XVII: Alphabet Souperkick.
Jun 25, 2017 5:08:39 GMT -5
God King Dune, John Rabid, and 4 more like this
Post by David Sanchez on Jun 25, 2017 5:08:39 GMT -5
XVII: Alphabet Souperkick
I always like to see if the art across the street is better than mine.
- Andy Warhol.
A: DiViDE&&CONQUER
Let's dance to joy division,
and celebrate the irony.
Everything is going wrong,
But we're so happy.
- D.H.
I always like to see if the art across the street is better than mine.
- Andy Warhol.
A: DiViDE&&CONQUER
Let's dance to joy division,
and celebrate the irony.
Everything is going wrong,
But we're so happy.
- D.H.
Mayoral Plaza
The Eye of Everest
Chicago, Illinois
United States of America
06/20/2017 - 10:30
The Eye of Everest
Chicago, Illinois
United States of America
06/20/2017 - 10:30
“So basically, by the looks of this card. Seth’s starting to take a disliking to us pretty quickly. He’s got me teaming with the two guys who’re trying to throw their fuckin' ladels in my pot of soup at Blast. Too many cooks man; this should’ve been an intimate occasion between Jared and I, but now that’s not the case; all thanks to these two fucking tumors I’ve been landed with as partners. Then we’ve got fuckin’ Bale playing spaz-sitter to some slavering retard… non-title at least, and then you guys-- sure, you’re not having to defend the belts either, we’ve got the open challenge to cover us legally there. Not that the Worker’s Union particularly agrees with it. Rabid and his stooges are campaigning pretty hard against Seth’s ruling about us getting automatic entry into Ultimate Showdown. It’s sticking in that smarmy cunt’s crooked teeth so bad he’s enjoying a scone-less tea as we speak..”
Aapo is the first of my guests to respond. He sits up straight, pulling his body weight forward in the lounger upon which he was sitting; sipping a glass of Chablis and listening to the Mayor’s ramblings.
“Lerch. The swine! He’s trying to conquer us by dividing us!”
He slams his fist into the table; a table he was only really sitting at because Bale Pascal was unavailable for this particular pow-wow. Ethan’s glass chatters as the thump causes his ice cubes to clink against the crystal container he was sipping Dalwhinnie Single Malt from. A look of disdain spreads the width of his face before he is able to calm the troubled liquids in his hand.
“Easy there Aapo. Maybe we’re over-thinking this. I mean, there’s only so many guys on the roster, right? And there’s only so many potential combinations of matches that aren’t repeats or pitting friends against one another, right? Ever stop to think this is all just one big coincidence? Dave’s match is probably just some clusterfuck he threw together at the last minute and apparently there’s like no legitimate tag-teams on the roster; so that covers us. As for Pascal, I dunno. I’m thinking that belt probably only appeals to a very particular few people. He’s already signed to defend against Aquarius at Blast. He deserves an easy week.”
Feeling unappreciated, Aapo takes a long sip of his wine and tries to see things Ethan’s way.
“I guess. But an easy week would have been a week off. This still presents a potential to harm or otherwise hinder my client. So I’m here to see what you guys are going to do to ensure Pascal reaches Blast as unblemished and well-rested as you all do.
Those violins were starting to become irritating. Sad songs like Aapo’s unnecessary concern shouldn’t be playing right now; this time was ours. Steven, cue the fiddle; sunny side-up.
“Aapo, relax. 'Tranquilo...' Pascal has this match in the bag. If you want, just to be super-safe we’ll occupy all the disabled parking and take the ramps away from the Verizon’s front entrance. You know, in the hopes that nobody helps ole’ Hellfire up the steps with his wheelchair. That aside, I’m drawing a complete blank.”
Singh sums up our intent as concerns Bale Pascal’s upcoming battle with a feral jobber.
“Have him yell out maths problems between punches to keep the big lug docile and confused? Just a thought.”
That’s all I’m able to add before Ethan King finishes the remainder of whiskey in his glass and loudy smacks his lips together; drawing focus.
“These meetings are more about the important matters than the mild threats, Aapo. Like this week for example-- it’s Dave that’s probably most fucked in terms of matches; even his intended partners would probably rather see him hurt than with his hand held triumphantly in the air.”
Truer words had never been spoken. It was times like these one brought question to the choice of being a bad guy or heel; I guess. In another world perhaps; there lived a David Sanchez with the will to put aside his personal agenda and unite with his fellow man to defeat a common enemy. This was not that world though; this was still a world where I would rather wake-up next to Malignaggi in a hospital bed with no feeling beneath my neck than smile politely and get along with either O’Neal or Necurat.
“Dion doesn’t strike me as a man that possesses the venom required to carry out an act of betrayal; I don’t think he’s going to be an issue until Blast itself, but even then I’m not exactly binge-reading literature surrounding Dionysus and immersing myself within his life, no. He will be handled when the time is right and that simply, is not right now. The other guy however; Jason O’Neal. He’s the guy I’m going to need eyes on. Again; that’s not a commendation of his prowess and threat level-- just an acknowledgement that of the two; he’s the most likely to try and fuck me over, somehow. So he’s the guy I want eyes on at all times. If anything looks even the slightest bit fishy; swarm the ring; waste them all. Toss Andre aside so as not to stir the Panthe-pot, but if it’s white and it moves... knock that fucker down like a bowling pin.”
To say that I hadn’t been looking forward to Slam this week was an understatement and then some. Dion; I’d been nothing but a passive cunt towards; but had never directly made it my business to show him the length of my dick. Jason O’Neal on the other hand ; I’d spent the months surrounding his arrival, departure and winning of the World Championship verbally assaulting in an attempt to get him to step between those ropes with me. All of this animosity brewing between us certainly caused a great deal of concern to me when presented with a six-man tag like the one we’d all be buddying up for.
“So… I dunno, but it seems pretty cut and dry to me. Dave does his job; plays nice with the autistic kids and wins the match. When it’s over; we hit the ring and pick apart whatever’s left of Dion and Jason. We laugh, they cry… everybody gets a piledriver for showing up. It’s a thing of beauty!”
That it was. But to get to this destination; there was still the match in itself and all the speedbumps this entailed.
“Sidney Warwick caught my attention at Asesinato. While he seems content with being considered a rose among the roots of the Beta league; he certainly performs like somebody with far greater aspirations. Originally, I had thought that appealing to him in the same way we did with Nikula and Pascal was the option best suited to the situation but alas; the more time ticks on-- the less I’m seeing the need for another seat at our table. Six championships held between four men; with a potential to add a seventh and crowning jewel at Blast is no small feat. But bringing him in would make that seven with a potential eighth-- and as far as I can tell, the only way to get people talking is to take all of those titles and lock them the fuck down.”
Aapo again interjects; going against the grain of better judgement and diplomacy.
“We do not need this extra mouth to feed. Bale is eligible to take this belt for Everest, and will do so at a moment’s notice. This should not factor into whether or not this millennial meets his maker in the same manner as this ‘Jaice Wilds.’ His views do not tie in with those of our own, and as such he must be humbled like all others who oppose us. This man believes himself to be a voice to the voiceless; a breaker of chains and a knight in pure-white shining armour.“
I’m skeptical, but still I prefer my own solution.
“What? You don’t think we could pass as a human rights campaign-group? I care about the environment and stuff. Plus, I’m pretty sure that if I can convince a Chicago constituency that I care about their wellbeing, I can convince some privileged douchebag from Poughkeepsie that I care about D’Angelo Hall’s dental plan or Denise D’evil getting her own fucking locker room. Spinning a convincing yarn is pretty much what I do, Aapo. Do keep up.”
The cheek of this guy; he just keeps on going.
“So, what would you suggest to be the best course of action? Oh wise Mayor? Keeper of the keys to Apocrypha. Holder of forbidden knowledge.”
Taking in a deep breath; I drop to one knee.
“I’m going to execute… Plan Knee.”
Sarcastic yet dramatic gasps ensue from Singh and King who’d heard me pitch this idea before, followed by a look of confusion from Aapo Nikula; who wasn’t present within our ranks at that point. He makes to speak, but noticing his absence of thought; Singh cuts him off.
“He’s talking about taking a knee. You know, like Kaepernick during the National Anthem?”
He still looks a little lost; so Ethan provides a situationally sound example that seems to do the trick.
“Basically, Dave’s talking about dropping the tag-rope and turning his back when Dion or O’Neal need tagged out of the match. Knowing him; he’s probably got something a little more theatrical lined up. But that’s pretty much the bare bones of it, right Sanch?”
I nod before bringing voice to my agreement.
“Pretty much. I mean, I was probably just gonna sit on the steps and put my headphones in after the opening bell; but I guess going down the Kaepernick route could be a move in the right direction if we’re serious about bringing in Warwick.”
Singh is next to piss in in my cornflakes; such activities now a much safer practice with Jayson Price nowhere to be seen.
“We’re not bringing in Warwick. The guy’s like an ironic parody of himself.”
Still, I fight his corner.
“I think that’s the point, isn’t it?”
Ethan adds his two-cents.
“Fucked if I know. So we’re voting to just slap him around with that other jobber, then?”
I make a stand, asking for a final decision on this matter. I don’t have to wait long before al three of my guests speak at once, confirming what I’d thought.
“Correct.”
This wasn’t as certain as I’d have liked it to be. But yet, it seemed conclusive. Onto the next problem I guess.
“What about Andre then? I was hoping we’d seen the last of Pantheon for a week or two; but I guess it is a little unfair to keep feeding the scrubs to us on a silver platter. Apart from this ‘Jaice Wilds’ guy of course. What do we know about him?”
Silence... silent, careless silence.
“... I guess I’ll maybe check his stats on the website or something? All I’ve got right now is his win/loss record and it doesn’t exactly fill me with dread. Plus… I think I watched him get jobbed out to ZMAC in some tournament in Louisiana last month. So yeah, again… not exactly packing extra underwear on the grounds of this guy being involved.”
Empty glass motioned towards me, Ethan pokes fun.
“I seem to remember you saying something just like that before Vinnie Jones beat your ass with a fuckin’ small package...”
Which I counter with more harmless ribbing, while freshening his glass.
“I seem to remember you used to be the guy carrying Jared’s bags. It’s a shame, you might’ve actually got to see the World Championship in person if you stuck it out. Don’t worry, I’ll let you hold it while I take a shit after Blast. Those toilets in the Champion's Lounge at the Garden are deadly. You're all in for a treat.”
Ethan smirks and accepts the refill, but Singh is quick to enter the pissing contest.
“I seem to remember being the only one in this room to have ever actually had a World Championship match, so if you two mooks, and you Aapo; could show some respect and give me the floor; I’d be glad to teach you a thing or two.”
Cool speech bro. Shame about thems rules and shit.
“Sorry man, but right now. Even Aapo’s got more chance of a shot at the belt than you do. The longer you leave that ruling to set; the harder it’s going to be to abolish when you decide to lawyer up.”
Having heard his name, Nikula sits up straight and makes to speak.
“I seem to remember... “
Channeling his fury for the now deceased ‘Yak-Man’ Ethan scolds the man for speaking out of turn.
“Shut up Aapo, that was not an invitation to talk.”
Just then, the room door swings open wide and Taylor Wright is revealed. He hurries into the room and whispers something in my ear. We converse for a few moments in a hushed tone-- much to the frustration of those in attendance, but not earshot. Before too long, I drive the side of my fist into the coffee table in front of me, wincing in pain as my brittle hand buckles, bends and begins to swell upon impact.
“More murder accusations? No wait; embezzlement? No wait, illegitimate love-child?”
Singh’s latest try at lightening the mood falls on deaf ears as I rise to my feet and speak with a slight apprehension as I try to keep up the harmless black. All the while, my eyes see red and the scene fades to black.
“No Steven... Just another repercussion of my people now having to deal with the Jersey Greaseball Mafia. Thanks of course…. In its entirety to your bet-butchering, wrist-breaking, banned-from-being-relevant, ass.”
B: ALPHABETSOUPERKiCK
A - A, is of course for Andre; perhaps the most over-used and yet; under-celebrated name to have crept into focus over the last five years. Six years ago; you know… when I was selling out Sumo Palace and you were tossing dimes at a brick wall with your spook friends outside a convenience store-- there were no fucking Andres in this game. Not one. Well, I can’t say for sure that there wasn’t some twitchy kid in the ring crew with that name or some fuckin’ nerd in the production truck. But, actually wrestling with a name like that wasn’t exactly ‘the norm.’ As it is today though, that name’s like fucking God-jobbers bruh; it’s everywhere. You and Aquarius are holding that shit down over here; meanwhile Jenson’s still lurking around UCI providing comedic value. If this trend keeps up, you might as well change your surname to Black; which by my count is only slightly less oversaturated than ‘Holmes.’ But hey, that’s still an improvement! I say this of course assuming you have the gypsy magic required to change your surname-- you know; like that hocus-pocus you used to somehow evolve from a white guy with a shit beard into a black guy who looks like he fights bears.
B - B, you better believe is for Black. Now: I’m not talking about that black coffee, nor that Erik guy with dyslexia that used to work here. Nor am I even subtly tipping my Fedora to Corey for the sheer capacity his rectal passage must be to fit your whole head up there, no. I’m talking about race, buddy-- because let’s not kid ourselves into thinking this is about to be some tactful promo where I spend more time discussing your redeeming qualities than your actual flaws, haha. That ain’t me babe; you know this. No, boy the black I’m talking about is that skin you’ve worn everyday for the last however long it’s been since you went all perma-blackpaint and committed to the gimmick people picked out for you. A bold move by anyone’s bead-counter. I’ve gotta give credit where it’s due though Andre, since you’ve made the transition from tofu to treacle; you’ve been on the kind of roll that’s making Steve Orbit think twice about coasting back on his accomplishments. Black Power! Someone’s gotta represent I guess; and short of making you, Aquarius and D’angelo Hall duke it out to see who gets that right-- it was always just going to come down to who can be the most diversely pleasing stereotype. Well done Andre, you officially out-blacked the other two darkies who made it to this level.
C - C, is for coloured…. Kidding. I was going to do a really racist vignette, but I’m under enough scrutiny from the voting masses as it is right now. So; as of this point; C is for Crazy J, and the rest of Zero Relevance. ‘But I thought you weren’t going to glorify his victories?’ You might find yourself thinking along those lines. But fear not; I’m going somewhere with this shit. You see, while you might have been able to out-irritate and then out-wrestle a 435lbs guy who looks he wrestles between long-distance trucking haulage. You didn’t really win in the end with that one, did you? Sure, you got that Hardcore Championship, but Fattie and the Sunshine Gang got the last laugh. Trios was meant to end with a huge blow-out match between Pantheon and Everest, but by the time you’d dealt with those dicks in back-to-back matches? Burnt out wouldn’t quite cover how you guys looked when the Kings were able to dispose of you in the semi-finals. To make matters worse, they up and left the company a week later, in a haze of sour grapes and bittersweet taunting. For everybody else, this was a blessing. Less bullshit in the barn. To you though? It was like saying goodbye to any shot at redemption you’d ever get. These fucking clowns Andre, they didn’t just get inside your head-- they lived there so long that there’s fuckin’ Kerrang Magazine ICP posters and chalk-drawings of Claire Shepard’s cunt on your frontal lobe.
D - D, is for Dreams. We’ve all got them-- it just seems like yours are a lot shitter and that bit more bleak than the rest of ours. I wonder, was it always this way? When you were a little white boy; with white parents and white values, living in white suburban bliss…. I mean, in the ghetto. Whatever, when you were young did ever dare dream to be anything more than you are at this moment in time? A gimmick champion in a company with too many belts and too many blemishes on each of those belts’ backgrounds. A substitute Pantheon inductee. A guy who won a bunch of belts in UCI; plateaued and kept that trend of mediocrity going strong here in the WCF. You’re suffering from what I’ve come to call Kevin Bishop Syndrome, or KBS for short. It’s a rare disease where people spread themselves so thin in a bid to be super-meta and cool as fuck that they wind up looking like a pile of retarded, recycled garbage. Was this how you longed for life to level out? You’re basically a background singer-- which if this was the 1950’s and we were trying to market a white Blues vocalist would be a good thing. However; as you’ve probably gathered; I’m not Muddy Waters and neither are you. You’re not really anything to be honest. A Pantheon extra, A Guardians extra… fuck Andre, when you dream, are you even the main character or do you just tag along on someone else’s adventures there too?
E - E, is for Eric Price… who? Yeah, pretty much. How in the hell this next point ever came to be considered a good idea to anybody; I’ll never know but I was there man; I saw this fuckin’ feat of stupidity first-fucking-hand. Picture this; it’s fuckin’ One, right? The Final Destination match is in full-swing. Andre Holmes, recently re-signed and enjoying some serious success in UCI at the time finds himself within an arm’s reach of the briefcase which would allow him to pick his spot and challenge for the World Championship at a time of his choosing. The crowd is fuckin’ hype. The journey is so close to completion; those dreams now looking less and less like farfetched fantasies. What did you do though? When you had the chance to finally back up some of that false bravado you veil yourself with. You jamp. Sure, you might’ve done a flippy thing and landed on Eric fuckin’ Price of all people. But that’s not the point I’m making here. That’s the only opportunity I’ve seen you get at even being considered a World Championship calibre athlete; instead of the guy who can eat the most chair-shots... and you fuckin’ jamp. Life is fight or flight Andre; and when presented with that choice you made it very clear that you’d rather throw yourself to the wind than even try to better your standing. I suppose though; greatness isn’t for everybody. Just ask Eric, he’s a living statement to the fact that some people just want to be remembered. It doesn’t matter what it is they’re remembered for. Eric Price pissed himself on live television, and Andre Holmes is a spot monkey with no prospects. C’est. La. Vie.
F - F, is for Fausse. Erin Fausse to be exact. I had to get that stupid shit in there about Eric Price or she would’ve came in at E, but alas; all’s well that ends well. So, let’s talk about Erin, shall we? Oh, don’t be so coy Andre… I’m not here to poke fun or settle a score, no. In truth; when you scooped a handful of thumbtacks into your hand and shoved them into her gaping mouth, you probably did me a solid. See; I had big plans for Fausse-- she was going to lead the fickle folks who thought God was real on a wild-goose chase that culminated in a sharp and sudden drop from a particularly steep cliff. Essentially; she was my sacrificial lamb. When you stood in front of her though; marveling at what you’d done up until that point. What was it that made you lash out in the manner you did, I wonder? To kick someone in the jawline is bad enough; but to take a hundred pound and change woman, feed her sharp objects then kick her in the chin as she chews… that’s just fucked up. At least you’re sticking to that misogyny marking they’ve branded you with though. What an obedient little subordinate you’ve proven to be indeed, Andre-- that’s a gold sticker for you.
G - G, is for Gimp. Because that’s what you are Andre. A fuckin’ gimp without the suit. Black skin where the black leather would be. Incidentally; G is also for Guardians. What a happy coincidence.
H - H, is for Hardcore. A Joyless division that you happen to be the fractured face of. Now; I’m willing to humor this idea that you’re trying to restore this belt to it’s previous glory. If you can even call it that; but alas-- one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. So let’s just pretend that this is actually the case and you’re some selfless crusader-- why in the name name of all that’s capable of executing an armbar did you have to choose this wretched championship? I’ve got this rule about Hardcore belts that rings pretty true for everywhere I’ve been in my now-wasting life. Leave The Hardcore Belt To The Retards. Let them have it … ‘here kids, go wild.’ Those greenhorns go ape for that shit. Why the fuck did you actually think this was going to be something you were capable of? I’ve seen it done once Andre, fucking ONCE in fourteen years of LOLing at talentless hacks like yourself who consensually opt to eat up these ridiculous ‘C4 on a Pole’ or ‘Ring Surrounded by Dragons’ matches. One time has that ever got anybody over; and that was Torture, when I started out here… and look at him now. There’s that bar again Andre; it just doesn’t seem to be getting any higher.
I - I, is for Inept. It’s also for Insignificant… and Inferior. Those are all wonderful words that I’m probably going to use a lot throughout this promotional masterpiece of my own design. Please, don’t let my frequent use of them taint their beauty. My Incapable, Interracial friend.
J - J, is for Jared Holmes and John Rabid. Or ‘sir/boss’ to you. I say this assuming the former purchased your services at auction, so forgive me if I’m wrong. Regardless, before we get all carried away with another ‘is this racist?’ conundrum to raise with SJW, allow me to get to the actual point. Jared, along with myself, you, John, and probably a few others… we’ve all been enjoying this collective bliss of never crossing paths when it actually matters. Like, I know, we’ve all had matches where the correct parties are all present, but never when anything’s actually been on the line. It’s almost as if a certain drunk booker wants to save those matches for later and elongate the prosperity of each brand in order to maximise his profits. That’s fuckin’ bloodthirsty, intelligent marketing right there. Such a shame that it’s going to come an abrupt end over the next couple of weeks. First, I’m going to pin you to the mat, making a statement in the process given how much more hallowed your name is than that of your twink partners. Then… I’m going to go to Madison Square Garden, and reduce the Six God to King Nothing. Then? Well that just leaves John the Revelator, and I’m sure he’ll make a move during the Ultimate Showdown match to ascend to supremacy. The point here Andre is that this protective spell over the four of us? I’m lifting that fucking safety net of us all just sailing through life like ships passing in the dark night. That was the point I wanted to make in leaving Pantheon; I didn’t want to be fucking paragon. I want to break the Golden Goddamn paragon.
K - K, is for Kicks. Because any match between us is probably going to contain a lot of two thing: trash-talk and stiff kicks. That’s pretty much all I can guarantee as we look towards Sunday. Two things are going to be happening-- neither of us can fully rely on our supporting partners, and neither of us can afford to eat a pin. Thankfully though, each of us has brought a lamb to slaughter; I’ve got one named Jason that I shaved on the way here, and you’ve brought along a delightful mongoloid named Jaice. Is this short for Jason? How nice would that be. Either way-- the name of the game for us on Sunday is to basically kick our corresponding jobbers into smithereens whilst also avoiding being kicked ourselves. Thrust kicks, superkicks, roundhouses… you like kicks? This is gonna be a match full of ‘em. Only one kick has the power to rule them all though Holmes, and it ain’t yours. My Medusa’s Touch has risen from the Dust without a bite. The dominant and reigning champion of of all things kick-related. But you’ll get to see that for yourself soon enough. The Superkick Party has been cancelled, ain't that a kick in the head?
L - L, is for Lost. That was a great show, up until anything that came after the first series... Sorry, what was I saying? Ah, yes. Andre-- you’re lost and you look even more lost with each week that passes. When you started this whole handing out shots at the belt thing; it was pretty cool-- just like it was when I did it with the United States Championship two years previous to this… except I was handing out shots to guys like Logan and Jeff Purse… while you’re just ushering in the rookies by burying them before they even get a chance to make a name for themselves. What’s the fucking point? Odin’s pretty much the only defense I’ve seen you make that’s really worth a damn, but yet you serve as your own own biggest fan; going on about being a fighting champion because you beat Mikey Extreme and a guy with a cacti-fetish. Wow! You’re practically a gladiator dude. You don’t even seem like you’re enjoying it anymore; murdering these fuckin' nobodies like you're paying off a thosuand soul debt to Davey Jones in order to keep yourself
M - M, is for Midcard. The place you belong in the tiering system around here. Fighting bums like Mikey Extreme and Kyle Kemp, Andre Aquarius and my good friend Bale Pascal who has been handed the thankless task of cleansing this cesspool. Don’t get me wrong; you’ve got a main-event match or two in you; every couple of months… but only when it’s a hideously thrown together clusterfuck like the one we find ourselves in this week. Sadly for you though; we’re not even the main attraction. Apparently Jared Holmes bullying a Native American is better suited to that billing. Why? Who knows! Seth knows, but that’s above my paygrade; meaning it’s three leagues out of your reach. I used to like being King of the Bugs; Lord of the Flies, a dwarf among midgets… but as I’m sure you’re starting to figure out, once those midcarder colours soak in; they can be a bastard to wash out. My advice? Well, what you’re gonna wanna do is find yourself a former champion; make him bite the ring-steps and kick him in the back of the fuckin’ neck. I’d be happy to provide an instructional video but apparently they’ve taken the footage offline. Poor Gemini; even his death went unnoticed. That’s all I can really recommend, breh. That, and if you’re serious about stepping the fuck up from bump-taker to seat-filler… you’re gonna need to say goodbye to that belt you’re waving around like it ain’t buried and forgotten.
N - N, is for Naptime. Now I’m not exactly about to sit here (I’m sitting btw) and claim to be the world’s greatest father; because let’s face it-- that’s just not true. My son was a little cunt, and I did nothing to try to fix that; wasn’t my job. The boy had a mother that loved him. Still, I find myself looking at you Andre, and thinking a standard textbook approach to your tantrums and anger issues could be exactly what’s needed. So next time somebody pisses you off and you feel that trigger finger getting itchy; which I’m assuming will be around the same time this promo airs… What I want you to do for me is have a warm glass of milk or another malted beverage of your choosing, find a cosy place and lie down for an hour. Sometimes Andre, a little nap is all a crabby kid needs to calm down. If that doesn’t work, we’ll talk about cutting sweet stuff out of your diet and working on talking about our problems.
O - O, is for Or Die Trying. That’s pretty much your outlook, huh? If you can’t do something, you’ll damn sure go down in a blaze of glory trying to. That’s a noble way to go about your life; but sadly it’s exactly why you’re such a novelty for Jared to keep around. Think about it, I mean-- you’ll have likely worked out by now that half of this is so that he doesn’t have to actually fight you; the child, he’s good at masking his insecurities as false friendships. But that’s not the only reason; I mean there’s the diversity thing for a start, I mean bringing you and Dagvald into the fold on the same night was Lolzy as fuck but still. There has to be more to it, right? Right! It’s this attitude that makes you an asset Andre, to him anyway. To me, it would make you a liability, what if you were to die and I had to go through the faf of replacing you like you were Saab Knight or some shit? That’s not the way Jared sees it though; he knows you’ll burn out under his rule and settle for secondary glories like tournaments, five-star matches and whatever the fuck else you can find to keep yourself entertained while he keeps
P - P, is for Pantheon. What the fuck happened to Pantheon? All I see is #beachKrew and a second black guy, with a slightly better looking Sandy Coconutz. Pick a fucking brand. You can’t be Cops and Robbers, fucking commit to one or commit suicide and save us some confusion - yours faithfully, the IWC.
Q - Q, is for Quicksand. Yet, you still think that’s solid ground you’re standing upon. Spoillers: it’s not. The Good Ship Pantheon is strewn with holes. It’s taking on more water than you guys can get rid of. The world is crumbling around you, and all you and John can do is fucking watch. This was always going to happen when you let a disinterested child take control of the raft. He’s just a kid playing battleships in the fucking bathtub when he should be scrubbing up for school. Pantheon is sinking and it’s not even your fault, nor is it John’s. It’s Jared, it’s Wade, it’s Corey… it’s Part-timetheon that’s going to be the cause of death. Your leader only comes to work to beat on ethnic jobbers. One of your cornerstone members got choked the fuck out by a rookie and lost the People’s Championship... and Black? As usual he’s just popping up from time to time to give you cunts a pep-talk, haha. You guys can’t even take over an episode of Slam anymore; much less the World. That’s okay though, you see this ground around my feet? It’s solid. Seriously breh; I could Riverdance on this shit. No quicksand here. Everest is the future; Pantheon, #beachKrew. Krewtheon… whatever the fuck you guys are. Well, you’re just the last little piece of the past to be preserved in a museum somewhere and reminisced about when times are tough.
R - R, is for Relentless. Which is pretty much your whole shtick, right? You’re the guy who wants to be glorified because you don't know when a fight's lost. Because youre so fuckin' stupid you don't have that little voice in your head telling you to stay down when getting up's just going to get your ass beat bloodied and battered. See I'm not really seeing how that's a selling point; but maybe that's just my smallmindedness. I guess I just don't see how a guy who keeps getting beat when the battle's already lost is anything to be proud of. Sure, I've taken my share of losses lately; why? Not because any of these mooks have actually been better than me, no. Don't be fucking retarded. But, because this... all of this, is professional wrestling. Grow the fuck up and accept when you get handed a handful of losses like a man. Stop getting up and spouting this inane shit about being unstoppable, you're just consistent-- that's nothing to brag about; herpes is fuckin' consistent.
S - S, is for Slam. See you Sunday, Slugger.
T - T, is for Torture. A man you will never be able to hold a candle to… and in my honest opinion, that’s still setting the bar pretty fuckin’ low son. but nevermind how I see the fuckin' throwback-- let's talk about what you see through your rose-tinted shades when you look at the former Hall of Famer. See, I think you missed the part where Tort was actually a somebody BEFORE he won the Hardcore Championship, that isn't what made him a legend. It's what kept him on the books for longer than he should've been.
U - U, is for Unemployment. But don’t freak out. I know it’s a scary word in today’s world.
V - V, is for Vigilantism, and the fact that I’ve just this second outlawed that very thing within these; the Chicago city limits. Now take your group of super-friends and go stay in Detroit or some shit. I'm sick of you hippie heroes sleeping on the floors of bars and shacking up together to save some sheckles. Chicago's hospitality industry is on the rise; we need everybody on board if it's ever going to prosper, that means using such new-fangled things as 'hotels and inns.' I know, it's scary the first time you have to actully pay for something out of your own pocket but that doesn't make it any less true. The fuckin' Guardians... not one of these dicks is a homeowner. You know what that means? No collateral. What's there to stop you creeps from just becoming the villains yourselves? No, I'm not taking the chance. not in my city. there will be no more heroics; consider yourselves exiled.
W - W, is for the Weatherman. Because you’ve blamed your losses on everybody else lately. Why not do as the song says? Why should the weatherman go blameless?
X - X, is not for Extreme. Puh-lease... pass this along to Wilds.
Y - Y, is for the Yellow Pages; and you’ll have to excuse me here because I’ve decided to be considerate of recent WCF Network legislation and keep my output to a jobber-funding-friendly level of production. There you can have my copy. Now; phone some better people to tag in on Sunday. Jus flip it open and point to a name man, seriously. Anything’s better than the two tall glasses of derp you’ve been lumbered with.
Sidney J. Warwick is a millennial, vegan cunt. Adam Bass Mark II. Hello/Goodbye motherfucker’ll be here two months. Tops.
Jaice Wilds is just a cunt in attendance. He just shows up. Ultimate Destroyer Mark XXXVII
Sorry, I kinda had to toss some suggestive shoot on those guys in here so it didn’t seem like I was being racist and just victimizing you because you’re black. So, kindly tell ‘Sidster’ I’m not doing that, my black lawyer agrees. I don’t hate you because you’re black… I hate on you because you’re ranked higher than them, and I don’t waste words. The fact that you happen to be an overcooked shitcunt with no redeeming qualities and a patchwork personality-- that’s semantics, not a hate crime. I’m a fuckin’ Columbian guy teaming with a bald, white mafioso who claims to be a kingpin cocaine merchant. Please guys, tell me again how I’m the dog and you’re the hydrant. Everything you are, Andre... is made out of something your friends or family were; you’re a fucking ode to everything you’ve seen and heard over the years. You’re not black, how could you be?
YOU DO NOT EXIST
You’re not a person Andre, you’re the last will and testament of angsty teenage years amounting in nothing. Now, allow me to wrap this fucking thing up before I end up triggering myself by proxy. Where was I? Ah, yes...
Z - Z, is for Zip. The last thing you’ll ever hear...
… that zipping noise as it all goes dark. Another bodybag sealed, another life lost in the ghetto. See, it’s just like I said… All’s well that ends well. Equal rights. Everybody should be treated the same. Bury this fucking bathroom attendant next to the rest. Play us out, Andre. It’s over; you’ll be comfy in the afterlife, it’s much less stressful being dead.
♫♫ Now you know your ABC’s,
next time... try notjob to me.
next time... try not