Post by Crow McMorris on Jul 20, 2017 21:46:16 GMT -5
King Of The DeathMatch 2017
Pennsylvania, Day Three.
Crow McMorris V Andre Aquarius
Burning cinders float upon the night breeze like escaping antibodies as I look up from the hot Earth. My spine is flat against the dirt, ears leaking blood down my bruised cheeks as I spit out saliva soaked morsels of stale bread and used maxi pads. I can’t hear shit, eardrums shattered into dust following the huge explosion of the nearby car crusher. The molten hot debris of the compactor has created a raging firewall between my heaving, sweat soaked body and an anxious battalion from Pennsylvania's Carlisle barracks. The excitable Guardsmen pace and shout orders but their words won't extinguish my one chance to escape as the odds increase from an odd quarter.
“Do you require assistance?”
It’s Taylor Lorde. I can’t hear her half decent quip, or how her body squeaks and moans while poured like honey inside that white and crimson skin tight latex Nurse’s outfit. Still, it’s heaven to behold nonetheless. She’s flanked by similarly dressed extras, “Suicide Girls” hired to bump up the night’s sex factor. Taylor did a stint once as a lap dancer before announcing for indy shows. She’s working it now, subconsciously distracting me from my agony while containing her desperate need for me to move.
I try to answer her, but it’s impossible, sound and vision clear only briefly, then retreats. The world tunes in and out like radio waves lost within the fury of a brainstorm. I only have slender moments of clarity now, simple phrases crashing against the rocks of perception. It’s not enough for a conversation as she smiles and understands. I want to reach out to that perfect gift of compassion she offers me and devour it whole, but I will my arms back down to my sides instead as I try and stand.
Yet everything feels like shutting down. Knees buckle. I double over. The Murder Machine has been scraped. Time to--
“FIGHT, CROW!” Taylor screams. That much I know as I read her screaming lips. “I LOVE YOU, YOU FUCKING BUM! NOW, GET THE FUCK UP!” Somewhere within I have to discover some strength. I make deals with my future, an era of moderate tranquillity down the road in exchange for one last burst of life for a dying zombie.
There, focus on that. Now move! Move faster! Now run! Die on your feet this time! Military issue bullets fizz past my ears as I use my body to shield Taylor’s. Along the way I see Andre’s unconsciousness frame. I don't think as I scoop up his idle wrist and drag him a few hundred yards behind me from the flames. No need to check back as we reach a waiting white Van with blacked out windows. I know Andre’s safe as I let go of the pup. That’s my one good deed for the year. World don’t expect another.
George Romero smiles, his spectral form intermixed harmlessly with the crackling flames. I think my philanthropy just made that old ghost happy.
“You did good, son. This contest is some fuckin’ trippy shit. I dig it.”
Finally, I can hear Romero again. But that can’t be a good sign.
I feel hands drag me inside the vehicle, tires screeching as we pull away. There’s a smell that’s familiar among the burning rubber, gasoline and Taylor’s liberal splashings of Coco Mademoiselle.
It’s Zim Quilla.
Ɖ Λ Ɏ F Ω U Ř
I wake up naked inside a bath of cold blood. My crooked, vile veins have been opened up all along my septic arms as long, translucent lengths of IV cable pump red convoys of hope and despair in and out of my system with equal diligence. Seth’s sulphuric acid is being excommunicated out of my crashing system but the process is taking its time. The irony of the situation, however, hasn’t eluded me as I sit there and contemplate. To escape Seth, I have to remain still; like a marionette, awaiting the tug of the strings so I can stand and perform. I try to speak, but while the goal is closer, it still eludes my grasp. Words I can form, but sentences seem jumbled and lost to me. Whatever this stuff was, if it could almost kill me then the general population would be annihilated. Does this event link in with my dreams of New York?
Hours pass as I hear the cries of the future echo through my lucid dreams. I see a New York submerged beneath Wade’s catastrophe. Moors own “Church of the Tide” singing whale songs for the desolate deep as the Statue of Liberty lies shattered; prostrate on its side with its eyes blind to the tragedy that has befallen it’s home. My journey, however, does not end here, my gaze follows the insanity down city blocks and across town. I can see the Hammerstein Ballroom now, covered in barnacles and rotting under an aquatic siege of sustained pressure. Inside, it’s refurbished opulence has given way to the grime and grit of its hardcore heyday. Armageddon suits this legendary structure, the deep has forced it’s renovated facade to face its past and to embrace its spiritual calling. As I travel down its corridors I can see the limp bodies of my competitors; Simmons, Oblivion, Aquarius. Entering the arena itself there is but one that stands before me.
The fat man smiles as he greets me. Wade doffs his Panama Hat as a cascade of air bubbles escape from his mouth as he utters a simple greeting. “Welcome. Careful...he is prepared.”
I turn to face Jaice Wilds. My knuckles crack as I have all the time in the world. One of us needs to breath. The other simply needs to listen.
THE BUDDY SYSTEM
Salutations readers! Welcome to the return of my somewhat informal blog. Today I address one out there among you who has a vested interest in Crow McMorris-Roman’s somewhat precarious condition as of late. My Grandson wishes me to pass on the good news to you, Jaice Wilds. Crow is fine. He will be fit and ready to compete in tonight’s Celebrity Deathmatch. A King of the Deathmatch contest held within the pulsating bowls of the legendary Hammerstein Ballroom.
Tonight I can guarantee that this pinfall or submission bout against you "Xtreme Aerialist" will be absolutely merciless in its straightforward execution. Each Coma Kick. Each Murder of Crows will act as another point blank gunshot wound entering the career of the condemned man. Your time is dwindling, Jaice. So with that in mind, perhaps I can make the transition from minor lower card workhorse to glue factory a little less harsh. Jaice, let the Shape educate you in the art of the shoot. We’ll begin by discussing an important element in the genetic makeup of winners.
Today’s word, Jaice, is truculent. It means “eager to fight”. Just think about that word for a second. Think about the notion it connotes. Of actually being a man for a change, with balls dangling between your Brazilian hobbit legs and a fighting spirit to match your endless dreams of titles you’ll never own. Notions of actually being a human male (rather than your current eunuch pipe dream fiasco occupation) Imagine being blessed with Crow’s honed neanderthal-ic capacity to rip apart another man’s skull like a blood orange. That last idea sounds completely alien to you I imagine, doesn’t it? Try it out though, try and imprint that strange, yet imperative emotion onto your flaccid, vegan only history. Envision truculence rewriting that roll call of statistical embarrassments you call a career; that shameful collection of failures that are now inexplicably weaved through the uninspiring threads of your misbegotten existence. I know, it’s impossible, isn’t it? Truculence, just imagine if you had some truculence when you first joined the WCF? I wonder how different that white hot day at the end of August last year would have been?
That was the day Jaice Wilds first walked through our crooked doors. You seemed so eager to get started back then. You were a competent, but not too flashy Wrestler. You were this half decent mechanic who might’ve had the spark, who might’ve had the willpower to take that next step, if only you really wanted it. If only you could dig down deep into that well where the hate resides and unlock that spark of motivation, that elusive quality that separates champions from peanut vendors. But your DNA just isn’t constructed for such elaborate giant steps, is it? It’s meager. Brittle. But most of all, delusional.
Your life Jaice Wilds is this nauseous carousel that constantly repeats itself over and over. You stand five, six. One eighty four pounds. Yet you see the world while standing on the tallest soap box in history. In reality though, I don’t know If Crow should wrestle you tonight or carry you around in a matchbox. And yet, you still have these big dreams. “Oh Golly Gee, I’m just sure my luck is gonna turn around this week and I’ll get on that winning streak! I’m just so Golly Gawd Damn Gee sure!” I’ll give you this one compliment Jaice, you do exhale optimism by the pound, but unfortunately for you, you also simultaneously sound like a paranoid soccer mom high on her son’s MDMA / Crack stash, wondering where all the years went. For you, Jaice, the wheel turns and the song never ends, you constantly dream of victory, let in reality, when your matches (shock, horror) happen, you constantly embrace defeat. So far over the course of the last two months you’ve lost in Tag matches. Singles matches. Championship matches. Meaningless matches. Your strike rate is, pound for pound, worse than Adam Young during his notorious FIST era. It’s a damning indictment of affairs, and there’s no end to your misery in sight. The Very Big Alliance hammered you into a post it note on a nothing Slam for fun. Sidney J. Warwick read you a nice bedtime story one Mexican night about three ethnically diverse bears and one male Goldilocks who likes farfalle before tucking you in for the night with his finisher and running off with that Alpha title. West Virginia had its faith in human nature resurrected by Jason O’Neal as he buried you with ease for the one, two, three. And of course, our diminutive Social Justice Warrior trounced you once again at Madison Square Garden. New York is the city that never sleeps, even while you, Jaice lie hilariously face down, choked out and helpless. Another night without that Alpha title, another night without a belt that continues to elude you.
But never fear. For the King of the Deathmatch tournament has granted you your wish. An actual win. You picked up the big W over Damian Simmons in a chairs match. Contrary to what our over excitable announcer’s in WCF believe, however, this was not a match of the year candidate, it was all perfunctory and entirely expected. The slightly less desperate wrestler (you) won over the flatlining scalped never do well (Simmons). In this universe, Simmons and Udy will forever lower tier. Aquarius and yourself are stranded as middle-class worker ants with aspirations that will eventually corrode into bitterness over time. While my Grandson exists as your eternal overlord. Your physical and mental superior, built to shatter the snow globe realities of those he considers among the delusional and the insane.
Jaice, you’re nothing more than a formulaic “safe-core” highflyer. A bland Roy Speed knocks off without the guts situated down deep to match the sickly saccharine overtures of your promos.
Trust me, this match will not be a challenge, Jaice, because you cannot reciprocate. You’re not “working your way” through anyone Jaice. You’re capitulating under your opponents as they flatten you. That eternal optimism sinks your career every time and shortens your lifespan because you don’t allow the hate inside to guide you. My Grandson of Destruction will annihilate your Pleasantville, Ned Flander’s lite existence. You, sir, are incapable of operating under the same sky that my Grandson towers over. The Block King is about to become THE King.While you Jaice Wilds, will be consumed within his wraith, remaining...
My rejuvenated body wakes from its slumber, the IV drips in my arms feel extraneous now as I remove them with one prolonged operation following another. Unfettered arteries sing now, whole and untainted. The Yoke of Seth Lerch has been cast aside as I stand and survey my current location. This is Buddy’s Westchester County retreat. The Shape’s private getaway from prying, insolent eyes. Beneath my feet is a chequered marble floor, upon which rests a solid gold bathtub. The black and white tilings carry the Shape’s unique family crest that Vincent commissioned several years ago. It’s ostentatious and crass and perfect for Gramps.
“My Boy, you’re awake!”
The Shape had startled me as he threw me a towel. His heavy lungs exhaled into his bright yellow hazmat suit. My movements must have alerted him, and Taylor, who is also similarly clad in biohazard armor. Taylor waves as she sees the man she loves returning. Maybe a bit too much as I wrap the towel around me.
“Yes, my boy. Jaice Wilds awaits.”
“The future awaits.”
Pieces of the puzzle I have.
Now? I want answers. What is the fate of New York? And if I become it’s new king incumbent, can I protect it?