Thump..
Thump..
“Let me in.”
Thump..
Thump..
L O S T ?
I don’t think this whole plan could have come together on a worse evening. It was a muggy night, and the rain had only ceased to pour around an hour ago. Ultimately meaning that my stylish black burglar’s attire was soaked through to the point that it clung to my skin like a second layer of body hair. I hadn’t quite managed to grab ahold of anything that even remotely resembled sanity for a fortnight now; the voice had been there day and night; even when I wore my mask it echoed like a death-cry into the Winter moon. This unassuming bush had been my haunt for the last three nights. Three long, frosty nights that I had spent watching him. Learning his every move, jotting down every subtle nuance. Waiting for the moment that I feared would never come. That opportunity to catch him with his proverbial pants down; defenceless and ripe for the picking like low-hanging fruit. Finally though, tonight was the night. The moon was hungry, and the stars had aligned finally. I would disappoint neither. Yet, I remained still. Shrouded in shrubs and sheer anticipation as I felt his hand guide mine in a slashing motion through the humid atmosphere in front of me.
Daniel was a man of many habits, but very few visitors. This is what had let me into thinking that here was the best place to strike. While he slept at home, unsuspecting and comfortable in his tacky tartan pyjama bottoms. His routine didn’t vary all too much and over the last few nights I’d decided it was best practice for me to strike at night; between eleven and midnight. This had been the time he embraced the pillow. We would enter as Dune slept, we would cut his throat without anybody knowing we had even been there. That was the plan - to smother his face into the pillow before driving the hunting knife through the feathers and the fabrics, jabbing into his face and gouging at the organs before hearing him whimper his final breaths before I opened his jugular like a hotdog bun and sent him on to the other-side. Where, unfortunately for Dune. The Jackal was waiting to welcome him with open arms and a sickening smile that the former champion would never forget.
For a further fifteen minutes I waited until finally at eleven forty-five the upstairs landing light went out and I made my move out of the bush and onto the shadowy pathway which led to his front door. The patterned bricks felt right under my footing after spending so long in the soil that I feared my boots would soon become rooted to the spot. It was a well-kept garden; neat and symmetrical on either side of the monoblocked path I crept along. Closer, and closer still the door grew to me. Wit As I jammed the hardened steel blade behind the first hinge, applying pressure to my wrist in order to pivot the screws out of the affixed wall I felt the hair prickle up on the back of my neck with excitement and fear in equal quantities. The first fastening came out easily enough with minimal noise. Resulting in a mild debris of wood-chippings and loose fixtures to fall to the cold, concrete path.
It was only when I jammed the pointed hunting knife into the second, and now load-bearing hinge that I knew it was over. I fumbled for a moment. My first instinct was to simply assume the position of a concerned friend who hadn’t heard from Daniel in a long time. But, immediately the Jackal let me know this was not the way things would be by refusing to relinquish my grip on the knife. He was right to do so, although I didn’t know it at the time. For a solid thirty seconds I fought to regain control but found no joy. After a short while The Jackal not only refused to let me hide the blade but raised my arm so that the folded steel glimmered under the porch light. Safe to say I wasn’t exactly fitting the description of your average door-to-door salesman. In this moment I stood frozen in an unwilling attack stance, only brought back to this day and age by the most unsettling of sounds.
“WOOOF!”
That fucking dog. How could I have forgotten about the fucking dog?
“WOOOF! WOOOF!”
It was too late to change tactics now. For Jack anyway, personally I still think my silver tongue could have wormed us out of this predicament but it would seem that my passenger didn’t have this same confidence in my abilities. The landing light was shining once more now. I could hear his footsteps from somewhere, they were drawing ever-closer; but not from where you’d think. The Jackal and I both knew the stealthy approach was lost now, and so I gripped the handle of the knife tightly in my left hand as I lunged forwards and kicked the door from its remaining hinge to it’s final resting place upon the welcoming mat just inside Dune’s house, surrounded by dust, plasterboard and drywall. The earth stood still for a moment and my heart skipped three beats; the waiting was killing me. Finally the dust settled and a figure stood before me. Wasting no time to exchange pleasantries with an old friend I swooped forwards; the knife plunging into what I thought was his kidney.
“Welcome. Dave! Long time, no see.”
He punctuated my name with a right fist that sent me crashing to floor; I could already taste the blood by the time I was halfway there. I don’t know why I wasn’t ready for this, in every eventual scenario that I’d played through in my mind Daniel had gotten his licks in, they just hadn’t came quite so suddenly. Was I really being knocked out before I’d even stepped across the thresh? Why was this even surprising? I’d brought my trusted knife, and completely overlooked that this was in fact, a gunfight. Dune wasn’t some old-timer in need of being euthanized, I could see that now. But why hadn’t Jack shown me this already? My lights were dimming now. Unconsciousness was calling me with her sweet siren song, and I would go to her as always, because I’m a sucker for a chick with a solid set of pipes.
“Good dog.”
------
-------
--------
L O S T ?
--------
-------
------
The ringing in my ears refused to subside. No matter how many weighted blinks I tried, no matter the effort I applied into seeing what was happening in front of me. Nothing appeared. Just that phantom ringing in my eardrums and the lingering echo of that stupid fucking dog and it’s relentless barking. He had thanked the dog, that was the last thing I’d heard. When I woke up though there was no canines in sight; only Dune. He smiled at me, or as close as he could manage to a smile with the mouthpiece he sported like an extra organ. Neither his happiness or the damp tool-shed he’d dragged me into could shake this feeling in my gut though. Why hadn’t Jack warned me that Daniel was expecting me? Furthermore, why hadn’t I thought that someone might warn the big lug that I was acting strange. I could feel the lecture coming before he even lowered his eyes and looked into mine. He wasn’t mad, in truth he looked betrayed. This fact though is semantics because however he felt, I was damn sure going to hear about it. Dizzied, I stumbled up to my feet and found the ice-pack he’d placed on the floor next to me. Sinking into the structure’s wooden wall as I pressed the cold compress to my jaw and immediately felt the throbbing subside.
“Glass of water?”
For a man who’d almost been stabbed to a fate worse than death he was being awfully courteous. It was strange; as was the way he looked at me. I couldn’t help but shake the feeling that he was mocking me somehow. - That this whole ordeal had just been a circus in suspended animation for the private amusement of Jack and Dan. I felt dirty. This must’ve been how the pawn pieces in a game of chess felt. Used - sacrificed willingly for the betterment of others. He was still in great shape, I hadn’t noticed this through the binoculars. Nor had Jack let on. In truth, I hadn’t really kept up with what Dan was doing these days. Such are my shortcomings in the social department. Rare is the day that I take an interest in the lives of the talking heads around me. I’m much too busy doing me. He wasn’t Dune to me now; but he didn’t look like a Daniel in this moment either. So, I decided on Dan. What had Dan said again? My face was fucking killing me. Something about water? Was I really in a fucking tool shed right now?
“Nah, I’m good Dan, thanks all the same.”
I was parched but maybe I’d need to keep what little buzz I had left undiluted for now, I didn’t know how long this was going to take and I’d only stuffed enough methadone into my system to see me through a quick, neat kill and a leisurely drive to the docks and into the water with dear old Dan’s corpse riding shotgun. He smiled at me sympathetically for a minute before he next spoke. It was never me who made eye contact though; I could feel Jack’s gaze meeting his at every opportunity. Sure, it was me but I wasn’t in the driver’s seat for much longer. I could feels the Jackal clawing at the steering wheel, and I couldn’t hold him off for much longer. The air was getting thick, as it always did when he was about to eat me alive. Something that Dan knew only too well because now - he wasn’t smiling. Now - he was on top of me. His hands wrapped around my throat as he started roaring in my face.
“Come out here Jack! Come out here and face me yourself!”
Why would he possibly do such a thing when he had a perfectly good conduit right here? He certainly never did for as long as he could call Dune’s husk his home; and seldom did he allow himself to be seen during his time with Sarah Black. I was turning purple now, and the last of my oxygen reserves were causing the little lights in my head to flicker on and off with a popping noise not unlike bubble-wrap. I was ready to die years ago, if I’m honest, but not anymore. It’s not like she would be there waiting on the other-side. No, Sam was in the Jackal’s realm; and there she would stay until he was done with me. A lot can be said for a man who knows his own strength. Dune dismounts me mere seconds before I slip away, leaving me to cough and splutter on the oil-stained concrete floor of this makeshift sheol. David Sanchez had left the building. I seemed to float in the air weightless and watching on as I coughed my lungs up; on my knees upon the dirty ground.
As I cheated death though, so too did I take up arms, snatching a rogue screwdriver from just behind a roll of chicken wire. Not even seconds seem to pass before my retaliation came. As Dune composed himself, I struck like a snake. Stabbing the screwdriver straight through his left shoe and foot alike so that it became lodged there without my assistance. Immediately the blood began to pour out of the wound, pooling around his foot as he struggled to keep his balance. Jack laughed, and my shell obeyed - echoing his sentiments for Dan to hear before jovially springing up to my feet. I was back inside now, but this was not what control felt like. No, I could only watch on. A horrified passenger as he steered us deeper and deeper; down towards the bottom of the barrel. He sounded even more grim with my voice than I did:
“Daniel, I’ve been meaning to ask you something for a while now, but I’ve simply never found the right time. I guess this is as good as we’re going to get.”
Lashing out - he tried to swipe his fists at me, but this was not me on my best day. This was the Jackal on my best day. These attempts to defend himself were noted with a sinister smile from Jack, and nothing but abject paralysis from myself. He falls to the floor now, finally. Starting to tend to his impalement through gritted teeth and hurled obscenities. Now, it didn’t matter to Dune who I was; he cursed Jack and I alike. With every twist of the Philips-head screwdriver though; every little movement - the steel is pushed into nerve endings and tendons; causing him to cry out in pain. With every scream, the jackal licked his lips and comforted himself by bringing about the imagery of a young boy bouncing slightly as his body ceased to fall from a memory that I knew wasn’t my own. I blinked once, heavily. The sight of Christian Malignaggi’s lifeless, infant body buffering a little as I stared into Dune’s eyes and heard the Jackal’s words escape my lips.
“Which sound did you prefer: the boy’s body splatting against the concrete? Or Joseph’s howling cries in the thereafter?”
This Jackal of mine was laughing like a Hyena now. Daniel had fallen tonight; his only mistake was feeling sorry enough for me that he didn’t kill me when he had the chance. I shift back into the driver’s seat and Jack pats me on the back smugly. I swear I could smell her perfume for the briefest of moments, more mind-games most likely. Just like the boy. I had to admit that as I stood over him; this feeling which swept across me was soothing for a second. Even here among the scrap metal, between a table-saw and a dampened stack of old pay per-view standees which showed Dune posing with the WCF World Championship across from a series of varied opponents like Deuce, Thomas and even the man of the hour himself; Joseph.
“Fuck you Jack... Dave, you’ve got to fight this! You don’t want whatever he promised you...”
How cute. He was trying to speak to me as an equal now. I guess though, if anybody in this big wide-world of ours was going to understand what it was that I’d been going through, then this was indeed the guy. It was a noble gesture; ignoring the Jackal and appealing to my smothered subconscious. But it was an exercise in futility all the same. Dan gripped both hands around the screwdriver now and ripped it out of his foot; fainting immediately into an oil spot on the floor as the blood now poured with such force that I had to re-adjust my position to prevent staining my cobalt loafers crimson. I couldn’t take my eyes off the cardboard likeness he’d passed out beside. Joey Flash, in all of his shit-eating glory stared back at me; hopelessly unaware that the first shots had already been fired in a war he was all too sure he’d already won.
My phone rings now, well it vibrates against my thigh anyway until I can remove it from the pocket of my black jeans. Checking the screen with a smile I hit the little green answer button and lift the handset to my ear. I cast a last look down at the body of Dune in front of my feet and share a smile with my now-silent passenger. Answering the call in a tone of monotonous diligence I approach the standee of Malignaggi and swipe the blood-soaked screwdriver from the ground; gouging it into both of Joey’s eyes as I speak a few choice words and allow the scene to dissolve around me.
“The first has fallen. Move on my position. Take him in.”
B a d D o g
Good ole’ Frankie...
He’s been in the family for years.
Every family’s got a fucking Frankie don’t they? A dog that’s just kinda always there. Maybe yours was called Ben, Fido or Murphy, Or something classic like Smudge perhaps; but mine was a dopey as shit Beagle called Frankie. I swear that dog would’ve outlived us all had things went differently.
"Hello Frank. I don’t think we’ve ever been formally introduced. David Sanchez - Mayor of Chicago, future of this company and the person to whom the task of ending your miserable career has fallen. I’d like to sit here and tell you it’s a pleasure - but as a politician I prefer my lies much more veiled and a little less blunt. Don’t take it personally though Frank, being fed to me’s the in-thing right now. I mean it’s pretty much the next best thing to being fed directly to Joey Flash. You get to die a hero’s death at least; and it’s no less than you deserve. I bet you probably don’t think this of me, but until recently I was actually a fan of Mr. FPV. I know right? I bet you didn’t see that one coming but just like Jay Omega before he blew his fucking brains out in a flurry of estrogen and rage - you too, were a guilty pleasure of mine Frankie old boy. Now though? I’m afraid you’re just that frog-faced cunt that follows Kevin Bishop about, preaching betterment and feeling up the rookies in a barn out in buttfuck nowhere. I’ve never understood the Brotherhood and nor do I desire to; some things in life should be left as mysteries. Unanswered questions for future generations to ponder.
Up until recently, I didn’t mind telling people that I followed your career. Three months ago, I would’ve chewed my arm off to get this match; but now it doesn’t even matter; I’ve molested myself with both hands - no need for your shitty rub anymore I’m afraid. So you might as well stick to sodomizing the twink army and farming crops or whatever you fucking weirdos get up to when Kevin’s playing kingpin in the indies. Getting slapped around by a one-hundred and twenty pound woman named Celeste and retards like Alex Richards; whilst Bonnie Blue plays Chopsticks on the world’s smallest violin. I’m guessing this is when you get left to man the fort? That guardian at the gates role I suppose there’s worse jobs. At least there’s a little potential in that family of nameless, perpetual mid-or-lower-carders that leader of your’s is building. A swarm of flies; is still a swarm of flies at the end of the day though Frankie- and I don’t know about you but I’m not exactly shitting my pants when I spray bug killer on a clusterfuck of flies. I’m usually just covering my mouth and praying I don’t inhale the fallout.
My point is this: It doesn’t matter how many of these little people you wrap that wing around and try to help Frank. You’re still going to be the odd one out - we’re still going to expect more out of you, and eventually you’re going to want more too. I’ve been paying attention; you want belts Frankie, you’ve collected them your entire career and you’ve got yourself quite the little trophy cabinet. that list of accomplishments grows and grows, even now when we see nothing but mediocrity as our eyes summarise your career; confining it into a forever-home in the back of the minds of smarks and fanboys, as well as their dwindling, dated, VHS archives where it will ultimately be recorded over in favour of thirteen minutes of scrambled pornography."
She had the mutt all the way through college. When we moved in together, it was part and parcel that he came along. I’ve always been more of a cat person myself. I’ve said this before; my very presence makes canines uneasy. They bark and growl at me for no reason. Cats on the other hand seem to adore me. As canine’s went; Beagles had to be among the worst in my opinion - they relied heavily on their noses. Anything that could identify me as a drug-user and a drinker without the use of their eyes was as natural of an enemy to me as a hungover morning without painkillers.
Anyway, so we got this little suburban nightmare house with a white picket fence in Santa Monica. It was gaudy, and it was awful. But times were tough. The dog had run of the fucking house there, though - all of this shit was way the fuck back. Before California, before Kayden. I think I was just back from Japan for the second time, so two-thousand and six maybe? Shit I dunno. anyway. Frankie, the aforementioned dog; not the over-glorified douchebag, he slept on a kingsize bed in one of the spare bedrooms. Although with the racket that little bastard’s snoring made, you’d be forgiven for thinking that he was a snoozing trucker.
I don’t think it was until the year after that I really spent any time with the creature. Habits have a way of taking you out of the moment and planting you, well - wherever the hell you wanted to be at that particular time. I’d just came off my Tramadol Hydrochloride fix and moved onto Oxycontin with a Gabapentin precursor to grease the wheels. In truth, I’d never really spent any time around dogs, so the few weeks that Sam went to go and stay with her sister in England, leaving me with the mongrel and the mindstate to barely look after myself let alone anything else - were some of the most revealing moments of my entire adulthood.
“How does it feel Frankie? A bit too Busted - Year 3000? A bit too… Bizarre-o-land? You’ve crash-landed in a time where the people you know are now seldom acknowledged; second-tier talent to that of today - yourself included. These days you’re basically a charm bead for us new kids in town to wear around on our friends forever bracelets. Frankly, I’m starting to feel a little excluded that I haven’t got one yet- hence this match. I say it’s about respect, but really it’s just a complete lie - I don’t want your respect; but I’ll damn sure make you respect me. Not because I need your validation, but because I’m a bored senseless, mid-thirties athlete looking for Schadenfraude and you just so happened to look miserable as fuck at the right time.
This isn’t some kind of calling Frank; it’s not your second chance to shine bright in this chandelier of fugazi diamonds we call a roster. This is the end for you; and I’m afraid we’re not friends so you don’t get the Doors song reference, oh fuck no. You get the Bitter End that freaky ladyboy motherfucker in Placebo was singing about. You can’t really complain though, can you? It’s been one hell of a run you had going for yourself here. You know before we came in and made you look as impressive as a rabbit among hares, in a field full of fucks that I don’t give. You were just running around wearing a belt pretty much permanently at one point, shit. Right up until Sebastian Knight a few weeks ago really. That’s gotta sting. Then Jared too? Are you on drugs or something son? Do you know what year it is? Frankie’s over there looking like he just woke up and realized the world fucking evolved again without him.
You know that little moment that you see a man’s soul leave his body? Like the dude just properly gives-the-fuck- up. He’s on the floor crying and praying, that stupid cliche shit? That’s exactly what I’m looking for when we do this thing on Sunday son. I’m going to beat you so badly they’ll have to make a subcategory for snuff porn on the WCF Network and add only this fucking match to it. I’m not going to lie. I’m an honest man when you lift the veil and read between the minds. Frankie, if I was you right now I’d be taking out - what is it the kids are saying? - Life insurance for days. Also while we’re talking health: some gentle insertions could help ease this defloration a little for both of us. So, be a doll and try applying a generous amount of vaseline with one finger in a semi-circular fashion to the hole a few times a day for me until the weekend.
This is apparently what trying to be a nice, helpful guy gets you around here though. Made to compete in a ladder match against the very person you were trying to be charitable towards? What kind of Schaudenfraude is this? It’s simply not enjoyable when the victim puts himself beneath your boot. Seth needs to learn to read my signals better. This wasn’t an I want to fight him thing, like with Eric Price. Fuck no, this was an I’m going to break him thing, like with Gemini Battle. At least FPV sells tickets, I guess maybe he’ll call a mall-cop or two when I start placing your teeth on the ring steps. I just hope they can get there before I kick you into the nightmares of every dentist who ever existed. Relegated from the Ritz to the rubble with the rest of your fuckbucket family. You can thank the booker for this one Frank, I was just going to choke you out, stroke it for a little and walk the fuck away. But now? Now that there’s a spotlight on us, shit. I’m going to have to put you down.”
Did you know that a dog will only survive for so long on it’s own accord before it ultimately goes to that big, golden kennel in the sky? It’s not really a secret Frank, but not all dogs go to heaven, and to add to that - not all dogs deserve to. My Frankie, well Sam’s Frankie, but for this purpose we’ll call him mine, unfortunately falls into just this category; not unlike yourself. You see, I don’t know what you know about me; where I’ve been and what it is that makes David Sanchez tick so allow me to provide the context needed to understand why I went on to do what I did. I am a drug addict, I make bad decisions and I suffer from a less than, shall we say sociable demeanour? My ideal day is one spent shooting a healthy amount into my favourite vein in a dark, cool room away from the world - so, when Samantha announced this little overseas vacation - her forbidding of my vices not exactly a secret - it was safe to say my thoughts didn’t exactly wander into the territory of canine care straight out of the gate.
The Beagle though man… he wasn’t even a purebred, thankfully. She cried enough over the fucking mongrel, I hate to imagine the tears if he was a pedigree. Anyway, the yappy little shit barked relentlessly for the first three days she was in Chelsea, and as a direct result spent that time locked in the utility room. Admittedly this could have had something to do with the fact that I completely forgot he existed on day four. My time being better spent swallowing prescription medications like Skittles in-between injections, watching daytime television with the curtains drawn and occasionally entertaining some of my junkie friends in what I’d come to call communal vegetation sessions. Meanwhile managing to string enough words together to make a daily phone call to the doctor and secure a sick note to slap on the desk of Surge; my then-booker, to cover these absences. Everything was going swimmingly. I was a man enjoying his freedom, my final freedom as it would happen before she made an honest man out of me.
It was around halfway through the second week of her trip that things took a turn for the worse. I woke up at my usual hour in lieu of what I’d put into my body the previous evening and crawled the length of the living room floor; weaving the fallen remnants of junk and junkie alike as I pulled myself across the laminate flooring. In search of whatever was making the horrible scratching and whining noise I’d been hearing in place of birds chirping. Imagine my horror when after pulling myself through to the kitchen and up to my feet with the utility room door handle I was met with sharp incisors around my wrist, piercing into my forearm like a knife through hot butter. As if it wasn’t going to be hard enough explaining the track-marks to human resources when I went back to active competition, I’d now have to lie my way out of how exactly I happened to receive a bite mark on my arm too. Safe to say the hungry little bastard didn’t have ahold of me for very long. Frankie snarled and growled, swinging from my wrist with his legs dangling a little above the kitchen floor tiles. Again though, this was brought to a very sudden and immediate halt; replaced with a yelp and then a whine as I grabbed the closest object to me - a frying pan, and unleashed the beast across the top of this mutt’s dome.
“Frankie, there’s a lot that’s left to be desired when we look into your past - which, to keep things relevant I’ve been trying not to do so I don’t end up making the silly mistake of thinking you actually matter. I mean, it’s like for every great victory; there’s a crippling defeat right around the corner in the history of Mr. FPV. In terms of titles held compared to years spent in the locker room it would be simple to surmise you as some sort of machine. A guy who never stops fighting. “Sorry mom, can’t come to dinner; too much winning.” But, sadly when we look a little closer at your many title reigns here - who they’ve been won from and to whom they have been lost - that’s when some questions start to spring from starry eyed onlookers. One step forward, two steps back is pretty much the dance you’ve been doing here since day one. So it doesn’t exactly scream out surprise when you recently went from being crowned Television Champion of the Year, to losing that very strap to some fruit named Sebastian in a matter of weeks. That’s kind of your thing really, isn’t it? What is that? Even a self-saboteur could admit he was a dab-hand at sabotage but you? You just run around with your head in the sand. Safe in the knowledge that Father Seth will see fit to reward your obedience in helping get another rookie over with yet another pointless reign with a worthless belt, except this time… well, shit. You’re running out of options.
Personally I’d have deepthroated a shotgun barrel and welcomed buckshot as my money shot the minute I tapped out to that retard Tek. But... yet, here you are now. In front of me in twenty-seventeen. Still looking for that opportunity to get back that which, for some reason - you still seem to think you deserve. The world doesn’t wait for Frank Paddy Venable, nor does it turn a blind eye to the changing of the tide. So now you’re ready to step up and take a swing? Well I’m sorry buddy, we don’t need you anymore. You’ve simply expired your welcome it would seem. At least that’s how it looks to me, but I’m just a simple savage, what would I know? From my perspective it looks like you’ve bombed, like you’ve started that last stage in the life cycle of a professional wrestler, or a domestic housepet - Over-familiarization. I’m sick of looking at those beady little eyes Frankie, and now it would seem that Seth finally is too - either that or he thinks you actually have a chance on Sunday. But, fuck even he’s not that blind. Then again this is the guy who has made you World Champion, So, take that however you want it.. Fuck wait, you’ve held the tenth most titles ever in WCF history right? That’s fucking retarded. I’m talking tongue in plug-socket retarded. It’s time to get reckoned for your gluttony, you weird looking little cunt. Can you smell it in the air? That’s the aroma of inevitability my friend. Go on, fill your lungs friendo! No breaths in life matter more than those taken just before death.”
“Are you familiar with the term: Kelevra, Frank? Of course you’re not. Allow me to educate and awe you with a little culture; a rare treat in a life of Kevin Bishop philosophies and repressed Waylon Cash flashbacks. It’s a Yiddish term that I’d forgotten about until a few weeks ago. I was visiting Joey and Al in New York for a light lunch and quick chat. All the Jews man, they brought it crashing back to me and I couldn’t think of anybody more fitting than you to share it with. It’s a term which loosely translated means: bad dog, see that’s not as bad as you thought it was going to be right? Wrong. nothing Arnold Rothstein ever brought about was quite so simple. See Arnie was a gambling man. Any bet you could make; this man would take. But, like most addicts he suffered his losses just as much as he hit those more talked about highs. This little word was one he first used on a track dog he owned called Starling in nineteen twenty-one; and when he said it, he wasn’t just calling the dog bad, fuck no - that word; Kelevra - to his meaning was a condemnation. You see, for seven months, Starling could do no wrong. Rothstein would bet tens of thousands on this pooch every single time it left the gate, and up until the tenth of November, he was never let down. It was during this race though; the Greyhound’s fifteenth running. That the pooch took a fall, and well - the rest is history really. Two burly Jews threw the dog in a burlap sack and drowned it in Manhattan Bay on his order. The dog removed from existence before it could cost him anymore money. This guy was ruthlessly clever, though; he’d only lost three thousand dollars on this race. A teardrop in the ocean compared to the surplus of three million he’d already made from the canine cash-cow. I’m rambling a little here though aren’t I? Sorry I tend to gush sometimes.The point is very simple here Frank… you’re not winning anymore. Kelevra. --- Frank, it’s time to get in the bag.”
Funnily enough, you know all the shit and aggravation I got from Sam when she came back from England expecting to find her beloved Beagle waiting patiently? It was fleeting. I buried the mongrel in the back yard, bought her a Husky named Alaska, and poor Frankie with the frying-pan forced skull fracture was never spoken of again. Left to decompose. Repurposed as lawn fertilizer until I could get around to building a patio. There’s a lesson here folks, and if you missed it Frank then just save me the elbow grease and start digging yourself a hole in which to finally roll over and die.
#EndCredits
When the blood dries in my veins
And my, heart feels no more pain
I know, I'll be on my way
To heaven's door
Good afternoon my esteemed readers. Today, I write this blog entry not from the comfort of my own home - that peaceful palace of plush luxury. No, today I write to you from my office in City Hollow; my time now split to the point of splintering between professional wrestling, personal gain and keeping Chicago prosperous. It’s not an easy life, I’m not going to lie; but then again it’s always said that it’s no easy task being the King and it’s amongst this monarchy I now find my name being mentioned.
Corey Black’s Thirteen has been, bloomed and died like a Spring flower in the middle of Winter, not to be seen again until October where apparently I have a date with one Gemini Battle. How redundant it is challenging the man who ended your mortal existence aside, I must confess I’m rather looking forward to this encounter but live in fear that my hopeful suspense is going to result in the same itch I get from chasing the dragon all of these years.
Nothing after-all is ever as good as the first time, and I’m sure scribbling out this stain on the pages of our industry’s history for a second time will only leave me hungry for more. Like seventy-five milligrams trying to feed a whole-hypodermic habit. I won’t waste anybody’s time beating around the bush where this challenge is concerned; everybody who knows me already knows that I can’t leave a job half-done.
So without further delay or dicking around, I’m happy to announce that on the thirteenth of October I will have no problem in being your Lazarus effect before I bury you all over again. This time beneath a pile of broken dreams and belated realisations that you were never worth mourning in the first place.
You can even pick the match type Casper. It is your second funeral at the end of the day Hopefully we can get through this one without Tommy boy’s roid-rage resulting in an innocent man being strangled out of misplaced anger and oppressed sexual frustration.
Moving swiftly on to the victory speech…
**Does a dance**
So with Thirteen now a thing of the past, so too has died the notion that a dried up reservoir of talent like John Borroughs could ever been held in the same regard as yours truly. Once again I promised, I performed and I prevailed. Kicking this relic to a time when talent was tertiary to which titty you fed from. I’m sorry I had to cut our match shorter than I’d have liked to John; but a man in my position shouldn’t be taking any unnecessary risks when the future's so bright for me that it burns the naked eye to behold.
Where does the future lead for you though John? That’s my burning question, shit it’s probably yours too. We fucked around trying to get this match for over a year, and now that it’s finally happened; you didn’t really gain anything from it, did you? It was all chase, and absolutely no catch what-so-ever in your case. At least you got a nifty new scar to brag about when you’re back to boring the cunt out of us on weekly commentary. At least now whenever I make my way to the ring I’ll get to look right into your eyes as you behind that desk where you belong and know the same thing as everybody else does. That I, David Sanchez - beat you in the middle of the ring;
One.
Two.
Three.
That’s going to sting to say the least; but you know where to find me - should you ever want to try again. I know Wade’s probably going to get the honour of your last match before you throw in the towel and finally accept that you can’t be top dog around these parts anymore but if not… then that should at least give you some time to settle your affairs. From me John, it’s goodbye for now, but it would be my pleasure to give you a rematch; just as soon as you earn it.
So, let’s just move on from the past now, and onto…
The past apparently.
Hello, FPV.
Frank. Patrick. Venable.
Grand Slam Winner?
Future Hall of Famer?
TV Champ of the Year?
Brotherhood Member?
Horrific Washout?
Only time will tell how we remember this once illustrious name in our industr.
So, anyway…
Frankie old buddy, old pal.
Frankie old buddy, old pal.
From what I gather you’re still a pretty well-liked guy around here. Your brother Vic was too if I remember correctly - that’s just good genetics if you ask me, but I’m rambling now. That’s cool, or at least it was before you sold your soul to Kevin Bishop in a bid to win a belt that neither matters, nor meets your needs. Think about it Frank; this is where you belong, wouldn’t you say? In the World Championship scene being mauled on a weekly basis by cunts like little old me?
Or would you still like to be in the goldfish bowl, holding your Television title and all the fleeting glory that entails, all-the-while sitting on your past-achievements and not really doing a whole lot else? The biggest fish, in the smallest tank at Seaworld. A moniker that you Frank, are all but doomed to die under.
You know the worst fucking thing about all of this, Frank? The be all to end all of this little dilemma we seem to have found ourselves in? My son was a flag-waving FPV fan before his passing. What can I say, he was five. Apparently being a good judge of character isn’t something you can pass through genetics because between yourself and that limp noodle Teo - my son Kayden had one of the worst tastes in who to give his have attention to that I’ve ever known.
Kids are naive though Frank. This is the same boy whose idea of a fun morning was spinning around on the spot for fifteen minutes then binge-watching those old animated Mortal Kombat cartoons and occasionally poking a girl with a stick. So try not to take this revelation as too much of compliment. I only bring it up because I wish he was still alive to witness the moment that dear old dad takes another of his beloved heroes and shows them for what they really are - and you Frank? Are nothing but an incubus to those you’ve seen yourself; a tribute act to the good-guys of years passed.
So, how will you approach this match at Rise Up? I mean it’s pretty to clear to everybody that whatever you’ve been trying to do as of late isn’t exactly working for you. I’ll give you a slight edge over me in that I’m not exactly a big fan of furniture based fight scenarios; and this ladder match concept is no different. Whatever happened to two guys just wrestling until it’s clear as day who the better man is? In adding this stipulation you’ve denied me the ability to simply prove myself as a superior fighter.
You're loss though Frankie-boy. I guess I'll just have to sink you to the bottom of the pond with the rest of the stepping stones I've scaled to get to where I am.