Post by Crow McMorris on Jul 19, 2017 21:41:22 GMT -5
The hot fire burns my veins, coursing through me like an endless scream. I can almost hear my blood vessels pop and burst as I try and walk. Vision is a memory now as Seth smiles. The bastard is beaming while slam dunking my needle into a bin, ripping away a set of medical gloves with a flourish. What the fuck has he injected into me? This isn’t Fugu fish. This is no internet definition. It feels more like a vial of bleach with an acid chaser as a new manifesto relays its sickening orders back from the decaying recesses of my mind. The manifesto wants me to kill. And to feast. Its face is hidden, but it’s mouth roars now and I cannot ignore its demands. The ring crew leads me to the ring as Taylor looks on from ringside afraid. Please, God! Don’t let her come any nearer! I want to strip her bones bare now and tear out her eyes. My fists tighten, as I try and hold onto a glimmer of what was me as Damian stands opposite, poised and seemingly in control. But it’s too late for me to stick to the plan. Everything is just too late.
D ▲ Ψ T H R E E
Dawn draped itself over an ugly pit of desolation as shafts of early morning haze skipped and danced amongst the wreckage and the bodies. Fire Truck sirens seemed helpless and distant as a blitzkrieg of circling police choppers created a downforce of debris, a dangerous byproduct of their search for “survivors”, whipping up pockets of hungry flame that threatened to reignite the entire area. This site of pure carnage was the twisted remains of the 2300 Arena. They say Springsteen played his first few gigs here back in the seventies; a small smokey venue full of history and passion. Now it’s metal skeleton was hunched and lame; while it’s concrete skin entombed the charred bones of over two thousand three hundred fans, “sanitized” for the protection of mankind.
Even for Seth Lerch, this “Gas Explosion”, was uncharted territory. The Master of Puppet’s back catalog had mainly consisted of assaults, shootings, blackmail, occasional incarceration, and Torture. But this event was unprecedented. Seth wore an overcoat that was two sizes too big for him, a poncho of sorts that he casually stole last winter from a charity shop. He hoped the inclusion of the drab gray blanket would add an extra aura of authenticity for the cameras that shadowed him as he tiptoed daintily over hot spots of destruction, foul pools of cremated death where Lerch’s keen sense of smell suspected of housing rotting separated limbs.
As a news crew encircled Seth, his loyal entourage of stooges flanked their Captain. Hank Brown held a bird cage containing a single white dove inside. The fowl seemed disinterested in its hellish surroundings as Seth brushed aside his fringe and addressed a shocked world.
“I spoke at length last night with the board of directors about what choices we had available. We considered all options on the table, including abandoning the remainder of the event as a sign of respect. But after much deliberation, we concluded that canceling seemed a hollow tribute to all those that had lost their lives during this “festival”. We at Wrestling Championship Federation remain keen to honor them. To contribute to the global outpouring of grief in some small way. For us, that means life goes on. We booked the 2300 arena for two nights. Tonight is night two. And the event will go ahead, regardless”.
“How?"“You seriously have a permit for this?”
A cacophony of confused questions rained down righteous (and completely logical) indignation upon Seth as he looked away and conspicuously inspected the Dove while shuffling his feet. Eventually, after the few minutes of awkward silence, Seth answered. Resolute in his barefaced cheek.
“Mark my words, this will be a moment in history that will define us as a species. I’ve always considered us a frail, overly emotional race, one who constantly seems to bounce from catastrophe to catastrophe, unsure as to how to handle each new stumble that presents itself. Tonight, however, we draw the line. Tonight, even before every victim has been identified, we will set up a wrestling ring right here at the very heart of the tragedy and put on a show of unbridled violence. We will send off the dead to Valhalla, with the wind at their backs and glory only ahead. I believe it was...it was..."
Hank holds up his phone so that Seth can better remember the name, “Catherine the Great.”
“...Catherine the Great who once said, “I beg you take courage; a brave soul can mend even disaster.” Each of you here, take courage. Take courage from the WCF in this great nation's hour of need, and join us in a celebration of the indomitable human spirit. Today, let us set courage free!”
Seth nods at Hank to open the door to the Dove’s cage. The animal refuses to go airborne, sensing the insensitivity of the flight plan. Seth gives the cage a half hearted kick and improvises.
“It’s sad. This is a sad day. Questions?”
“Lester Bing, Rolling Stone Magazine. What condition is Crow McMorris in? And will he be able to compete tonight? He seemed deranged at the end of his “Zombification” match with Damian Simmons. Has his supposed “viral infection” subsided? Social media says there’s camera phone footage of the military--”
Seth wipes a slither of heat from his brow. This coat was a stupid idea. But it does cover up a multitude of sins, namely the forensic remains of Gary the referee, that still clings like a membrane of guilt to Lerch’s torso.
“Yes, the Military were invited to the arena, as they are every PPV event. We have free passes for all members of the armed forces, so occasionally, they arrive in force to join in on the celebrations. As for Crow? He’s well. No so sure about alive, but he will compete. As sharp and as erudite as ever. I know Meltzer and others had their doubts before this event, but our former People’s Champion will, I’m sure, be ready to disassemble Andre Aquarius inside our second arena; an especially created location, forged by a team of Junk artists who’ve let loose their nightmares, and allowed them to run free. We call this event simply, a Junkyard Match. SickWaves Blackamura versus The Murder Machine. Let’s see who’s made to last”
I can’t speak, that’s the first thing I know. My guts are tied up in knots as I shake and sweat in a fetal position. A set of handcuffs abrase my wrists behind me like slow torture. With my hands tied it makes the notion of standing up that much more arduous, but that’s secondary compared to the soldier with the flamethrower.
The officer is young; his visitor cuts off at the chin and while information is limited that’s not a face that been shaving regularly for more than twenty years. His hands shake as I look up. Do I really instill that much fear? Then I remember tearing out a referee’s throat, and I decide to sit back down.
Can I blame myself for that? I didn’t inject the needle, but I provided the vein. Fucking Seth! This time he’s gone off the deep end trying to one up, Corey. My clothes, they smell of burning flesh. Was there a--
Fuck! Where is Taylor? Is she okay? I need answers as I try to speak. My throat is parched and my larynx is swollen. The noises I make are scaring the Officer so I pipe down for now. There’s nothing more I can do but wait as my nostrils take in an acidic breeze of gasoline. Where is this place? It smells of rusted Chevies and Studebakers.
Taylor’s svelte silhouette stands under the glare of a tower of nearby headlights. Hundreds of them, stacked as high as a house. Dimensions and shapes eventually pull focus as I see that I’m leaning against the rusting shell of an old school bus. Its yellow carcass is stripped for all it’s worth. Around me are monoliths of stacked vehicles of every description. Judging by the web of illumination that runs from each it’s dusk or later. The Soldier doesn’t seem in a hurry to move as Taylor takes a step out of the light towards me. She’s pretty always, but her eyes are haunted and cautious. I love her so much, but I’m glad when she stops. She’s safe and well; I can deal knowing that.
“Crow. The fight is still on. Aquarius wants to compete.” Her voice is flat. Cold. She keeps her hands by her side as if ordered. She probably has been. “No sudden movements or the monster might get rattled”.
I simply nod. I hope they don’t expect a promo before the match because I don’t think--
“Crow, your uncle is here. He wants to speak to you.”
Taylor takes a step back as a shadow, tall and round, eclipses everything and everyone around us. The Shape has arrived. Vincent “Buddy” Roman is impeccably dressed as ever. Suit pressed, tie neat with a watch of solid 24 karat old school. Buddy has no fear of the Soldier or his toy as The Shape simply marches up to me and places his huge paw upon my brow. Buddy used to be a boxer before turning promoter, his grip is like a vice, but not tonight. Tonight he’s here for his boy. The boldness of the move feels like he’s trying to impress me. Win my trust. Fuck, they must think I’m feral.
“I send you out for a Tuna on rye, and you end up in this government cheese predicament. Brawn requires brains, my boy! Crow McMorris-Roman, what will I do with you? Now, shall I bribe this pup with a matchstick and cart you back to UCI?”
I shake my head.
“Good. Then let’s get you up on your feet. I’ll announce your arrival.”
The Soldier’s mouth motions to speak. Yet the Shape’s stare steals his tongue. A breath caught before a sentence can even be uttered. A moment later, and I’m free of my cuffs as Vincent swaggers to the ring, his monster client, and Grandson trailing doggedly behind him. I’m Intimidating during the procession, evil even, as we collectively soak up the hot reaction of the crowd. I know how to play this part, work it, but I lose some of that menace as I’m taken aback by the incredible structure I face. A circlet of juggernauts stand before me, cannibalized trucks twisted into monsters with floodlights for eyes. I hold the ropes down for my uncle to enter as he’s handed a microphone. This part should be fun.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, I am Vincent “Buddy” Roman. Some of you will remember my name fondly. It is a name that is synonymous with the crowning of Kings. Others, those of you of a less informed disposition, will simply see a fat Jew standing in a wrestling ring with a microphone, the advocate of a deranged Zombie. Perception, that’s the key here Ladies and Gentlemen. Perception is the cheese wire that garrotes the neck of an ambitious don. Or the bullet that murders an idealistic President. Perception, It slays monsters, it also devours five foot nine, one hundred and seventy-nine-pound children; attempting desperately to hang with a seven-foot tall bulldozer, reincarnated in human form.”
“Oh Andre, your ambition will now be the death of you. The pitiful end of Jimophy Thuggin's, “least favorite Earth Child. Like Icarus and the sun before you, you reached too high, too soon. Now you’re a perpetual man baby, with a head full of gangster, but a mouth full of Shark cum. Andre Aquarius, the Jared Homes Cheerleader that will never grow up. The frat boy Kunta Kinte who dreamed he was a wrestler, even when he was super kicked through walls for fun by his own faction. Even when he proved to be the weak link once again during Trios 2017 as he inhabited the black sidekick stereotype of the Dag Riddick Gang. Your talent ratio, “Third best Andre”, is only marginally superior to that of your Hobbit frame. And yet you swagger around the WCF still under the deluded impression that #beachkrew is still a thing. No, It’s not a thing. Just like punk, is no longer a thing. #beachkrew is nostalgia for millennials. That blackberry you had fun with back in 06’, but has no purpose anymore. You’re a niche interest, Andre, you’re hipster nostalgia. While my Grandson? He changes perception. Because with his power and skill and might there is clarity within the horrors he will force you to endure. A truth your blind eyes will be forced to see. In this ring tonight, you Andre, will be chopped and scraped and sold off as mementos to the fuccboi legion that still clings onto hope that Hunter Updegraff will return. You simply don’t get it, do you, Andre? You’re finished as an entity. Masta Jared has abandoned the cotton field and you’re left to wander the crops alone. Straight into the path of a murder machine. Ready to feast upon your soul and tear you to shreds.
You’re completely oblivious to what’s next, aren’t you? You run around town acting like a fifteen-year-old “bruv bruv” white kid, crying over Drake’s final album, while security kicks your triggered bones out of Hot Topic for pee peeing over your skinny jeans. So you go sit at home, waiting patiently for the next time a John Rabid comes knocking and takes pity on you; dragging your mid-card ass, kicking and screaming, towards a minor victory. The last time that miracle happened was two weeks ago, so you still have some of that chutzpah left, running through your plebeian system. You feel you can take on the world, don’t you, Andre? But look around you. Perception, Andre. Perception is showing you the gallows, and you can’t wait to wear the noose.
This match will be a mixed race child, lost in aisle three, wandering out onto a busy street and being hit head on by an eighteen wheel human worst case scenario. Don’t you realize by now? My Grandson would have spared you if it wasn’t for the fact that Seth took his ability to reason away. His ability to stop himself from snapping your neck. He’s perfection now. A McMorris in its purest form: total and complete undiluted evil. And you, Andr, have no counter for that. Take a look at Simmons’s scalp the next time you see him. Notice something missing? Yes, that’s, right. His scalp. It’s gone. Eaten by the Murder Machine. And tonight, it’s the main course time, a plate of light skin, washed down with a side order of two more points. Somebody call for #bottleservice, my Grandson is about to…."
CONQUER THE HATE