XIV: Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da.
Apr 9, 2017 3:15:53 GMT -5
John Rabid, "Iron Heart" Ethan King, and 4 more like this
Post by David Sanchez on Apr 9, 2017 3:15:53 GMT -5
XIV: Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da.
Life goes on.
- The Beatles.
Such Great Heights (I of II)
Life goes on.
- The Beatles.
Such Great Heights (I of II)
Friday, April 7th, 2017
Everest Eye Grand Opening:
Staff Only Briefing
Oculary/Observation Deck 1A
08:30 (Morning)
Everest Eye Grand Opening:
Staff Only Briefing
Oculary/Observation Deck 1A
08:30 (Morning)
“They’ve always held onto that infamous ‘Rome wasn’t built in a day’ expression; these real estate moguls and my fellow politician’s alike. To that - I say, but of course. Italians are a lazy people, as demonstrated by my former colleague and current drain on hospital resources - Joseph Malignaggi. These are the same people who let a tower in Pisa’s crooked architecture - an obvious failure in design, become a world famous landmark. Way to go Italy; talk about setting the bar low. No wonder so many of the greasy bastards emigrated here when they did. We might as well have put up a big sign.
I digress from my point of course, and that point is that in just four weeks - the Everest Eye has sprouted from ruins to reality, the rubble to the Ritz if you will; proving that if you put enough time, enough money and enough effort into anything - then what you can achieve is limitless. Though the doors will remain closed to the general public indefinitely and permanently, this truly is a day for Chicago to come together as one family and celebrate, rejoice even - as we take massive strides into the twenty-first century, leaving the rest of Illinois to inhale our carbon output as the two thousand nine hundred foot skyscraper is christened the tallest building on planet earth.”
They all clap like subordinate drones on my command; their hands synchronized effortlessly as I address them from the podium, center-stage in the oculory that fills the top two floors. My Everest brothers; Ethan King and Steven Singh, along with his assistant, Erica fill the cushioned seats behind me. Along the ruby curtain to keep them in view, but away from potential blame if and when this latest turd decided to grace the spinning blades of the fan. Those to whom I speak might as well have all worn the same face. It wasn’t a military operation as such, at least not yet, but you’d be forgiven for thinking it was. My rigorous selection criteria had been so specific that only males and females with no immediate family, perfect health and no religious affiliations had made the cut. Was this discrimination? Sure, but what wasn’t these days? It’s a fucked up world out there.
“Burj Khalifa, the Shanghai Tower, the Ping An Finance Center; all of these buildings are now just... buildings. Foreign eyesores that have no claim to being the tallest structure on earth. The One World Trade Center, and yes, even the Willis Tower down the road? Well, I’m sorry but they just don’t measure up. This right here, this building… my building, our building - is now the grandest design in America, the West and yes, in the whole wide-world. Plan your parties accordingly ladies and gentlemen; you’ve just became a part of history.
Whether you work down below in the server farms, up above in the Eye itself, or somewhere inbetween - all that matters is that you work for Everest, and more importantly - you work for the Mayor. When somebody asks you what it is that you do exactly, you will keep it vague and uninteresting, without ever actually letting on the specific duties that you carry out. You will embellish no details other than that we are wonderful company to work for with great promotion prospects and a decent, taxable income. You will tell nobody anything about the building’s layout, contents or other employees. Am I making myself clear?”
They respond as one, and without hesitation.
“Yes, very clear.”
I spend too long marvelling at their collective obedience and feel the room start to yearn for more of my sugared words; all complete lies of course but it’s amazing what people will believe when they’re properly motivated. Today was the first step in what was sure to be a lengthy crusade down a long and winding road riddled with speed-bumps and roundabouts - it was only fitting that my workforce get some kind of speech before the official opening ceremony scheduled for nine o’clock, which of course meant that soon - my pristine, shiny new building would become riddled with filthy paparazzi and public onlookers. In truth, I could already smell the disgusting jobsworth cunts filling the assembly hall sixty-seven floors below; or perhaps it was simply a side effect of over-familiarization with this sort of scum. Either way; as I stared out at the various technicians, engineers, scientists and miscellaneous employees, a sense of impending doom had already started to rise from the pit of my stomach, filling me with dread.
“Good. In that case, I’d like to take this moment to thank you all in advance for your assistance over the duration of the next calendar year, and assure you that the changes we make to not only the quality of life for those living in Chicago but also the landscape of the city in general are all entirely in the interest of the greater good. Speaking of changes though; I do have a few announcements to make.”
Three-hundred faces sink into worried looks in front of me, their eyes darting to the ground in a sullen fashion befitting of someone who has just been informed of a relative’s passing away. And still their expressions all match effortlessly, as though they were being operated by a puppet master - their facial muscles being tweaked by invisible strings. Change is a scary thing in a normal working environment; so I guess it’s perfectly reasonable for them to have displayed this kind of reaction on my revelation - unfortunately though, this communal depression and paranoia only serves to remind me of how fragile we are as humans; breakable to the point that even the slightest thing differing from life’s regularly scheduled programming can bring an entire society to its knees in tears. A muttering starts amongst the rabble; talk of contract terminations, decreases in pay and even some unflattering comments about my lack of moral fibre can be identified amongst the frenzy. Thinking on my feet; I continue on, hoping my actual announcements serve as an extinguishing agent to the garbage fire of speculation that has started to spread.
“First, I want you all to meet Miss Erin Fausse... Erin dear, take a bow and say hello to the nice people.”
From behind the curtain she walks, grazing against my shoulder as she passes to face the robotic crowd of yes-men and naysayers.
“Hello! Nice people.”
She seemed to speak directly to me from the ‘Hello!’ onwards. As though she were complimenting me on a rare stamp collection or a particularly pointed set of Elk antlers on a mount. I guess they were nice people, really. A lesser man might feel guilt, even shame for what was going to happen to them in time. But not me, I feel nothing but apathy as I gaze into their disgustingly blank faces and shudder to think what it would be like to live among them.
“... In addition to Erin, I would also so like to preemptively welcome Taylor Wright to the company. Although he can’t be here with us today due to a scheduling conflict, Taylor will be filling the currently vacant role of Assistant Operations Manager, working under myself and slightly above all of you.”
They don’t see the humor in this comment. Although Singh lets out a chuckle from behind me which Erica quickly tries to stifle with a cough.
“Geez, crack a fuckin’ smile guys and gals. We just broke a world record with this place. You all look like someone just kicked your dog.”
Still no humor was found, and I didn’t blame them really. They’d pretty much signed their lives away with this job; unknown to them. But I guess on some level a lot of them probably have some idea that this whole things as crooked as an Englishman’s smile. Still, in this day and age - you’ve gotta work to the pay bills and this gig was Last Chance Saloon to the majority of these bums. Ex-cons, runaways, AWOL soldiers… they all needed somewhere to go, something to do. And so, I open my doors to them and put them to use, taking them off the grid in the process without them ever knowing.
“Anyway…”
Just as I’m about to wrap up this lovely address, the doors swing open on the hinges and a barrage of flashes blind me with white-hot light. My knuckles rub into the sockets, making things worse before they get better. When finally I can see again it immediately makes sense. A balding, plump man struggles on the ground; restrained by two of my bulkier, blackshirt security chums. The camera lies in ruin next to him, having be stomped, smashed and obliterated entirely before its owner was even acknowledged. I had been clear about this kind of thing in my weekly briefing with the boys; thankfully.
“Show’s over folks. Back to work. Remember, a silent worker is a worker with worth to me. You’d do well to remember that, should anymore of these cocksucking reporters scuttle through the cracks like ‘roaches. Have a pleasant, productive day.”
They file out the door like cattle, ushered by security who have swarmed on the scene like a bear to honey. The last thing any of them see before they leave? The sickening crash of a baton being whipped against the fallen field-reporter’s skull as he lies face down on the ground. I would take no chances this time around, and I’d never know how much this victim of circumstance had seen, or heard. He would have to vanish like the others. But this time, I wanted to educate through my actions; hoping silently that the others would learn from this man’s fractured skull - the only lesson I ever needed them to know:
Nothing.
Gets.
Out.
Nothing.
Gets.
Out.
#ObLaDi
Mayor. D. Sanchez
Blog Entry #22
Wednesday, 13:05
5th April 2017
Good afternoon readers.
How are all we feeling today?
As shitty as I do?
Borderline Suicidal?
Staring hopefully at an unscrewed bottle of bleach just wondering if you could keep it down?
Good.
Now… I’m not normally the first guy to step in front of the public eye and vent my frustrations, but seriously. What the frigid fuck even was that shit? I get it Seth, you don’t like me. Unfortunately for you though, you can’t afford to bury me when you can’t even afford a spade... and right now between Jason O’Neal’s so-called reign as paper champion and Frank’s soon to become an asterisked footnote attempt to save the day; your finances aren’t going to be getting any better for the foreseeable future. So, why don’t we just skip the part where I scream conspiracy! Telling people how you fixed that match, put that incompetent official out there and smothered the flame of my career once more and just cut to the chase, shall we?
Explosion; as far as I’m concerned - never fucking happened. The Trilogy Cup? Never fucking happened. Apart from last month when I beat Kevin Bishop so badly he still thinks he’s somebody’s unwanted second stepchild. Vinnie Jones? I still don’t even know who this guy is and now he’s one of six people in my two years here who can claim to have a victory over me. Not to worry; I’m sure our paths will cross again someday Vincenzo, and when they do? All the beef on the Midnight Meat Train couldn’t save you from the beatdown I’m bringing your way. Like real-talk dude, that list? They’re going to have to print the fucker in braille, because I’m leaving that match with your eyes in my back pocket. All the best in the finals though! Personally I’ll be hoping the ring is struck by lightning in the sixth minute and you both perish but that’s just me; I tend to hold onto things.
I’m salty today, yes. Well done; perceptive bunch of cunts, aren’t you? See, it would seem that no matter how many times I brush up against that bastard brass ring; it slips a little farther from my grasp. First it was War in 2015, then Final Destination, and now the Trilogy Cup that was pretty much handed to me before the tournament even started. I mean seriously, the only thing about that entire sideshow that got even the slightest rise from my dick was the thought of sodomizing Teddy in the finals. I guess that’s a dream that’s going to go unfulfilled though; apparently he’s walking around the desert, probably in search of Dune so he can confirm that at one point he was actually destined for big things. Sorry Ted, but newsflash! - I keep Dune locked in a box inside my basement and charge people admission to see the big lug. Oh, and all you were ever destined to be is a midcard mainstay with a few half-echoed claims to fame. Not unlike our new champion!
Franky Fifty-Belts, over there with the ever-growing list of accomplishments that makes Jayson Price think twice about sitting back on his hands and achievements for fear of being overtaken in terms of shitty, transitional titles-held in times of talent shortages. Good lord where is Nathan von Liebert when you need him? One crucifixion doesn’t seem to have been enough to keep FPV down; proving not only that Jesus was a pussy, but also that Seth Lerch doesn’t care about the quality of his product anymore, and hasn’t for a long fucking time. Way to go though Frank, you used my rightful title shot to become a token reminder that shit which may have floated in your heyday, simply sinks to the bottom of the toilet in today’s world. I’ll give credit where it’s due though, buddy. You beat some bald guy in a suit, have a belt. Then again, I guess you never really committed to being either the Hunter or the Hunted, did you? So this whole dynamic probably fits you like a glove. You just fashioned your own role; the Whore.
So... how about that rematch you were apparently going to give me, huh? You know, when I recovered from that little boo-boo on my knee. A verbal contract of course, is not a binding thing in this day and age. But I thought you to be a man of your word Frank, a man of honor. While I hope you are though; I’m sure you know by now that I most certainly can claim to be neither of those things. A more honorable man might have stuck it out in the Trilogy Cup, or maybe challenged Jared or O’Neal to wager their own rightful stabs at glory, but that… well, that’s just not who I am, not what I’m about. I might not have a stake in the battle yet Frankie, but that doesn’t mean I’m out of the War. This little game we’re all playing is one which pays out more to patience than it does to pot-luck. My dye’s been cast already; and as you’ve probably gathered Frank... I’m far from fucking lucky.
This latest dark age of main event calibre athletes is just an illusion though; a trick of the eye. It’s not that we, (the real top contenders) don’t exist, no. - it’s that we’re all being booked in the same fucking soup-pot each and every week so that you dickheads can keep pretending you’re the coolest kids in school. I’m talking to you Jason O’Neal, Andre Holmes, Mikey Extreme... No more free-rides, no more easy matches and no more self-gratification. At least that was the plan anyway! So I email Seth on Monday morning; still raging about Explosion of course and less than politely request a match against one of the guys he deems to be a “top contender.”
Three fucking days Is wait to see who I’m booked against. Will it be Jared? Maybe Rabid…
Nope.
It’s Captain fuckin’ Cuntdrip and his wetsuit of doom.
Again.
Gee, thanks boss.
FML.
Kisses, Dave.
xx
Mayor. D. Sanchez
Blog Entry #22
Wednesday, 13:05
5th April 2017
Good afternoon readers.
How are all we feeling today?
As shitty as I do?
Borderline Suicidal?
Staring hopefully at an unscrewed bottle of bleach just wondering if you could keep it down?
Good.
Now… I’m not normally the first guy to step in front of the public eye and vent my frustrations, but seriously. What the frigid fuck even was that shit? I get it Seth, you don’t like me. Unfortunately for you though, you can’t afford to bury me when you can’t even afford a spade... and right now between Jason O’Neal’s so-called reign as paper champion and Frank’s soon to become an asterisked footnote attempt to save the day; your finances aren’t going to be getting any better for the foreseeable future. So, why don’t we just skip the part where I scream conspiracy! Telling people how you fixed that match, put that incompetent official out there and smothered the flame of my career once more and just cut to the chase, shall we?
Explosion; as far as I’m concerned - never fucking happened. The Trilogy Cup? Never fucking happened. Apart from last month when I beat Kevin Bishop so badly he still thinks he’s somebody’s unwanted second stepchild. Vinnie Jones? I still don’t even know who this guy is and now he’s one of six people in my two years here who can claim to have a victory over me. Not to worry; I’m sure our paths will cross again someday Vincenzo, and when they do? All the beef on the Midnight Meat Train couldn’t save you from the beatdown I’m bringing your way. Like real-talk dude, that list? They’re going to have to print the fucker in braille, because I’m leaving that match with your eyes in my back pocket. All the best in the finals though! Personally I’ll be hoping the ring is struck by lightning in the sixth minute and you both perish but that’s just me; I tend to hold onto things.
I’m salty today, yes. Well done; perceptive bunch of cunts, aren’t you? See, it would seem that no matter how many times I brush up against that bastard brass ring; it slips a little farther from my grasp. First it was War in 2015, then Final Destination, and now the Trilogy Cup that was pretty much handed to me before the tournament even started. I mean seriously, the only thing about that entire sideshow that got even the slightest rise from my dick was the thought of sodomizing Teddy in the finals. I guess that’s a dream that’s going to go unfulfilled though; apparently he’s walking around the desert, probably in search of Dune so he can confirm that at one point he was actually destined for big things. Sorry Ted, but newsflash! - I keep Dune locked in a box inside my basement and charge people admission to see the big lug. Oh, and all you were ever destined to be is a midcard mainstay with a few half-echoed claims to fame. Not unlike our new champion!
Franky Fifty-Belts, over there with the ever-growing list of accomplishments that makes Jayson Price think twice about sitting back on his hands and achievements for fear of being overtaken in terms of shitty, transitional titles-held in times of talent shortages. Good lord where is Nathan von Liebert when you need him? One crucifixion doesn’t seem to have been enough to keep FPV down; proving not only that Jesus was a pussy, but also that Seth Lerch doesn’t care about the quality of his product anymore, and hasn’t for a long fucking time. Way to go though Frank, you used my rightful title shot to become a token reminder that shit which may have floated in your heyday, simply sinks to the bottom of the toilet in today’s world. I’ll give credit where it’s due though, buddy. You beat some bald guy in a suit, have a belt. Then again, I guess you never really committed to being either the Hunter or the Hunted, did you? So this whole dynamic probably fits you like a glove. You just fashioned your own role; the Whore.
So... how about that rematch you were apparently going to give me, huh? You know, when I recovered from that little boo-boo on my knee. A verbal contract of course, is not a binding thing in this day and age. But I thought you to be a man of your word Frank, a man of honor. While I hope you are though; I’m sure you know by now that I most certainly can claim to be neither of those things. A more honorable man might have stuck it out in the Trilogy Cup, or maybe challenged Jared or O’Neal to wager their own rightful stabs at glory, but that… well, that’s just not who I am, not what I’m about. I might not have a stake in the battle yet Frankie, but that doesn’t mean I’m out of the War. This little game we’re all playing is one which pays out more to patience than it does to pot-luck. My dye’s been cast already; and as you’ve probably gathered Frank... I’m far from fucking lucky.
This latest dark age of main event calibre athletes is just an illusion though; a trick of the eye. It’s not that we, (the real top contenders) don’t exist, no. - it’s that we’re all being booked in the same fucking soup-pot each and every week so that you dickheads can keep pretending you’re the coolest kids in school. I’m talking to you Jason O’Neal, Andre Holmes, Mikey Extreme... No more free-rides, no more easy matches and no more self-gratification. At least that was the plan anyway! So I email Seth on Monday morning; still raging about Explosion of course and less than politely request a match against one of the guys he deems to be a “top contender.”
Three fucking days Is wait to see who I’m booked against. Will it be Jared? Maybe Rabid…
Nope.
It’s Captain fuckin’ Cuntdrip and his wetsuit of doom.
Again.
Gee, thanks boss.
FML.
Kisses, Dave.
xx
Tragic Magic:
Interviewing the Buried Man.
Angels fall to the floor...
Like they would if I was Captain.
Silver children, she roared.
I'm not the son of God.
*****
How the fuck could this be happening to me… again?
...
Shit.
Interviewing the Buried Man.
Angels fall to the floor...
Like they would if I was Captain.
Silver children, she roared.
I'm not the son of God.
*****
How the fuck could this be happening to me… again?
It couldn’t, could it?
Surely this was all a bad dream.
Time to wake up.
...
Shit.
*****
The room blinds me with a shameless polished brass and teal decor. It was strange, kind of funky in a way; like something you’d see in a nineties hip-hop video. The recording studio reminded me of simpler times; and as it so happened - here I was, face to face with a simple person. Hank Brown shuffles his notes and taps on the tiny microphone clipped to the inseam of his jacket’s breast pocket. I didn’t envy this man; sitting there in his tacky suit with a plethora of leading questions to phrase in a way that wouldn’t poke the proverbial bear.
Director: Ready guys, recording in three, two, one… we’re on.
This rigmarole never changed. I hated doing sit-down interviews but it was part and parcel with professional wrestling on this level. Most of what we do is pretty much posing and posturing; being a product instead of a personality. Hank sits up straight, looking right into the gulf between camera one and camera two while camera three focuses on me. The small, intimate studio has great sound; that’s the first thing I realize as he speaks. So good infact that I’ve already started thinking about using it for some Everest promos. As my mind wanders however, I notice Hank starts to form sentences; almost like a real boy.
Hank Brown: Good Afternoon and welcome to another installment of Hank Brown Presents! Today we’re coming to you live from Clearwater Recording Studios in Columbus, Ohio. My guest today is none other than Everest founding member - the Mayor of Chicago; David Sanchez.
David Sanchez: Thanks for having me Hank, as always the pleasure’s entirely yours.
Introductions handled, he shoots me a warm smile, thanking me silently for at least letting him get that far without cutting him off. What could I say; I guess I’ve matured in my acceptance of old-age. I think now of the last time I’d done this; a night where Hank fled my California estate after Sam had asked him some perverse, invasive questions he wasn’t prepared to answer. God I missed her sometimes. She’d looked magnificent that night. An emerald green cocktail dress that matched her eyes… oh, shit. He was talking again.
Hank Brown: No problem, I’m sure you’ve got a lot to get off your chest after the events that transpired last Sunday on Explosion?
David Sanchez: Well jeepers. I can hardly wait.
I lied and sighed simultaneously. Hoping that Hank noticed my blunt as a brick sarcasm.
Hank Brown: Let’s get started then, and just cut right to the chase. Last night you crashed and burned out of the Trilogy Cup after pretty much everybody worth their salt had you picked to win the whole tournament. What the hell happened out there?
David Sanchez: What happened Hank, is what always happens when people who aren’t meant to be more than an honorable mention start to become a talking point. What happened, Hank… is the same thing that’s been happening to me for as long as I’ve been competing in the WCF. Let me give you a few names: Adam Blake, Teo Del Sol, Jay Omega, Kevin Bishop, FPV and now Vinnie Jones. What do these guys all have in common?
Hank Brown: They all hold a victory over you?
irritatingly enough - that was true; but not exactly what I was going for.
David Sanchez: Yes, but no. You see, all these guys have been gifted a win against me by the powers that be; Seth and his near-sighted friends. Just look back at those matches. Every single time I get some momentum going, I get thrown under the proverbial double-decker bus so somebody else can get their fifteen minutes of fame. What happened last night is nothing new. Lerch has been digging my grave for as long as he’s been paying for my habit. Burying me over and over and over again, only for me to crawl out the grave every single time and come back twice as threatening to his visions for the future.
Hank Brown: Care to elaborate?
Of course I would.
David Sanchez: Teddy Blaze beat me in our first match, he lost every other match we ever had, in any company - yet still, when our feud was concluded; I’m working with Bates and some bisexual clown, while he’s pinning Fly for the Television Championship and getting more rub than a fourteen year-old’s dick.
Hank Brown: You went on to win the United States Championship out of that scenario though, and had a pretty successful reign right up until…
David Sanchez: Jay Omega! He beats me by count-out. Making both my reign, and the belt itself look like shit in the process. Omega of course goes on to win War in one of the more questionable decisions in recent years, while I’m promised Gravedigger but fed to Billy. Gee, thanks.
Hank Brown: That’s about the time you were released by the WCF, right?
David Sanchez: Exactly. See, people right now are pitching “Resurrection Man” as an ideal gimmick for that Pitbull-looking cunt, Jason O’Neal. What the fuck? I’ve been walking out of freshly dug graves, coming back from the dead since before this vanilla motherfucker could declare an income to the correct authorities. It’s my speciality - getting buried and getting back up again like nothing ever happened. However, I thought I made it clear when I came back that it wasn’t something I was prepared to do anymore. I guess Seth didn’t get the message.
Hank Brown: What message? He never replies to me either.
What message indeed Hank? What message indeed…
David Sanchez: He had me eat a pinfall in Hellimination from one of those disgusting, Zero Tolerance jobbers, so I unleashed the Dirty Epic during One and made the whole night about me, fucking it up for everyone else was just a bonus. Gemini Battle cost me a winning streak so he dined on steel-steps as his Last Supper; now he’s gay with the Devil or some shit. Every single time he buries me to put somebody else over it ends badly for everybody else within the kill radius. Take this week for example…
Hank Brown: Slam! Coming live tomorrow night from Columbus, Ohio where we’ll see my guest; David Sanchez taking on a man who was victorious last weekend on PPV, capturing both tag-team championships for himself - The CAPTAIN!
David Sanchez: Don’t expect a sixty-minute wrestling clinic folks. I haven’t been paid by the hour since I was sixteen years old...
Remember Dave, sell the fucking product.
David Sanchez: But! A statement has to be made after last weekend’s horrific results and I plan to make one. The fact that it’s The CAPTAIN - who can I just say: I was assured wouldn’t be a problem, by the Golden God himself before any of this ever even started - is not but a rare touch of good fortune. At least I get to try and hit two birds with one stone this week. I get to send a message to the top whole locker room, and at the same time I can put an end to this whole Cap’n Crook fiasco once and for all before Steven’s name is tarnished any further.
Hank Brown: They did have a pretty solid run; nothing to be ashamed of anyway…
David Sanchez: Nothing to be ashamed of? A grown man dressed up like a superhero is nothing to be ashamed of? I’m going to have to argue with you there Hank. Steven Singh is a fucking saint for spending the time he did caring for this special little guy, but the joke’s went on for too long and it’s time to put an end to this hollow dream of him being a double-champion. John Rabid, who I know will be watching this at some point has already broken the stalemate and gotten himself involved so it’s only retaliation on my part if you think about it. Nothing’s on the line anyway; unlike last week when you cost us our first belts as a unit. Nice going, friend; but if you really wanted my attention so badly then why didn’t you just call? My number hasn’t changed man.
Hank Brown: So are you saying we could be looking at a potential Singh/Sanchez versus Rabid/Cap match in the future?
David Sanchez: I didn’t want to busy myself with this gay shit but it’s looking more and more likely. What with Sebastian Knight being a fucking lost cause and drain on our resources, it’s starting to look a little empty in the Everest locker room. If I’ve gotta be the one to tell the retarded kid he’s too fucked up to go on Space Mountain, then shit; I’ll do it with a smile on my face but that’s up to Singh entirely. - If and when he wants my help. The merciless beating Cap gets on Slam might make a difference to that little lover’s quarrel in the long-term but that’s not my intent. No, this week I’m just a guy with a boombox in the air; on his knees outside a girl’s window. Only my boombox is the fate of a borderline handicapped, Asian man and there’s no windows to speak of. The message though, will be loud and clear.
Hank Brown: Who exactly are you sending a message to?
He made a very good point.
David Sanchez: Everybody; I guess. I’m pretty lost in the nether right now - thought about heading back over to UCI this week and cleaning house before that place crumbles into ruins like all the others. But what would that make me? World Champion of a tiny, insignificant brand. No better than the Howard Blacks and the Scarecrows of this world. Nope, it has to be the WCF World Championship, so I’m spilling The CAPTAIN’s blood for Seth, for FPV , for Jared Holmes and especially for that ridiculous, bald bitch - Jason O’Neal. A little reminder that while they may have the floor for the time-being… you never know what’s lurking around the next corner.
I smile an evil grin veiled in arrogance.
Hank Brown: You’re really on board that “Fuck Jason O’Neal” bandwagon, huh?
David Sanchez: Hank please… I was calling this guy a cunt back at One when he was just a scrub trolling Jayson Price on Twitter. People forget that opportunities like the one he got? Those fuckers don’t grow on trees. If he wants to prove he belongs up the top of the card permanently then let him earn his spot like everybody else did. Watch me make this inflated fuckstick look as shitty and tired as his whole Tony Montana idolizing routine. You’re a grown-ass man Jason, cocaine is for fratboys and supermodels. Come back to reality where you’re just another FORMER champion with nothing left to show for all those months of doing Seth’s laundry but a few more scars on your body and a few less years on your career.
Hank Brown: You heard it here folks. David Sanchez laying down the challenge to former WCF World Champion, Jason O’Neal.
David Sanchez: I wouldn’t get too excited. For one he looks like a pussy. And two; by now Seth’s probably got me pencilled in for a three-month feud with the Demon Wolf or some other jobber.
Hank Brown: Let’s get back to this week though. How are you preparing for your upcoming match with Cap? Any special training? Dietary adjustments?
David Sanchez: Honestly, I’m going to do exactly what I did two months ago before our first match; maybe even less. On that occasion I knocked his head off with a Medusa’s Touch pretty easily, so I don’t see why I’d need to cut out carbs or convert to Crossfit all of a sudden. We’ve already seen this match, and we already know the outcome. I’m not going to bust my ass in the gym when I can win without even breaking a sweat; who has that kind of time?
Hank Brown: Professional wrestlers do David, at least most of them.
David Sanchez: Metro-homos, all of them.
Hank Brown: Any final thoughts on the match at all then? Our five minutes is almost up.
Thank you Father Time. I guess I could rant for a moment or two…
David Sanchez: That’s a shame, I was enjoying myself, truly.
More lies, this was becoming a drag in itself.
Hank Brown: Wrap it up David, talk us out…
An open microphone? Oh Hank. I never knew you cared…
David Sanchez: That just seems like lazy hosting to me. Or lazy writing depending on which side of the wall you’re standing on… but, okay I’ll do your job for you. No worries old boy, put your feet-up for a minute…
I adjust my seat for the first time, shifting from relaxed to stiff. As though an extreme, immediate rigor-mortis had just set in this very second.
David Sanchez: Listen Cap… There’s nothing I can say to you now that you don’t already know. Last time when we met; the only thing you had going for you was a pretty decent tag-team partner. Now, your former partner is in my corner and all you’ve got is the off chance that someone from Pantheon might take pity on you enough to pull White Knight duty again. Well good luck with that buddy, but I hate to break it you… nobody in Pantheon likes you. Nobody in Pantheon cares if I break your neck. As long as the belts aren’t out of their reach - they don’t give a fuck about anything. Nobody is going to save you, son. Time to come back down from that high you’ve been on lately. The real world is waiting, and on Sunday you crash back down to it with a mighty thud... but ultimatey fade away with an inaudible, muffled whimper.
Director: Cut! That’s a wrap.
#ObLaDa
Mayor. D. Sanchez
Blog Entry #23
Saturday, 18:20
8th April 2017
Another day, another dollar.
6.7 million of the shiny little fuckers if one requires closure.
That’s the cost of the average dive in professional sports. Yes, I took one. Don’t be so fucking naive.
So that’s my income for last Sunday, what was yours?
Higher or lower?
Lmao.
Fuck yourself.
So, a man walks into a bar; straight up to the bartender - no foreplay, no bushes being beaten around this guy, nada. He just walks right up to the server and shoots the dickhead, right between the eyes. Seasoned or unseasoned. That’s a dick move; in any culture, belief system or otherwise. Just picture this prick... Looking like Agent fuckin’ 52’s Dominican cousin’s coke dealer’s bi curious friend.
No wonder Frank was able to pity fuck this bitch into premature main event obscurity. New six-man tag partner for everyone. Praise [redacted]. Anyway, this guy - let’s call him Jason. Just waltzes in, brushes past everybody, myself included; spouting some shit about being the Alpha Champion for however many successful defenses - all of which are against complete fucking nobodies and holding no actual worth. Then, boom! Suddenly he’s World fucking Champion? I mean; what the fuck? Jared and I should be flipping a coin to see who gets the belt and who gets to fist Joey’s widow. Sorry Al, but you look a little worn in for the conventional shit... So O’Neal’s on the top of the pyramid for however many days and nights; like 3 of each by my count. Horrific, Oblivion circa 2017 title-reign now forever staining his CV like unattended oil on concrete. Then suddenly - Frank’s somehow up there holding the gold, and it hits me: If I hadn’t lost the Final Destination case to him, that would be me right now.
Well, fuck.
Short of blowing my brains all over the high-gloss plasterboard of this poxy, chain-hotel’s supposed deluxe single room and leaving a garbled suicide note blaming having been subjected to an oversaturation of cunts with split personality disorders, I’m pretty much stumped for what to do next; so I throw that email to Seth and get the result I eluded to earlier in the week: Captain Pantheon in a singles match, for the second time in 2 months. - Proving that while Seth may not want my likeness on the fucking cereal boxes or whatever the fuck cliche gayness we’re going for with this whole pipebomb angle. - He seems to hate Cap more. What the fuck did you ever do to him man? Did you say Logan was a meanie or something? I hear they used to date or whatever, IDK. Whatever you did though; well done! Keep it up. If you’re going to get fed to me over and over again then never change, buddy. I appreciate an easy week every now and again, just like everybody else.
Speaking of Logan… Who I’m actually 1-0 against by the way; just in case anybody forgot. I see the ol’ sexual predator’s name popping up more and more often lately. Well to that I say; who gives a fuck? Logan’s general presence here is as pointless and half-cocked now as is this whole notion that Dag Riddik belongs in Pantheon. But whatever, come on back; continue to drag your own legacy across the shit and piss-soaked bathroom floor. Just remember Logan, if one of us doesn’t kill you - the AIDS will prevail in the end. Thanks Kat, you shouldn’t have. Any chance you could bottle some of your spit for me? I’ve been looking for a less-obvious alternative to anthrax to taint my paperwork with.
Anyway, what the fuck was I saying? Ah yes, Cap. The CAPTAIN now, as he’s apparently calling himself. Former flier of both Pantheon and WCF flag, current fan of capital letters. This fucking embarrassment to mankind should have his hands full enough with my associates; Mr. Singh and Mr. King to even ensure he doesn’t get knocked the fuck out in even quicker fashion than last time. That’s the thing though Cap - this match doesn’t even interest me in the slightest; I’m only doing it to boost my ego before I get back to tearing through the roster like the Hiroshima bombings ravaged your grandpappy. In truth, I’m not even thinking of it as an actual match, just a chance to repair some of the dents my reputation has taken with these recent miscarriages of justice which have befallen my associates and I.
You see, about a month ago - a far more intelligent man, with far less hair than I coined a phrase that went something like: “Destiny has no expiration date.” Cute, right? Almost motivational in it’s own little way, if you believe in that particular brand of bullshit. The same guy went on to achieve his so-called “destiny” that very same night. I bring this up not because I’m going to make the same kind of emotional, balls on the table, tears of authenticity kind of soapbox speech, no. Fuck all of the theatrics, fuck the always-ticking clock and fuck this notion that any of us are on this predetermined path set out for us from birth. That’s some fantasy shit right there. But the man who looked a lot like an educated Adam Young made some points that were… interesting to say the very least. He spoke of his plight; how he’d always been the bridesmaid, but never the one to take his vows. It was gripping stuff really; I’d suggest watching the video on what4thwall.org if it’s still available; pretty much summed up my feelings as relates to the WCF World Championship at this point in time. Only without all the crying, the manlove or the mascara.
The hourglass effect though, or rather the fear of time that has passed compared to accolades itself; is a very real thing to me. Two years next month I’ll have been employed here; in the WCF - and yeah, as darling FPV was so kind as to bring to light back at Rise Up - I’ve probably only been actively competing for half of that, but still. That’s two years of my life that I’m never getting back. Now, I know a lot of guys are probably reading this; coasting up to their 25th birthday like: “so fuck, it’s only 2 years.” but this is where I start to find flaws in the aforementioned logic. You see, while destiny may not have an expiration date in professional wrestling... talent and marketability, most certainly do. One could argue that Seth’s never been shy when it comes to getting the old guys over; but those guys? The Logans, the Corey Blacks and the Jeff Purses? Those guys have all been sucking corporate dick for a solid decade; longer in most cases. But a man approaching 40 with no previous stint as strap-holder trying to win his first big-boy’s belt? That guy only gets a handful of chances, and when they’re gone… they’re gone.
See Cap, It’s not that I’m overlooking you in any way. On the contrary actually. - I plan to use your vessel as a message and break your spirit for the world to see. Lately I’ve fucked up more chances to finally live up to my own hype than I’d care to be reminded of. I’ve left Pantheon to carve out my own legacy, but everything I’ve done? I’ve done on borrowed time; a commodity - that I’m simply running out of. So with one eye on the clock, I find myself back to the drawing board; my thoughts growing more bitter as my lack of any real impact eats away at me from the inside.
One-time United States Champion. That’s it. That’s all I’ve done here if you look at the statistics. One shitty aimless reign as holder of a retired title. That’s all the world would remember me for - the guy who beat Bates with a lucky roll-up when he was getting billed as this unbeatable monster. This was the dye I’d been cast, and no matter how hard I tried, no more belts would follow. As tempting as it would be to join forces with Steve and kick this monkey on my back with reasonable comfort; walking away with one of the tag-titles: that’s just not something I can get behind. Not when I’ve come so close to greatness.
Captain, you have my deepest apologies for my lack of focus but as you’ll learn on Sunday - my overconfidence walks hand in hand with my simply being better than you in every conceivable sense of the word. I stand here today as the new pound for pound, best professional wrestler on the face of the earth. Joey Flash? He’s a fucking vegetable, and you? You’re a novelty act that’s just not entertaining us anymore. Neither you, or your hero were ever on my level in this ring, and deep down - you already know what I’m saying to be true. So when I ramble on about things that will come to be when I inevitably embarrass you on Slam and secure a well-deserved notch in the win column, I’m going to lay down a challenge. Not an open, undirected plea for an opponent, no. People want to see Frank get humiliated by the Six God again? Fine. Throw the barking seals in the crowd a free fish and make it official. I know I’ve got no right to challenge the champion on a whim, not in this company, on this level. Instead… I’m challenging Jason O’Neal. What d’you say? You Sopranos throwback, Necromancy fetish, entitled to nothing but a wake-up call, piece of afterbirth?
Wanna fuck?
What’re you gonna do?
Kill my wife and kid?
Lmao, you’re a little late.
Do us all a favour and kill yourself.
Let Me Know.
Kisses, Dave.
xx
Such Low Morals (II of II)
Friday, April 7th, 2017
Everest Eye Grand Opening:
Mayoral Suite
Livefeed CCTV
19:50 (Nightfall)
Friday, April 7th, 2017
Everest Eye Grand Opening:
Mayoral Suite
Livefeed CCTV
19:50 (Nightfall)
“I’ve just gotta know one thing boss..”
Here we go. The man of six million questions per answer was taking first base.
“Why bail me out? We both know was you that turned me into the cops in the first place.”
It had taken Taylor a lot longer to ask what I could only assume was a burning question than I’d thought it would. Then again, I’d been working with educated minds lately, sometimes I forget how simple and slow some people can be. Wright was a prime example of just this very fact; he’d skated through life on his looks and connections back in Brooklyn before moving to Chicago last year to become my Ambassador of Urban Relations; a job he was then stripped of and thrown into jail after burning down the Sloshed Pit. - A dive-bar belonging to Alexander Richards and frequented by the rest of the wannabe superhero cunts he associated with. The problem wasn’t that nobody was inside the premises at the time, no. That was just unfortunate. My grievance with this method was that he’d done this during an election where my every move was being analyzed under a microscope. So I got ahead of the curve and turned him into the authorities myself before I got tarred with the same brush as he would surely be and my chances of a second term in office took a tragic swan-dive.
“Times have changed. You only have one tool in your toolbox Taylor, and it’s a fucking hammer. At the time that was not something I needed or wanted anywhere fucking near me. But now? Well I’m already elected. I own this city, and I’m working on the State as a whole. A hammer is a handy thing for a friend to have when I can’t be seen to get my own hands dirty.”
Maybe that was too vague for him, but he seemed to get the jist of what I was saying. Maybe I’d been giving him too little credit this whole time. Sure he’d been upset with me for a few weeks, my first couple of attempts to visit him during his incarceration had been less than pleasant, indeed. But being a fellow addict, he had to do what he had to do in order to scratch his itch. And so; our rocky relationship was mended on a patchwork arrangement that put him in charge of my heroin distribution interests; the ones in prison at least; but as always when skag was concerned - the shit sold better behind bars.
“So, what crazy scheme are we going for this time? And what’s with the giant building? Did you get tired of the underground lair?”
More questions, go figure.
“The Eye in the Sky?”
I begin to pour us both a generous glass of Scotch; the bag of brown powder having been passed to Wright sneakily; under the disguise of a handshake. That was the thing with this place; there was cameras fucking everywhere. This was my intent, yes - but admittedly I’d screwed the pooch a little when I failed to omit my own quarters from this level of invasive monitoring. Still, I guess it’s a good thing in the end. It’s less likely that I’ll get bored and wind-up caught with my dick in some homely secretary with big dreams and low moral fibre. I knew they were always watching. Always listening. So I played along; always behaving. Always.
“It’s just a building, a big fucking building.”
I would tell him when he needed to know. For now, all I needed from him was oblivious obedience. Blind faith, if you will.
“What’s the catch? Like, where’s the underlying evil purpose?”
Damn, I guess I was getting predictable in my old age.
“Would you believe it’s just a big data farm with a pricey telescope on top for stargazing?”
He did not.
“Would you believe I’ve got an Ivy League education and a holiday-home in Aspen?”
I would not.
“Fair enough, you caught me. There’s a catch, but I’m keeping this one pretty close to my chest. I’ll fill you in when the time’s right.”
He looked a little deflated, maybe even disappointed by the lack of disclosure. He could rock those sad-eyes all he liked though, I’d been burned before when it came to trusting others and I wouldn’t suffer repetition when it came to my shortcomings. The office surrounded us in high-gloss black units, black marble and glass fixtures, all of which had been paid for out the profit I’d made from taking that dive against Vinnie Jones at Explosion. At least that’s what I was telling myself. Lies were a powerful coping mechanism. The MacAllan single-cask resonated on my tastebuds like sound trapped in an echo chamber. Suspended in smoky animation, dancing a thousand Tango’s on my tongue. Wright swallows his back in one gulp; the savage. Sometimes I missed Jared and John more than I’d care to admit.
“So what am I supposed to do in the meantime?”
Try not to burn any buildings down? That was the first thing that came to mind anyway.
“Take the week off, and get fuckin’ shave. I need you and Fausse looking like clean, productive assets to society. We’re heading to Columbus, Ohio on Saturday evening for a show. Be at the jet around one-ish for a briefing though. Don’t worry, I don’t need you to dig out the spandex just yet - it’s just to show face to stand up and be counted if you will.”
God he looked awful. Like six months in prison lying under the business end of a syringe awful. Even as he tried to make a joke.
“The ol’ Syndicate getting back together! Hahahahaha…”
I didn’t find this funny. Didn’t really find him much funnier to be honest. With a look of sheer and utter disdain I shut him down; courtesy of an emotionless, robotic retort.
“The Syndicate is dead Taylor, and that’s where it stays. Those ideas were far too premature, half-cooked and three-quarter hearted. Like singing in the shower because you know nobody's watching. That shit can’t be allowed to fly anymore; not in the WCF or even walking down the street. Everest isn’t about that, you’ll learn this soon enough though.”
Nodding like a bobblehead figure, he replies with a slackjawed vacancy:
“So, what the fuck am I supposed to do with my time off?”
My mind immediately suggested that this heathen should read a book.
“I already covered for you here in my staff address this morning. So I dunno, maybe take in some some of the things you missed in prison, like sex with a female… or alcohol that wasn’t made in a toilet?”
With an almost-laugh he stashed the little bag in his pocket and made towards the exit, turning only briefly to bid me farewell before resuming his departure.
“I’m not gonna stick around and argue with that. If you need me for anything, you know where I’ll be.”
Of course I did. That was my job, and this was my city.