Post by David Sanchez on Jul 25, 2017 18:53:17 GMT -5
XX: Sickago [1]
A: ATALEOF2DAViDS
Every part I play is just a variant of my own personality.
No real character actor, of course… just me.
Michael Gambon
Every part I play is just a variant of my own personality.
No real character actor, of course… just me.
Michael Gambon
Bi-Monthly Press Conference
Mayoral Plaza
The Eye of Everest
Chicago, Illinois, USA
07/10/2017, 10:00
Mayoral Plaza
The Eye of Everest
Chicago, Illinois, USA
07/10/2017, 10:00
“Citizens… it has been brought to my attention over the past few weeks that an unknown and alarming number of you are starting to question whether or not I’m still the right person to be sitting in the Mayor’s chair, as far as Chicago is concerned. Recently, my assistant has been inundated with letters from those among you that are unable to tell the difference between the man you see on the news and the man you see on WCF televised events and pay per-views. As such, I have taken it upon myself now to enlighten the masses and remind everybody of exactly who they are dealing with through the medium of a spot the difference exercise. I would be thankful now if you could all turn your attention to the footage you are about to be shown.”
Two very short vignettes are shown. In the former we see David Sanchez; dressed in a dapper Prada suit cutting the ribbon to officially open Hope Valley Healthcare & Wellness Center, with Seth Lerch at his side. In the latter; we are again shown Sanchez-- only this time he’s in his wrestling gear and repeatedly kicking a female, African American jobber in the side of the head.
“One of these men you’ve just seen is a real-life human being with independent thoughts and feelings. Just like each and every one of you watching at home. The other is a fictional character you watch on your television screens; no different to the Bugs Bunnies and Bart Simpsons of time immemorial. Now… we’ll try again. Viewers at home-- try and see if you can figure out which is which. Bonus points if you’re able to do so without asking an adult.”
Another duo of videos play. In the first, Sanchez is shown delivering a knee-lift brainbuster to Bonnie Blue on the concrete floor. Whereas in the latter clip; we see him serving soup to the needy in some shabby service kitchen. Complete with a hairnet and smile of obvious artificial origins.
“Now… who’s ready to hazard a guess?”
With no further footage to behold; we’re finally treated to a full-length view of David Sanchez sitting behind his solid mahogany desk; his reading glasses pulled over his pale blue and emotionless eyes. He greets the camera with a dazzling and ensnaring false grin and continues to speak to the viewing public as if they were retarded squirrels; incapable of unassisted living.
“If you said the guy in the suit was the real David Sanchez… then you’re just as fuckin stupid now as you were the last time you entered a voting booth. That ain’t me babe. I’m the other guy; the one beating on women and blacks for the fun of it. The one who cracked the skull of another performer back in November for costing him a pointless loss. The one who spun his knee-brace and buried it into the scalp of a legend in this sport; just to get a win I was probably getting anyway. I’m the guy who shut down all the churches; just to watch the God-squad turn into rioters, and give me good enough reason to condemn them without looking like a cunt. I’m the guy who built Hope Valley where Humboldt Park used to be-- a low-income housing project with it’s own hospital, it’s own commerce and employment prospects. A charitable act of generosity, and way to keep people off the streets? Or a heroin strewn labour camp for the poor? Who knows! Wait, I stopped being coy, didn’t I? In that case I do... it’s the latter.”
He straightens his back and begins shuffling some documents in front of him.
“Now that we’re all clear on what’s real, what’s fake and what’s a Jason O’Neal brand fairytale... I’m here today to announce the release of my promotional works for the Ultimate Showdown match that’s set to take place in Richmond this weekend and I wanted to get ahead of all the salty tears and heated, retaliatory barbs on Twitter. With this all said. I’d like to wish you all a pre-emptive, speedy recovery when it’s all over and done with. Please send any hatemail care-of Taylor Wright. I’ll be far too busy flaunting the World Championship around Chicago to deal with all your petty, petty concerns. Now; goodnight, and Golden God bless. Wait… forget about that last part.”
The scene cuts suddenly; static creeping across the screen before the first part of this promo actually begins.
B: HOSPiTALBEDS
I got one friend,
laying across from me.
I did not choose him,
he did not choose me.
- Cold War Kids
I got one friend,
laying across from me.
I did not choose him,
he did not choose me.
- Cold War Kids
Main Elevator
Quarantine Ward 1B
Hope Valley Healthcare
Chicago, Illinois, USA
7/27/17 - 20:45
Quarantine Ward 1B
Hope Valley Healthcare
Chicago, Illinois, USA
7/27/17 - 20:45
LEVEL ONE - ELEVATOR DOORS CLOSING - GOING UP
“So… I take you got the same text as I did?”
“Something about coming to the hospital urgently; this hospital… a public hospital of all places. I can practically feel the SARS crawling over my skin.”
LEVEL TWO - MAIN LOBBY AND EMERGENCY WARDS - GOING UP
“Yeah, sounds like the same message. Any sign of Pascal?”
“I didn’t see him, then again; he does kind of become one with the drapes in a room from time to time.”
“Oh, that’s not SARS you’re feeling on your skin by the way; it’s sweat. I haven’t seen a single air-conditioning unit since we got here.”
“Piece of shit, public hospital. So this is pretty much where Chicagoans go to die then?”
“In a nutshell... yes.“
“I didn’t see him, then again; he does kind of become one with the drapes in a room from time to time.”
“Oh, that’s not SARS you’re feeling on your skin by the way; it’s sweat. I haven’t seen a single air-conditioning unit since we got here.”
“Piece of shit, public hospital. So this is pretty much where Chicagoans go to die then?”
“In a nutshell... yes.“
LEVEL THREE - THE STEVE ORBIT MATERNITY WARD - GOING UP
“Any idea why we’re being asked to meet him here? I mean, I get that this place is new and stuff. I just thought that when he had the Eye erected-- that was going to be our treehouse or ganghut of sorts.”
“Not a clue, Steve. It’s probably just to laugh at somebody. He sent me a number of spot the difference style picture messages comparing bedridden inpatients to a variety of garden vegetables.”
“Not a clue, Steve. It’s probably just to laugh at somebody. He sent me a number of spot the difference style picture messages comparing bedridden inpatients to a variety of garden vegetables.”
LEVEL FOUR - GRAYSON PIERCE MEMORIAL MENTAL HEALTH WING - GOING UP
“He named an entire treatment wing after Gemini? That’s a nice touch.”
“I’m sure it’s probably just to hype Ultimate Showdown. He’ll likely rename it to the Katherine Phoenix Center for the Clinically Insane or some shit when Sunday’s over and done with.”
“I’m not following you…”
“Oh, that’s right. You were still doing that whole Eddie Felt… ‘thing’ last year. Gemini won the Ultimate Showdown match, and the World Championship. He was actually on quite a streak of good fortune before well, y’know…”
“I’m sure it’s probably just to hype Ultimate Showdown. He’ll likely rename it to the Katherine Phoenix Center for the Clinically Insane or some shit when Sunday’s over and done with.”
“I’m not following you…”
“Oh, that’s right. You were still doing that whole Eddie Felt… ‘thing’ last year. Gemini won the Ultimate Showdown match, and the World Championship. He was actually on quite a streak of good fortune before well, y’know…”
LEVEL FIVE - QUARANTINE 1A - GOING UP
“Did anybody ever like… actually look into that whole thing? I mean... was it ever proven if Dave was directly responsible for Grayson being repurposed as dust in the wind?”
“Nah… I think it just got swept under the rug, like everything else of questionable consequence in the WCF. I think the autopsy declared the cause of death as being a series of untreated head-injuries over an extended time-period. On the plus side though-- Massa Bates broke the mould and throttled me senseless at that sad clown’s wake. I like to think that was the first step in his self-inflicted exile.”
“I think this is our floor, ain’t it?”
“Nah… I’m sure he said it was the Sixth floor. You might be right though. From outside, it only looked like the build had five floors. How many did you count?”
“I didn’t. I was checking to see if any of the vagabonds in Dave’s constituency had swiped Seth’s golden slab from outside yet.”
“...and?”
“Nah, there’s a little aesthetic damage around the edges-- so somebody has tried bu…”
“Nah… I think it just got swept under the rug, like everything else of questionable consequence in the WCF. I think the autopsy declared the cause of death as being a series of untreated head-injuries over an extended time-period. On the plus side though-- Massa Bates broke the mould and throttled me senseless at that sad clown’s wake. I like to think that was the first step in his self-inflicted exile.”
“I think this is our floor, ain’t it?”
“Nah… I’m sure he said it was the Sixth floor. You might be right though. From outside, it only looked like the build had five floors. How many did you count?”
“I didn’t. I was checking to see if any of the vagabonds in Dave’s constituency had swiped Seth’s golden slab from outside yet.”
“...and?”
“Nah, there’s a little aesthetic damage around the edges-- so somebody has tried bu…”
LEVEL SIX - QUARANTINE 1B - DOORS OPENING - MIND THE GAP
“I guess this is where we get out; strange. I could’ve sworn this place only had five levels.”
“Do you smell gas? I’m pretty sure I smell gas. Also, the doors aren’t opening. Yeah… I’m pretty sure… Ste… gas....
The doors to the elevator remain sealed shut; in spite of the robotic voice’s cautionary advice. I don’t need to see what’s unfolding behind the doors because I already know how this one plays out. Standing in a white lab-coat and reading glasses with the medical equivalent of a gasmask over my nose and mouth I press my ear to the cold steel doors, eavesdropping on my two imprisoned partners as the knockout gas is released inside their little suspended tomb. First, I hear some muffled attempts to shout for help, but these are soon replaced by two human-sounding thumps on the elevator floor.
“Can I turn the air-conditioning back on now?”
Taylor sticks his head out of an open doorway a few rooms down the hall from where I stand in front of the now-parting elevator doors.
“Yeah, sure. Why not. Flip it back on and then drag these two down the corridor to the quarantine zone with the rest. I’m going to go and fetch Josef from the Doctor’s lounge and tell him we’re ready to begin.”
He disappears momentarily; a chugging sound followed by the whirring of crisp, cool air letting me know he’d managed this remedial task. Was this pride I was feeling? Who knows. Whatever it was, I lift my glasses and inspect the fallen bodies of Steven and Ethan now that the doors are completely ajar-- letting the lingering fumes pass me by.
“I’m on my way-- hey, wait! Are there any more of those breathing masks at hand?”
I pass Taylor by in the hallway, shaking my head and watching as he pointlessly pulls a blue pair of polyvinyl gloves over his freshly manicured hands so as to avoid being infected with whatever he thinks is afflicting Ethan, Steven and everybody else I’d had taken to isolation over the last few days. I marvel at his naivety for a brief second; wondering what it would be like to live just one day with his limited mental capacity-- to marvel at the easily explained miracles of modern science and engineering thinking them to be magical, whimsical things.
“Uh… Dave, how am I supposed to move the bodies without breathing in the gas?”
I could barely hear his latest retort, but I take it in anyway; shouting my response as I turn the corner in search of the Doctor I’d placed in charge of this little project.
“Work it out, Taylor. Consider this a problem-solving exercise; next week we’ll try learning about 3D shapes, and if you get those two weights on my coat-tails to the containment ward without too much of a fuss I’ll even let you watch the Good Dinosaur DVD I found in a cupboard down in paediatrics.”
******
It was almost hard to watch, even here in the middle of the room. Away from all the depressing casualties that surrounded the walls of the quarantine quarters. I’d bought a vending machine quality coffee on route to this; the operational nerve-center of everything I was doing here. To the naked eye, it was just a glorified, technologically advanced nurse’s station. But to me, it was the pedestal from which I’d cure the various ailments of my now-isolated guests.
“He’s definitely getting more resourceful, and he’s exhibiting a lot more common sense. Last year he’d have put them both on his back and tried to carry the two of them here from the elevator in one journey. On elbow grease alone.”
Nodding, I sip the curious contents from my takeaway coffee cup as the delightful, yet dark Doctor Josef Danco pokes and prods at Ethan King with variety of stainless steel instruments. Smiling at Taylor Wright as he parks Steven Singh’s wheeled hospital bed in the final remaining bay; right next to Ethan King’s or as close as one could be anyway, given the circular room and the eight-pointed-star spacing system we’d opted for between gurneys. Essentially, the room was laid out like a snowflake-- with our position marking the center. As vague as that may sound; it’s the best description I could give anyone at this moment in time.
“Yeah… he’s coming on in leaps and bounds, truly. I’d be lost without him, sometimes. It’s a shame he’s not completely committed to the cause. He could just as easily have been in one of these deathbeds as any of these fuckin’ mooks.”
Danco too sips his cardboard mug of joe. Skimming over a dense binder of medical statistics relating to the patients I was keeping here for undisclosed reasons.
“Well, by my reckoning-- that should just about do. Would you like to do the honors, or shall I?”
I look up with a certain sadness in my eyes; watching as Taylor tidies the standard issue bedsheets and pillows that now wrap another of my dear friends; Ethan King neatly. Preserving his fake-tanned face in all of it’s shiny, orange glory through the contrast to the brilliant, surgically clean whites and polished, stainless steel surrounding us all. Dr. Danco starts to look a little impatient, and so with a heavy half-a-heart I think back to a fortnight ago and how I’d already kneed Wright in the dick and dropped him on his head for no good reason but to prove a point.
“You’re gonna have to take this one. I’m feeling very… human, today.”
With a sigh, I shout him over; knowing that I’m probably not going to enjoy watching what comes next. Then again; you’ve gotta do, what you’ve gotta do and as Taylor had proved back in UCI when he burnt down Alex Richards’ bar-- no loose ends could be left to blow in the breeze. Only I could prevent the forest fire that would surely ravage the enchanted clearing I’d built myself should I neglect to cover my ass in it’s olive-toned entirety. No; I had to be safe. I had to be sure… this was the only way.
“Taylor, I got you a coffee from the vending machine down the hall. Come take a load off, good work!”
With a spring in his step, lapping up my complimentary tone he prances over to us. Standing in front of me with a slackjawed smile. Right up until the very second Dr. Danco slips the syringe into the back of his neck; causing him to immediately drop to the floor as though his skeleton had suddenly ceased to support him and given up the ghost. M-99, the good doctor’s tranquilizer of choice was now dancing a sweet Salsa through his bloodstream with the grace and poise of a ballerina. I had to admit, I was a little jealous as I stood above him, finishing my coffee, and fighting the urge to request a little of the stuff for my own sedation-- but alas, there simply wasn’t time to spare, furthermore. I’d just thought of something else that could pose a speedbump on this journey.
“Yeah… I probably should have asked this before we turned Taylor into two-hundred and twenty pounds of dead weight. But did you manage to find some nurses and orderlies to handle the grunt work? Sorry about all the secrecy and rigmarole, I couldn’t exactly put an employment opportunity in the personals, could I? ‘Mayor seeks medical personnel for out-of-hours coma clinic’ -- Doesn’t exactly put out the right kind of vibes, if you get me.”
Finishing his own awful, instant coffee; he nods and turns in place. Busying himself with a computer in the center of the Neocortex of my operations as he replies in a manner which would suggest he’s already bored of what was happening here.
“Two nurses of limited use and intelligence, suitable for repurposing as drug-addled, strawberries or strippers when this is over. Plus… yeah, one disposable dimwit to do the heavy lifting. It’s name is Sandy, apparently. I dunno if that’s a male Sandy, or a female Sandy… but it’s a Sandy. I have a secretary who handles all this stuff.-- I’ll page him, her whatever... now and let you say your goodbyes to your little wrestling friends. Where am I having Taylor taken for now?”
Having already left the middle of the room and pulled a stool up to Steven’s bedside; I shrug my shoulders and bid the doctor farewell.
“Fucked if I care... stuff him in a locker or some shit.”
But this was a lie, I did care. Taylor had done me a service this last year. He deserved better than this. Making a mental note to have him moved from wherever he winds up getting stored into somewhere more comfortable, I pull the curtains closed around Singh and I.
******
“You know, for the longest time-- I regretted the way things went down back when we first crossed swords and made this little union of ours known. That stipulation; the one that stops you challenging for the World Championship, though. That wasn’t me Steven. That was all you. I feel no guilt as far as that goes. You made the choices that led us here to this day; to this tricky dilemma we find ourselves faced with. It was you-- who needed a way to maintain relevancy after two straight losses to Malignaggi, and it was I who provided you with the means to do so. It was you-- who just had to rush into that pathetic pilgrimage for pointless credit against The CAPTAIN. I wanted you to think things through; I told you he had reached out to the powers that be within Pantheon and begged for protection, but again-- it was you, who simply couldn’t follow good advice. I take ownership over a great deal of our shortcomings, both personally and professionally. It was me who lost to Vinnie Jones in the Trilogy Cup; I wear that like a hat. What can I say? Some of us aren’t so weighed down by morals when it comes to taking a dive and making some real money. That’s the thing; you’ve never been a thinker Steven. This air of intelligence clouding you is a veil of witty banter and outdated references; smoke and mirrors for the modern day mug-punters in the stands at our shows. So why you now think there’s some kind of loophole in that ruling, and furthermore why you think you can outfox me in the Showdown match is simply beyond my comprehension; then again… while I might not be morally anchored. I’m carrying a heavier bag than you could ever manage; three of them now by my count. Each item of luggage a little heavier than the one that came before it. Spoilers, Steve-- you are one of those bags I’m carrying; and whether Seth’s word is law on your right to hold the World Championship, or not… the last time I checked; Superstar… suitcases can’t wear beltLike I said though, for the longest time I found myself carrying around a certain guilt. Blaming myself over and over again for everything that went wrong in the early days of Everest. Not just my own losses, but your ineligibility to challenge for the belt you’d fought so valiantly for against Flash. For Ethan’s near-invisibility in a crowded room. For Sebastian Knight… in general. But let’s just look at the bigger picture for a minute or two, shall we?”
It is with a soft voice that I almost serenade my friend of fluctuating levels of consciousness.
“Since I’ve cast the shackles of submissive acceptance and started asking questions where before there was no hope of answers though, I’ve started to see things a lot more clearly. It came to me in a dream; this vision for a shared sanctuary of skill, class and tact-- Everest, only this isn’t Everest as it was in the beginning. No, this isn’t a leaderless collective of main event level talent, trying to overthrow the balance of power and remove Pantheon from their pedestal, no. That wasn’t really working, was it? At some point during our little stay in a Mexican warehouse, filming that bullshit hike up a hill for charity-- I stopped caring about the overall and strayed to selfish gain. I spoke of sharing the crown last month. I spoke about how I was going to win the World Championship at Blast because Everest was the most dominant, decisive and deadly force that this dancefloor ever did see. But when I said it; I already knew it to be wrong. See, it’s all sunshine and lollipops for the Stevens and Ethans of this world; the hangers-on-- me standing here in the fuckin’ spotlight, center-stage with you two would-be threats strapped to my back like I was fuckin’ ISIS... a beard and a burka away from blowing up a subway full of unsuspecting white folks, but what happens when I let you guys do your own thing? These are the thoughts that keep me awake at night. Fear and dread. The knowing that if I were to somehow sprain my ankle or something-- this whole stable would collapse around us, just like your own prolapsing anus does every single time you see you’ve been booked across the ring from the Ripper.”
I longed for the 90’s. For a time where this whole speech would’ve been summed up in the symbolic gesture of cutting and returning a handwoven friendship bracelet. But alas; sour grapes! So, here we are.
“Steven Singh. Of all the names; in all the phonebooks. You went with Steven Singh. That should summarize this whole portion of the shoot in silent, thoughtless contemplation and be all there is to it, but at the end of the day; that’s not what we do here, is it? No… we’re Everest-- MY Everest. Not yours, not Ethan’s, nor Bale’s and certainly not the product of any unknown higher power. Speaking of stupid names though; our stable has one-- and while we’re handing out blame-- that’s on your fuckin’ shoulders. Wear it like a badge, my friend. We’re going to be at the forefront of the most prolific faction in WCF history, soon enough and thanks to your creatively challenged brain, we’re going also going to forever be associated with having the most ridiculous name in the business. What? were you lonely or something? You had to take us all down with you. All the way down to the bottom of the river. We should’ve had a cool name, man something veiled in cliche but symbolic enough that people take notice.”
Stroking his hair softly, I light a cigarette with my free hand-- blowing the smoke into Steven’s face and listening as the monitoring machines he was wired to beep away. Taking satisfaction in knowing how much it'd irk him to be inhaling my fumes; were he actually with us.
“But nope; we’re EVEREST, and that just plain sucks. As happy as I am to mislead people into thinking Tommy Bates is back from 1960s Mississippi with a few jiggaboo juggernauts to do his backwards, mountainous bidding, it’s just not worth it. Not for how many times I find myself writing it down over the course of any given day of the week. Cringing beyond belief; almost into a epileptic frenzy of self-loathing as I put pen to paper. So while we’re allocating who takes the wrapped knuckles for all of our mistakes-- make sure you’ve got room on your thick hide to be branded with that marketing blunder too. The only team name remotely close to being as bad as ours was Cap ’n’ Crook and I’ve gotta think you’re responsible for that too; unless of course you’re trying to tell me you let that slavering, Asian mongoloid name your team-- in which case, it’s still your fault; spastics can’t be trusted with positions of creative power, shame on you then, and shame on me for giving you a vote. You’re a walking testament to this Steve, this is just karma coming around again to correct the balance. You let a special person name your team; that’s delegation at it’s finest. So don’t sit there and think that you’re clear of prosecution for those preliminary fuck-ups. The only difference is that now, it’s not just you who has to pay the toll-- we’re all left sounding like a bunch of fuckin’ Himalayan giants out for revenge on the Western folks for making us hide our abominable presences in the mountains.”
Ashing the cigarette on a sideboard, the little closed-off enclosure I’d created feels cosy and warm-- like a home of my own. Even though all that kept the outside world from bleeding into my bubble was a hospital partition curtain.
“You know what’s even worse than that, though? Besides your thoughtful, brooding villain impression? And of course that barely legal, doe-eyed darling you’re stringing along like a third-prized poodle on a lead. No, It’s the fact that I thought giving you a say in some early decisions might have gotten you off my back a bit… but, no. You just kept wanting more and more. Give a man an inch they said, take a mile; he will. Never have words so true left lips so numerous. I knew this was going to be the way it went before we even spoke, Steve. That’s how fuckin’ smart I am-- before I left Pantheon; I put aside close to twelve million dollars. That’s roughly what I thought was going to be my net losses; the cost, if you will of our crusade. I was going to take a hit financially; of course I was. This was me consciously acting with that knowledge already accounted for, little buddy. So don’t think I’m about to start claiming you owe me money-- that’s weak, materialistic shit. Besides; it goes without saying. Shit, I’m probably bankrolling your fuckin’ Showdown promos.”
I’m already starting to get angsty being in the hospital for this length of time, unmedicated and surrounded by medication; it’s time to try and wrap this up and move on to Ethan.
“My accountant thinks it wise that I start claiming you and Ethan as business expenses to keep the IRS off my crooked ass, by the way. Just so you know. There’s nothing worse than somebody who thinks they’re on your level but lives three tiers below in a shitty studio apartment that smells like cat piss. You’ve been a liability since DAY UNO, Steve. But you’re a funny guy and a good dude to have around due to your constant, endless sobriety and automatic eligibility to play designated driver. So you’re safe from the sickness that’s coming.-- I mean, it’s like having a chauffeur! Sadly, I already have one of those, sorry. He’s probably a better wrestler than you as well; actually! Hold the boat! stop the bus! kick the dog! Why not swap jobs? If Dalton’s Boys can legally hold gold, then so shall mine!”
Mulling it over internally, I decide against texting Javier; the eighteen year old Brazilian boy who parks the black-magical limousine and waits patiently on me; night and day as I do, whatever it is I do. Mostly I just smoke heroin in my tower and overanalyze every tiny little thing from my podium atop Apocrypha. But someone’s gotta drive me around; I didn’t even have a license since the crash. Why not Steve? That’s a steady and secure income with great dental coverage.
“I’m running out of time here I’m afraid so I’ll cut to the chase. Steven-- there’s a disease spreading throughout this city. My city. But I have the remedy. An elixir of old to heal the masses of their afflictions, a master reset button to take us back to the way things should be. Before all the tournaments and the Alpha Title blunderbuss. I’m finally going to get the fuckin’ credit I deserve for doing this same ‘shticks and shtones’ spiel for fourteen fuckin’ years and change without having so much as a single defining moment here. Sure, I’ve had my share of the spotlight, but all my achievements aren’t bragging rights; they read like the start of a book that hasn’t been written yet. Well now, I’m taking the initiative Steve. I’m writing the first chapter in the blood of a Hateful Eight bastards who got in my way. You can choose to chance your arm, I wouldn’t blame you. I would-- fuck, if I were you or Ethan I’d have shattered my kneecap in the parking lot with a framing hammer and balaclava hit and run weeks ago. That way, people might actually know you’re in this match too. It’s too late now though… you’re here. Just lying in wait with the other living cadavers I’m about to carve into. How does it feel to be this close to World Championship gain again Steve? It’s a wonderful feeling. I’ll let you hold it sometime. Just do me a favour and don’t come back to HQ if you wind up winning nothing or some gay gimmick belt.”
Leaning in, I shake the thief’s hand. Stealing a gold ring from his finger in the process. It didn’t look to be sentimental; I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.
“Until Showdown, Steven. Sleep well… this sick, sick world is going to need us soon, and I’ll need you to be strong for when it does. There is a cure for the curse of crumbling champions that’s stricken our home, and it’s name is David Sanchez--
Not because I’m the youngest, or I'm in the best health.
Not because I sell the most shitty, sweatshop merchandise.
Not even because I get the most buyrates and market myself better than the others, no.
Nor because I’ve earned it, time and time, and time again.
But simply, because I’m the pound-4-pound, best fuckin’ wrestler on this planet today...
and that? Well that just makes me the best man for the job.”
C: ETHANKiNGLOUiE
Oh, oobee-doo...
I wanna be like yoooou.
I wanna walk like you, talk like you, too
You'll see-ee, it's true-oo someone like me.
Can learn to be, like someone like you
- King Louie, The Jungle Book
Oh, oobee-doo...
I wanna be like yoooou.
I wanna walk like you, talk like you, too
You'll see-ee, it's true-oo someone like me.
Can learn to be, like someone like you
- King Louie, The Jungle Book
“He’s a lot heavier than he looks, boss. I’m going as fast as I can!”
Sandy-- the colossal, negro orderly I’d elluded to before was in front of me now; Ethan King’s half-dressed, dead-weight on his shoulders as the nurse slips a pair of Prada dress trousers over his exposed legs before allowing the simpleton to set him back down on the hospital bed gently, and with minor strain.
“Okay… first of all, I’m not your boss. I don’t know you, we’ve never met. You report to the doctor, and the doctor reports to me. Kindly fall the fuck back in line with the rest of the rabble. Secondly, you don’t have to tell me how heavy this fuckin’ douchebag is; these shoulders of mine’ll never be the same again; I’ve had to lug him around for so long… and finally-- this is a hospital. A hygienic, haven of recovery. There’s no margin for error here. More haste equals less speed, Sandy. Just a little something for you to think about going forwards.
The one thing in this room that saves the scene from appearing as though some serious sodomy has just taken place is Danco and his faithful medical clipboard, peeking around the curtain and checking up on the situation. He taps his pen on the paper a few times before clearing his throat and allowing the nurse to pass him by, where she vanishes off to another bedside where she could be of more use.
“I don’t suppose you can actually tie one of these things?”
Sandy shakes his head in a way that would suggest he’d never even seen a necktie before as I hold it up, much less be able to put one on. I watch as the doctor sympathetically shakes his head. Ruffling the simpleton’s hair as Sandy the Orderly too, heads off to manhandle another patient in another part of the hospital.
“You’ve been invaluable, Sandy. It’s like looking at twins! Don’t worry, David can handle it from here.”
People didn’t tend to speak for me very often; not since my time in Pantheon at least. Perhaps that was part and parcel with my position as the Mayor. But personally, I liked to think of it as a sign of respect. Of course Danco, he was older than me by twenty-odd years and had seen tyrants that made my regime look lax and easy-going. I never expected any respect from my elders; nor should anyone. It’s just good manners.
“Do you need anything else from me, or are we good here? I’ve gotta go sedate Mr. Price again; his coma thresh is remarkably higher than the others. This will be the third time he’s woken up in a week. If it wasn’t for his history of head injuries, I reckon I’d be having a hard job convincing him this is all just a hospital-themed brothel and he’s about to get his dick wet.”
Chuckling a little, I think of Price lying there in his hospital gown; thinking he’s about to fuck nurse and winding up BEING fucked by evolution… again. Ah, well. I guess that’s why he’s still around. Somebody’s gotta make the next wave of top contenders seem credible. Whipping back around, I look back down at what had once been Ethan, but now resembled myself-- what with the way we’d dressed him in one of my Prada suits.
“Can we make sure that we’re on top of that? I’ve already seen one series of drawn-out escape scenes from him this year. Best we don’t throw him another soft-ball; dude’ll start thinking it’s 2011 and get those nostalgia feels. Can’t we just chain him to the bed? I don’t see how that fucks with the whore-house illusion. Just get the nurse to slutdrop a couple of times while she fixes him in place-- the think cunt’ll probably think it’s his birthday… bottom line; I don’t care how you handle it, just handle it.-- Before I have to.”
Danco turns on the spot, already looking a smidgen concerned for what the underlying meaning of my cryptic response was. With the curtain now drawn around Ethan’s little section of the room I wrap the majestic, purple tie around my left fist and then loosen it again. Thinking over the variables in my mind and fighting off the urge to simply thwart any potential uprising from my friend here with no more than a necktie and some elbow-grease. That’s how easy it would be: just wrap, pull and press. Choke, splutter… silence. But, alas-- I’d probably have to pay for the funeral service, and these guys were running up quite a tab as it was.
“You know, growing up-- back in the tin huts of Columbia. I wanted a little brother for what felt like the longest period of time. It wasn’t for the companionship; I didn’t even know where mom and dad were, so the last thing I needed was a baby brother to worry about getting fuckin’ gunned down on the plantations. Again, much later in life I was presented with the news that I’d sired a child; Kayden Alexander de Sanches, born prematurely to Samantha de Sanches-was-Saint. Still; this wasn’t something I felt any great emotional attachment to. I loved the kid’s mother deeply in my own special way but alas, I never could take to the little tyke. My point, Ethan is that I-- for lack of a better term, well, I’m a succubus. A gaping black hole that consumes anything in it’s range and asks questions later. I’ve had opportunity after opportunity to broaden my scope and bring forth an army of able-bodied males to do my devious bidding, but each and every time that’s became a possibility; I’ve dealt with it before it becomes an issue. This phantom little brother I reluctantly longed for back in South America was forgotten about; doomed to live in my subconscious thoughts with all the other unborn babies and half-baked ideas that a life of substance abuse and unprotected intercourse will stain your soul with. Kayden, well… he met the same end as his mother; wrapped around a birch tree, bleeding to death in a booster-seat while his dear old dad done nothing to loosen the seatbelt. I watched him die slowly, at five years old and I felt next to nothing. If not for Knives being dead on impact, her slender body now serving as an abstract hood ornament… I doubt I’d have shed a single tear."
I comb his hair back out from his brow; sweeping the strands backwards in the way that I had styled my own this morning. With a generous dab of Got2B wax, I get to work on altering his highlighted hairstyle; using my own reflection in the hospital window as a rough reference guide.
“Don’t worry though, King. I know this isn’t quite the time for a heartfelt tale of tragedy and nor is the hour for reflective change upon us yet... that’s all still to come. I say these things to you because on a normal day, my tongue is feline property; the cat has it-- at least when it comes to how you’ve taken to conducting yourself. Don’t confuse my speechlessness for having nothing to say though, my friend. That would indeed be a mistake most irreversible; it’s just that that you present me with such an unusual array of assets and liabilities that I’m worried if I was to draw attention to some of these… shall we say; similarities between us. Well, this would be the day that you revert back to one of your lesser, purer forms--
Ethan King, the PRIDE of Professional Purgatory.
Ethan King, the One That Wasn’t Eddie Felt.
Ethan King, Wanderluster Extraordinaire.
Ethan King, Property of Jared Holmes.
Ethan King, Attacio Twat.
Rattling off a list of false, and humorous identities I’d thought of Ethan as over the years, I begin to wash my hands in the small, silver sink at his bedside.
“None of those guys are any use to me. Not here and now with the entire wrestling world hanging onto our every syllable. So, on any normal day-- I’d be sitting here in silent, strategic contemplation. Trying to figure out exactly how a man who spends more money on topping up his tan and teeth whitening than he spends on means of improving his skills in this craft, can possibly be of much importance to my plans for this patchwork planet and every peasant, parasite or product that calls this rock their home. But it’s one of those ominous ponderings, you know? I’m pretty sure I’m already aware of the answer here. You’ are, to me at least-- only as crucial to my blueprints and their prominence as you are loyal to yourself, or rather; your current frame of mind. This little living shrine to me you call a personality. It’s cute, really I’m flattered, forgive me for suggesting otherwise-- but I just don’t see myself as a role model, kid. I’m all fucked up man… you’ve got, what is it they say? Untapped potential. The world is your fuckin’ oyster Ethan. But instead of enjoying it, lately you’ve just grown tired of it. Learning by watching. were we? That’s mighty independent of you. But unfortunately, it’s the exact same independence that’s gonna stop you going any higher than you already have, and that too is something you already know, but seem to have accepted. When life gives you lemons, eh.”
For what felt like the longest time, I couldn’t find a fucking blemish on Ethan’s record. He’d ate the odd loss, but never been served the pin post-Mexico. What’s more is that he himself was privy to this fact and yet he continued to play dumb. To blend into the background; becoming a side-character in his own life story.
“Not once since this company found its footing again have you choked back the bittersweet grog of being the decisive factor in a loss. You’ve LOST matches, sure. But not in the way one needs to now and again; in order to attain the perspective required to take the next step. But what I’m starting to notice about you ol’ buddy, ol’ pal; is the same damn self doubt that keeps John Rabid posted in his current station-- a stubborn need to be noticed, internally slugging it out with a crippling fear of failure. You’ve probably achieved more in the last few months than you had planned on in the next few years. Not because you wanted the glory though; or because you thought yourself to be deserving of such accolades, no. Simply, because I took you aside, sat you down on my proverbial lap and gave you the fuckin’ business. I broke it down for you; simply and systematically-- catering towards your need to never put your neck on the line unless winning is an absolute certainty. It wasn’t easy, I’ll admit. To orchestrate such things has indeed been challenging, but to preserve this little statistic is to deny yourself the greatness that waits for every man, woman or child who heeds my advice. It’s true Ethan, in my mind anyway. One day, you will be KING. But until that day comes, you’re not but another adviser to the Emperor."
Returning to the purple tie from before, I wrap around the back of his neck and pull each side through the openings in his collar.
"… and my empire, EK-- it’s growing with each and every passing day. I can only hope and pray that you’ll see some sense ahead of Sunday and stick to the natural order of things-- remember, all those nagging doubts? The butterflies in your stomach that keep you cast in the role of curtain jerker? The endless asking yourself if you have what it takes? Those little voices are speaking to you for a reason. If you were REALLY ready, you wouldn’t be feeling those things, friendo. You wouldn’t be dressed to the fuckin’ nines, doing your best David Sanchez impression and already submissively setting your fuckin’ sights on Hardcore. That’s weak shit man, and that’s also why you’ll never be me, King Louis-- you’ll never be a man; just a well-choreographed monkey, dancing for bananas and wondering what it would be like to have opposable thumbs."
With a loop, a swoop and a pull; the tie is tied. Leaving Ethan lying comatose, a barely breathing lookalike of me.
Prada suit - check,
purple tie - check,
dead-behind-the-eyes expression - check,
lengthy unpinned streak - check.
All that remained of the Future King was his fuckin’ vanity-endorsed highlights.
Prada suit - check,
purple tie - check,
dead-behind-the-eyes expression - check,
lengthy unpinned streak - check.
All that remained of the Future King was his fuckin’ vanity-endorsed highlights.
“I’ve never really cared for imitation personally; I mean, I know it’s meant to be a most-sincere form of flattery but to me? Well, it’s always just seemed lazy. Don’t think this wasn’t the plan though; when I rescued you and Steven from your own tragic destinies; to live and die as Doormats A and B. This was always the plan. Neither of you had anything that remotely resembled an idea of how to get over and stay there. Even Singh, who likes to talk about those Bright Lights was just going to be another guy to burn under them and blow away; like ash in the wind. But at least he’d at least have done so knowing that he took it to Joey Flash for the World Championship on a couple of his better days. You? Well, that’s the thing EK. You’re going to die wondering if you could’ve done more-- and really, it’s a nonsensical train of thought. Stick with me kid, and the whole wide world is yours. But should you feel that hunger building? Should you decide that Sunday, is indeed Bloody Sunday, and that the time to crawl out from under the secondhand shroud of security is indeed eminent-- You will be purged and repurposed, stripped of all the little nuances and personality traits you’ve adopted since taking your place at my side…
Looking out the window, I watch the birds taking flight and heading off into the horizon. Wondering if Ethan too was about to flee the nest.
“But then what’s left?”
One final time I look down upon the falsely dubbed Future King, wondering for how much longer I’d have an exception to my call-screening system noted against his name.
“Nothing. A good-looking guy, sure. But handsome or not-- a terminal lack of individuality is a deathstroke in this industry. It’ll get you nowhere fast, and why would it? everything you are Ethan, I could teach to any other monkey in two-weeks… tops.”
Walking back towards the curtain, I part with the same warning I’d given Steven Singh.
“Do try and least cling onto one of those Tag Titles though, if you are indeed denouncing your right to challenge for the big one. It’s not that I don’t think you can beat Andre or John, I know you probably can… but until you know that? You’re no more use to me, than you were to Jared. I’ll see you first thing on Monday morning. Nine o’clock sharp.-- Slugger.”
Turning to leave, I’m blinded by a sudden flash; not the poxy, southpaw punch but the byproduct of flash photography. I pull the curtain shut once more as the paparazzi flood down the hall like so much choppy water. They’d been hounding me since this building was constructed and I couldn’t blame them-- everything I was doing here was indeed very suspicious and mysterious, and that’s how it was going to stay, for now.
“Fuckin’ reporters, that’s all I need…”
Rubbing my eyes, I sit back down at Ethan’s bedside; praying that the doctor is able to prevent these bloodsucking leeches from getting any closer. Immediately, I regret drugging Taylor. This kind of thing; running interference, was right up his street.
C: JOHNTHEREVELATOR
When you can’t climb your way out of such a hole,
you tend to crouch down and call it home.
- Nikki Sixx
When you can’t climb your way out of such a hole,
you tend to crouch down and call it home.
- Nikki Sixx
“You know John, I always wanted to do this somewhere poetic. I’ve got a pretty expansive knowledge of England and the culture there. Figured I’d be able to use that to hurt you in other ways than mere jagged words and dark bruises could portray. Then… I visited Manchester on the WCF Blast! Tour an--”
The door swings open on it’s hinges and before I know what’s happening I’m on my knees; crouching at John’s bedside, hiding from whoever was now standing in the doorway.
“David, I know you’re in here. You’re the only other guy with a keycard. It’s just me, you can come out now. The reporters are gone.”
Wiping the invisible dust from the knees of my trousers, I get to my feet to meet the gaze of the one man I could trust with an operation of this size and secrecy: Dr. Josef Danco; the German-American doctor who’d been responsible for the success of my earlier… studies, a celebrated surgeon and scientist both. But above all of that; the Doctor was a friend and a trusted advisor to both myself and the man who’d brought me to this dance; the late Victor Saint.
“I didn’t think they were going anywhere any time soon. I’ve been hiding in here, fucking around with this Manc cunt’s feeding tubes for three hours straight. On the downside, I’ve missed my dinner engagement with the District Attorney, but on the plus-side-- this guy’s suit pockets were filled with these delightful, butterscotch toffees. Here, try one!”
I toss the little packet of ‘Werther's Originals’ towards the Doctor; who scowls at me in turn and flips the light switch instead of catching. Causing the confectionery to hit the floor and roll under a medical cabinet. Having skipped lunch, my heart breaks a little.
“Dick move, Joe… dick move.”
Still scowling, Danco’s all-business attitude prevails over my candy-curiosity.
“I don’t eat candy, David. Neither should you; it’s terrible for one’s teeth.”
Was he really going to give me a lecture on dental hygiene? I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that my sweet-tooth wasn’t going to be the thing that gets me in the end.
“... Anyway, your uh; Mayorship, it’s about Price again-- his X-rays are troubling, severe reparations have been made to his neck over the years. I’m not certain if this is going to be cause enough to discredit his worth in these… studies. But it’s definitely something I thought you might find useful. It’s amazing what you can discover when you’re being held hostage by a sociopath.”
He was joking; or at least I hoped he was. Either way; time would tell.
“Getting those Cold War flashbacks, Joe?”
He pulls the partition curtain closed, heading across the room to Jayson’s bed where Mr. Every Title lay motionless; wired to the exact same monitors and machines that John here was wearing-- how frightfully embarrassing for them both.
“Don’t call me Joe, friend. You know I hate that. Do I look like FPV's wet nurse?”
Well... at least he didn’t have PTSD. Of all the ways I seen him taking my barbs; this was probably the best case scenario
“As I was saying… it wasn’t supposed to be like this at all, John.”
I lift and carelessly let go of his lifeless left arm; letting it fall to the ground loose like a builder’s bag of wet sand.
“Picture this instead; if you can hear me in there. The date is unknown; it’s assumed that we’re in the future but it’s not made clear. The world around us is veiled in flames. The buildings are reduced to ruins; the ruins are reduced to dust. Is this the Apocalypse? Perhaps, that much is neither here nor there. The glow from the raging fires of a modern day London’s Burning flickers orange all around us; and while the streets and the landmarks torn and dying around us might be familiar-- everybody with which you associate these places has already died a slow, most uncomfortable death. Let’s survey, shall we?-- Your wife and son... Dead and put to child-labour camps respectively. Pantheon, Beachtheon, whatever the fuck you guys were in the end?-- All dead. That Queen on all your make-believe money?-- She dies before the war even starts; I think she was like ninety-eight or some shit though… so she probably had a good run-- Anyway, I digress… Theresa May, Nick Clegg, David Cameron, Gordon Brown, both Millbands, Tony Blair-- Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Double-Dead. Dead. The entire government is gone, but don’t worry I haven’t gone all Last King of Scotland, as you so cutely suggested I do-- I had Alex Salmond and the stonefaced Diesel brand, lesbian mother-in-law looking cunt that was running the show up there lynched along with the rest. I hung them all from the telephone wires likes Christmas lights. It was a thing of beauty John, you really would’ve loved it.”
Again, I lift the same arm and let it fall. Overcome with what could almost pass as disappointment when once again it lands on the bed like a fallen bag of potatoes. I’d hoped for more; for it to somehow grab my wrist instead and for John to somehow rise and take ahold of me. But no, he just lay there sleeping as though his name were Aurora and were still doing that #DarkDisney shit I’d made infamous before O’Neal shat out his own imitation of it and tainted the whole genre.
“So here we are; you and I. We’re the last two standing as the world pretty much burns to a cinder around us. Joey’s vision that brought us all back? That was just a blueprint; a brainfart of a plan you’ve mashed together internally, adding a sprinkle of Corey Black’s gibberish to taste and had the audacity to still call Pantheon… sometimes. What is the actual ruling on that by the way?-- is it like the whole Andy Murray thing? When he wins, he’s British, but when he loses; he’s somehow just Scottish. Is that how it is now? If you lose, you guys are #beachkrew, but when you win-- Pappy lets you call yourselves Pantheon? What a shitty reward. Being branded with those colours now is an outright insult to one’s allegiances. Now, when people ask me what it was like to be in Pantheon; with all those so-called wrestling greats? I tell them through gritted teeth that it was a wonderful learning experience-- and a suitable platform from which to begin my assault on the entire fuckin’ World… a world, which as I’ve mentioned-- I want you to picture lying in broken despair.”
Having grown tired of playing with my toy, I busy myself now by scanning through the notes attached to his medical clipboards.
“I know that might be a little hard, when you’re the one that’s broken; lying in artificially induced despair; or as closely fitted of a chemical recreation as Danco could suspend you in anyway. I was a little unsure if the sedative would even retain its potency when introduced to your dirty, half-breed blood. But, listen to me going on... I’m just trying to paint a picture here, and I want it to be as vivid for you, as it is for me when I close my eyes. It’s not a distant dream anymore John and it never really was to begin with. It’s been fun, these last few months since the Pantheon split-- really, it has been. Everybody’s still dancing around one another. Ignoring the countless, endless casualties of a war that you and I... well, we’ve been wishing for since we first broke breath to one another.”
Walking slowly back to John; with clipboard in hand and a subtle spring in my step I ramble on some more. Now busying myself by further rummaging through whatever junk he had in his pockets when he was taken here.
“Just look at this crap John, this is what you bring to battle?
Chewing Gum, (Bonnie Blue)
Mildly refreshing, if used once in awhile.
Monopoly Money, (Andre Holmes)
Piss-poor credit rating, can’t be trusted with plastic.
and Lint. (Corey Black)
No matter how many times you dry clean, it’s always there.
At least you’re consistent in life. I guess there’s probably the potential to draw from the similarities between these random everyday items I found on your person and what’s left of your little stable… stables, whatever. But that would be mighty petty of me after all this time now, wouldn’t it? So, again. I’ll just leave that to suggest itself… sort of.”
Lifelessly, John looks vacantly up at the lights. His eyes, milky and distant; treading the water between consciousness and counting sheep.
“You’d think that with all the yammering on about bringing me to my knees, tearing down my tower and exposing me to be the hack that I am you’ve been doing-- you know; between saving the world, defending the fuckin’ Coyote Den Championship you can’t seem to ascend from and whatever else it is you busy yourself with nowadays. Anyway, you’d think that maybe you’d have actually… oh, I dunno-- done something about any of it? Instead, you just live out your life looking up at the world from the bottom of a fuckin’ well; and yet you’re the first person to cast shade on Ethan for doing the exact same thing; it’s fuckin’ hilarious from an outsider’s point of view. I get it though John, I do. The Television Title is your safety net, the belt that even if everything else in your life was to spontaneously vanish; the darn thing would still be strapped around your waist; an eleven pound anchor to a division we both know you’re only competing in because you’re actually a viable threat to that class of competition. Meanwhile, up here in the big leagues-- I’m left looking down at the saddening state my friend John has let himself become.”
I can here some form of ruckus from down the hall. Several machines are alarming and the three-person team of medical personnel echo this alarm through frantic, rushed footsteps and shouts for various pieces of medical equipment. The doctor’s mask slips for a moment, his accent slipping through the veil into audible reality, and that’s all I need to know that whatever’s happening is serious. Still though, this was my time with John, and nothing would stop me saying goodbye to one of the only two men in Pantheon I’d ever respected-- nothing.
“You’re a mess, mate. That Serpent inside; the darkness and the smarm? Nope, I just don’t see it anymore. When we met, John-- you were more than just a revelator. You had a plan; an actual plan that wasn’t just the #beachkrew go-to of just ruining everybody else’s ideas instead of doing anything creative… and yet I’m the boring one, go figure. Now though, you just sit snug in your little hole. Eating the souls of whatever helpless jobbers you’re able to lure in with that seductive, silver tongue. There’s no scoundrel left to be seen; now you’re a fucking boy-scout, 57th brigade; patrolling the internet in search of hateful tweets and skulking around the arenas we frequent in the hunt of fresh twink meat to turn to when Wade goes on leave for what, the 8th time this year? I don’t see any trace of my old friend John anywhere. Just… you, whatever you are, exactly.”
With a slight disgust, I poke at him one final time before the curiosity towards the ruckus I was hearing from the other side of the curtain peaks, and I need to know what’s going on.
“Jason. John. Whatever-- Sunday is going to the biggest moment in my the entirety of my fourteen year career. You talk a big game, shit. You never stop talking smack. But can you really afford to leave that little hole of yours for long enough to even put a fuckin’ chink in my armour anymore? It certainly doesn’t look like it, man. Matches like this; the big matches. That’s where I fuckin’ shine like a diamond Johnboi; and if memory serves, using Final Destination for an example, at least. The closest you’ve ever came to tasting victory in one of these turbo-gay matches is getting pimp-slapped in your whore-mouth by Steve Orbit before Logan stepped over you both. Me, on the other hand? I won that match; decisively and with relative ease. Sure, as you might like to point out; I did indeed go on to lose the rights that entailed to FPV. A mistake of my own making that haunts me still. But you can’t really throw me under the bus for that shit; when you-yourself shat the bed before you even got invited to that particular slumber party. As for the loss in Trilogy? Who fucking cares. You think I want to be like Jared or Dune? One of them is chained to a radiator in my basement and the other is wearing a tinfoil hat somewhere in Boca. Sketching the patriarch of the Malignaggi family and talking to invisible, intergalactic entities. Nah; I’m good-- cheers though. My point here is that you can’t really say a fucktorn thing about me, without slating yourself in the process-- see while you’ve just sat there, reading the Tortoise and the Hare and laughing to yourself like you know something I don’t…”
A final look out the window, and another limp handshake. On my way out of Rabid’s room I kick the sideboard aside on it’s wheels. Retrieving the fallen butterscotch from earlier and stuffing it in my pockets with the rest of the junk.
“It doesn’t matter how patient you’ve been John. All that matters is that in this scenario; you’re neither rabbit nor turtle-- you’re the gopher, Rush. Burrowed in a hole, five miles from the finish line, holding onto your stolen garden vegetables for dear life and making your little tunnel system as confusing and easily collapsed as your little factions were. Sunday, well it isn’t going to change anything between us. When the Ultimate Showdown’s over; everybody will be exactly where they should be, and we can finally put all of this ugliness to rest. So go ahead Ripper. Spend the next five days trying to think of a clever way to call me bland, ethnic or addled. With each and every revelation that leaves your lips John; so to is born another opportunity to exact a most ironic measure of revenge. I haven’t choked a man out in quite some time. You might even say, John.
… I’ve been saving myself for you."
Walking behind the curtain and back into the open, circular arrangement of deathbeds it soon becomes clear that whatever had happened was still causing a problem. Exactly what was wrong still remained to be seen, but I’d have bet money on it being Dion dying on us... again.
D: SENSE&&SENSiTiViTY
“It is not everyone, who has your passion for dead leaves.”
― Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility
“It is not everyone, who has your passion for dead leaves.”
― Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility
“The patient appears to be suffering from severe malnourishment Mr. Mayor. In the duration of his stay; he’s only eaten 7 grapes and a spoonful of French Onion soup. Reluctance to consume hospital food is a common thing we deal with here, but usually the patient succumbs to the hunger after a few nights; a week tops.”
I study Danco up and down; his stern, expressionless face as blank and suggestive now as it was when we’d met in Paraguay all those years ago.
“How long has he been staying in this particular facility?”
Josef doesn’t respond; his ‘no such thing as bad news’ policy a troubling affliction for a doctor tasked with such terrible things.
“Three months, six days. This would be a lot more worrying but he weighs the exact same as he did when he signed himself in.”
His assistant spoke instead; her head buried in a medical clipboard so as to avoid making eye contact and accidentally appearing human and somehow responsible for Sidney’s starvation.
“He… signed himself in? Does this happen often?”
The two doctors shake their heads in stereo; yet neither seems to think this as strange.
“It’s been known but it’s not exactly standard operating procedure. He walked in off the street at the end of April and demanded we treat him as though he were suffering from post-natal depression. Then also said that failing to do so would be sexual discrimination or something. I don’t know. My staff made the decision when I wasn’t on shift and admitted him for an overnight. At first I questioned their reasoning but after a number of conversations with Mr. Warwick and a few routine tests, much to my surprise... he has as much right to be here as would anybody else in this condition. Although his affliction is not thought to be directly related to depression-- post-natal or otherwise. It has become clear that he is suffering from something called IDD; that’s Irritating Disposition Disorder.”
I raise my eyebrows, as you would when presented with what sounds like a completely made-up disease. But Danco in turn raises his own greying brows to match. Telling me without words that this is actually a real, honest-to-science thing.
“... You’re fucking kidding me.”
The female doctor shakes her head; unable to add much. In truth she was a nurse. I’d paid her to wear blue scrubs instead of pink so as to appear to have a more diverse hiring policy. Know your audience and all that shit. After-all, I was technically running this place-- even if it was from a shiny metal tower over in the horizon.
“I’m not a comedian, my friend. Further worsening the facts though; Sidney now knows that he’s been diagnosed with a legitimate illness and this seems to have caused the condition to deteriorate to the point that he now refuses to acknowledge most human instincts and urges. Using the time he would once have ‘wasted’ eating and sleeping to raise IDD awareness in a way that doesn’t lower the awareness of any other associated afflictions. He was getting really difficult to care for; slowing his own recovery to a standstill; so he was placed in a chemically induced coma on the 21st of July.”
Even as a medical professional-- one who has served on the frontlines during times of war. One who has seen unimaginable horrors and performed sacrilegious surgeries for thirty years. Danco is forced to let out a sigh of indifference and bring his palm to his face at this point.
“What do you suppose I could do to make him more comfortable? I don’t expect a minstrel show or an afternoon at the stripclub is going to be something he’d have enjoyed were he even still conscious.”
The nurse posing as a doctor shakes her head before offering me a hardback novel and her kindest; ‘haha, sucks to be you.’ In the form of a suggestion.
“You could read to him from this... It’s Sense and Sensibility. People in a persistent vegetative state are often soothed by the spoken word.”
I snigger a little; not really seeing how this could be so.
“Is there any proof in that, Doc?”
Danco shakes his head, much to the chagrin of his glorified assistant.
“Nope. Not one bit. It’s an old wives’ tale, er... I mean; old gender irrelevant person’s tale.”
She studies the good doctor up and down before taking her leave as Josef and I stride through the double-doors and into the main ward where I find myself to be immediately in the center of the same circular room from before. Surrounded on every side by hospital beds filled with the bodies of my Ultimate Showdown opponents. The partition curtain had already been drawn over three of them: John Rabid, Steven Singh and Ethan King having already been laid to rest; their parting sentiments delivered over the last few visits I’d made to this life support station.
“His is the bed with grey sheets. We figured hospital-white might offend him, somehow. I’ll be back in ten minutes; try not to smother him with a pillow. As tempting as it might be; even in a coma this guy is annoying; he just radiates ‘ugh’ from every orifice.”
The aging doctor turns to leave, his hand already on the door before I can question him.
“Is that your professional opinion, Josef?”
He turns and smiles. Leaving the door to swing closed between us as he busies himself at the nurse's station. Presumably not sexually harassing a female colleague due to the nature of the promo. Leaving me to pull up a chair and approach Sidney’s bedside. I lick my lips and open the hardback copy of Sense and Sensibility to a random page and begin to thumb through it. Skimming in a disinterested manner as I start to speak in an equally unattached tone.
“Hello, Sidney. You don’t belong here, do you?… But I guess you’ve probably been hearing that you’re entire life.”
Jane Austen’s novel can’t really hold my focus; instead I lay the open book across SJW’s comatose, cunty face as one would throw a sheet over a bird's cage to shut it the fuck up.
“... I for one, recall a time where the WCF had a secondary championship; the United States Championship as it were. This is, excuse me-- this was... a prestigious belt held by Hall of Famers, world-class athletes and damn near everybody who took the hard route to becoming World Champion for over ten years here. It used to be the number-two title! Second prize in this dick measuring contest we find ourselves entering on Sunday. Now? It’s a joke. Or it would be, if it even existed. Nope, somewhere during the ‘Great Talent Drought of 2016’ Seth took it upon himself to address the fact that he had more rookies than he could shake a shot at the TV title at, and scrapped the concept in favour of the belt you carry today. The Alpha Championship; a belt that’s already caused enough damage in the form of Jason O’Neal (see: Maven’s stunt-double.) A belt that let some dick named Adam Bass (see: SJW, Mark 1) waltz around like he was worth a damn for a solid month, even after getting murked by some Chink in his second week. A belt that’s brought about the disappointing rise to-- and sudden, subsequent fall from glory of CJ Phoenix (see: probable future UCI main eventer.) A belt that gave some fuckin’ decrepit, Frankenstein’s Monster looking motherfucker with friends in low places; Jaymz (go to article: New York Taxi Driver Found Guilty of Murdering 19 Female Passengers.) a purpose, and a belt that’s ultimately led us… to you, Sidster.”
With little to no thought behind my actions, I lean forward. Jabbing my index finger into the fattiest part of his abdomen I’m able to identify; unsatisfied with his BMI.
“Let’s talk about you for a second or two, shall we? There’s a lengthy anecdote here, I’m sure; stating how you don’t really deserve to be in this match to begin with and should probably just go ahead and choke back a shotgun barrel before we get to Richmond and save yourself some heartache. But… alas, I’m sure you’re probably offended by the very notion of owning; let alone firing a gun. So let’s just comb over that entire ensemble of home-truths and move on to the nitty-gritty. Sorry Sid, but there’s only so many minutes of intimacy available to a man of my stature. Especially in a public hospital; I can already hear the paparazzi scuttling around in their glove compartments for a memory card. Slurping back the last of their 7/11 Latte-To-Go and hiding behind a concrete pillar in the parking structure, preparing to pounce out on the charitable Mayor Sanchez, and photograph him paying his last respects to his afflicted opponents… such saintly behaviour.”
Stroking my neat stubble, I further stray from the point.
"Anyway, Sid… As I was saying, time is of the essence here so we’ll just get this out in the open before I get any further lost in thought and forget what I’m meant to be doing. You, my flapjacked friend are without a doubt-- thee worst kind of person. I’m sorry; I know that’s really vague but I feel it’s imperative to the overall result. You’ve came in at a time where as far as newcomers are concerned; all you really needed to do in order to earn their tinfoil-hat/crown was manage to wrestle and breathe simultaneously without choking on your tongue or starting any fires. Congratulations! It’s almost poetic that you’re here; Lord-Elect of the Spasticated and Downtrodden. That’s the thing; the Alpha division isn’t even about newcomers anymore, it’s just one slightly-less shit guy murking a lot of other shit guys in shit matches for a shit championship with no real worth or purpose in the revised landscape we’re building here. I’m sorry Sidney; but in the WCF under my rule there would be no Alpha Championship, nor Jay Omega. I’d merge the fuck out of your little handicapped-parking space league with the People’s, the Internet AND the Television divisions, and restore that belt to it’s former, greater glory as the United States Title.”
Sniffing, due to the high-pollen count at present. I blow my nose on a tissue I take from his bedside table; resting the snotty rag on his chest as I continue.
“Just think about it Sidney. You could be a somebody in that world. In my Design for Life you could be a capable commodity at that level-- but no higher. NEVER any higher; you’re simply not marketable on a main event level. Sure, you’ve got dem’ vegan bitches soya-creaming in their hemp panties but all those minority groups you represent? They’re all broke as fuck. Ain’t no t-shirt sales on Skid Row, Sidster… my heroin sells like hotcakes though, go figure. So which of us is REALLY looking after the needs of the needy? I’ll leave that to the discretion of the viewer. Anyway; yeah… all those bums, those gays and those feminists; they either a) don’t give a fuck about professional wrestling or b) they’re too poor to afford the shows and the merchandise. They’re a dead-end as far as market segmentation goes, so why we’re even entertaining your opinionated ass to begin with is beyond me. But, I guess Seth probably has a plan for you in his own Grand Designs; maybe you’re the next Scoutmaster?-- fuck, maybe you’re the LAST Scoutmaster… A last ditch; bottom of the ninth acid-test to see if gimmicks still have a place in Sports Entertainment or not in 2017. Spoilers - they don't."
I feign looking around, before looking back to Sidney as though he were some ridiculously obscure, thought-to-extinct species of reptile.
"Smart bets are being placed Sidney, and the bookmakers all sing the same song; you’re character heavy-ass doesn’t have a place anymore. You’re two years too late, my feisty friend. Those #Beachdicks killed the need for a divide between actor and character in the WCF. Nowadays-- we’re all just unbelievably generic, vapid cunts; not just on the surface but deep down to the bone, and to everybody but our nearest dearest friends; on-camera and off. Who needs a gimmick when even the good guys are cynical assholes? What’s the point in pretending to be anything else anymore? Popular culture and protest rallies can only get you so far, man. It’s time to see what lies beneath this pasty, Quorn-sausage sucking mask of yours; because if you’re only a series of whines and opinions; you’re going to be forgotten with the rest of the ‘Where Are They Now?’ cast of cunts that ever held that bullshit, burdensome belt of yours.”
With nothing but disinterest, I fiddle with the venetian hospital blinds; letting more and then less light into the room at the turn of a cord that I twist in a way that could have passed as childish if not for my being a bitter, old dude with bags where his cheekbones once lived.
“In truth, having you here is nothing short of a drain on my time, money and resources. I own this place, by the way. Just in case you missed Slam and you’re sitting there like: ‘Lol, this guy’s losing his mind.’ I mean; don’t get me wrong-- I think my swan song for sanity was sung a long time ago; but I’m not delirious. That’s all you baby. You think you have a chance because, what? You won a tag match with Dion in the opposing team? Those levels of optimism are just plain unhealthy SJW; that’s the kind of dumb logic that makes it so easy to think of you in the same light as FPV or anybody else who still thinks it’s fucking cool to use their middle initial for marketing purposes. You don’t add inches to your dick, and you don’t add letters to your name-- it’s just well, dumb.”
I try to do it with my own name, internally - coming up with DDS; which I feel sounds a little too akin to perhaps a brand of late eighties cassette player.
"So you see Sid, while I might have treated in you in the same manner as the Magnificently Mediocre Seven other men in this match, don’t fucking kid yourself. What, you thought winning the World Championship when your go-to move is a glorified flapjack mixed with a sketchy powerbomb was a genuine possibility? Stick to the picket lines and PRIDE parades, faggot. Your capitalism-castrating, fuckpuppet views on modern society are no longer welcome. Or, hey... why not concentrate on a lesser belt... like Andre’s? You’ve set your sights too high and started believing your own hype; that’s the first step towards saddening, soul-crushing defeat. Take it from me, that’s more or less MY gimmick-- meta, or otherwise. The world we live in is rotting; dying from a disease it doesn’t even know it has, and I’m the only fucking antidote-- sorry, Spence. What’s even your fucking strategy here?--
1) Make it to the final two, mostly by hiding in the third row and posing as a fan.
2) Distract Sanchez with a series of pie charts and PowerPoint graphics relating to Chicago’s treatment of the working class, window-licking waste of white-flesh demographic.
3) Then, when he’s mulling over the made-up numbers; kick him in the knee and win the World Title, and indeed Ultimate Showdown with a fuckin’ Oklahoma Roll.
2) Distract Sanchez with a series of pie charts and PowerPoint graphics relating to Chicago’s treatment of the working class, window-licking waste of white-flesh demographic.
3) Then, when he’s mulling over the made-up numbers; kick him in the knee and win the World Title, and indeed Ultimate Showdown with a fuckin’ Oklahoma Roll.
Seems legit brah... #DreamBig”
I laugh out loud, gaining furrowed eyebrows from the nurse who was now watching me, probably wondering what I was talking about and what happened to her Jane Austen novel. Realizing the time, and how long I’d been talking to this fuckin’ vegan vegetable-- I seek a swift and symbolic ending to my speech; swiping a tiny charity pin from Sidney’s suit-jacket that was folded and left inside a steel tray at the bottom of his bed. The exact slogan escapes me. It was some bland, campaign drivel to the effect of: ‘Equal Rights Da Bess.’ or something like that. Anyway, I stuff the badge into my pocket where it falls in line with Singh’s gold ring, Ethan’s timepiece and John’s butterscotch candy-- basically all the useless, keepsake junk I’d swiped from the opponents I’d already visited. Straightening my purple tie, I stand at the bedside and bid Sidney farewell with little to no emotion.
“It’ll be okay for you though, Sidster-- it’s a lossless night for you! While some men, like myself have gone for the all-or-nothing approach; you’re left filling space in this match with a ‘something, either way’ mentality. No matter how you look at it, you’ll still be a Champion when the night. Worst case scenario is you still getting to leave with the worthless belt you brought to the dance and while that might be sickening in its own right; it's not what I’m looking to heal. I’m here to rid the world of one particular disease; the terminal lack of a champion we can all be proud of-- think of me as life support if you will, Sid. I’m keeping you all alive forever, just by sparing you the humility of actually showing up on Sunday. Sleep well, time’s a’ changin’... soon, your belt too will be melted down and smithed into a solid gold toilet seat for the Champion’s Lounge, so it finally gets to live where it belongs.”
--TOBECONTiNUED--