Post by David Sanchez on Jul 30, 2017 9:38:59 GMT -5
US/XX: Sickago [2]
E: PUBLiXCERViXANNOUNCEMENT
Ashes to ashes, funk to funky.
We know Major Tom's a junkie.
Strung out in heaven's high,
hitting an all-time low.
David Bowie.
E: PUBLiXCERViXANNOUNCEMENT
Ashes to ashes, funk to funky.
We know Major Tom's a junkie.
Strung out in heaven's high,
hitting an all-time low.
David Bowie.
Necurat Funeral Service
Recycling Bin Area
Publix Parking Lot
Minneapolis, Minnesota, USA
07/23/17 - 02:30
Recycling Bin Area
Publix Parking Lot
Minneapolis, Minnesota, USA
07/23/17 - 02:30
“Rashes to rashes, rust to rust. In the sweat of thy ginger face shalt thou eat thine stale bread, till thou return unto the dumpster; for out of it wast thou taken: for garbage thou art, and unto garbage shalt thou return.”
Internal, imaginary bagpipes accompany my fraudulent, mocking of the last rites now as I drag the zip-sealed bodybag out of my trunk, hauling it out and onto the tarmac underfoot where it lands with a dull thud; like a bag of wet newspapers. The night sky is calm; stained orange by the light pollution of so many lampposts and neon signs. That wasn’t my problem to dwell on though, no. As it happens, I was more concerned with the sensitive soul that had met his end in Chicago and spent the last three days in the limo’s trunk, being driven to this-- his final resting place.
“Dion… it didn’t have to be like this you know. I mean; personally I’d have bet the bell of my dick that it would wind up this way regardless but you could have at least made it interesting, instead of just dying from the pressure and stress of your first championship defense. I had this whole big thing planned out, man. I’m almost disappointed in you, or at least I would be if I actually expected anything else but I think deep down-- the moment you l were declared the victor at Blast; this was always going to be the most likely outcome. Even when I took you into the hospital with the others and made you as comfortable as was possible, you still soiled yourself at the thought of being outed as a one-hit-wonder and took the easy way out. It’s almost sad.”
Trying my hardest to steer clear of the streetlights, I drag him towards his means of attaining enlightenment. A chariot, not silver like he would have prefered but grass-green in colour; and akin to a dumpster in shape and well, yeah… it was just a dumpster that I’d thrown a duvet cover inside upon first arriving here.
“I’m not suggesting that you killed yourself; say what you will about those with suicidal tendencies-- at least those who manage to end themselves do so by their own heart and command, and that takes balls. Unlike you, Dion. You didn’t take your own life, but you weren’t about to let anybody else take it from you either. So, you did what any self-respecting hobo does when he’s ho’d his last bo… you simply, and cowardly lay back and let the rickets, the malnourishment and the nightmarish idea that you could go from World Champion to nothing inside of a month eat away at you. Until, finally… you could suffer no more.”
His head, or rather what I assume is his head; thumps against the concrete as I tighten my grip on the bodybag and drag him down the curb; navigating a few stray or otherwise out-of-order automobiles that belonged to either the Publix nightshift; or the local drug scene. In truth though; the car park was empty and the store had been closed for a few hours. These vehicles likely belonged to the charming people I’d hired after finding their information on the deep internet. Were they probably just a bunch of guys into necrophilia? Probably; but they’d listed themselves as freelance, Greek funeral directors-- and that, was good enough for me... and better than Dion deserved.
“So, I guess this is going to be where it all ends for you, huh? Buried in a dumpster behind a supermarket. Exactly how Seth found you-- fighting for cheese and washing your fuckin’ trunks in McDonalds’ bathrooms. I figured it was the least I could do to bring you back here; even set you up with some super-interesting people to see you through to the other side. As a little quirk, I even waited until just before dawn on the third day to dump your ass off. I couldn’t find any loved ones or relatives to deliver you an offering though, so I just tossed a couple of sugar sachets and a half-eaten McChicken Sandwich in there with you-- I’m not really sure if that counts, but eh… you’re dead, and you’re not really Ancient Greek so... who even cares?”
I spot them a mile off, three men aged in their thirties; all white and unshaven. They lurk beside the dumpsters at the back of the store and immediately two of them approach with smiles of yellow teeth and an air of social awkwardness about them.
“Goodbye, Gladiator.... I guess this is where our story ends.”
They mutter something eerie, high-five then drag the bag of Dion away towards his final resting place as the other talks to me in a creepy, robotic voice.
“Blessings of the Divines be with you, my friend.”
Nope. I’m not doing this. I didn’t have time to entertain this oddity and figure out what was happening here. Not my problem.
“Yeah… I’m not buying it. Are we good here?”
The two other weirdos unzip the bag and subsequently shake their heads in disappointment towards the man in front of me.
“We thought it was a chick?”
Already walking away, I turn back only to shout the first thing I could think of.
“He is... the guy’s a HUGE PUSSY. Have at it.”
Shrugging his shoulders, the guy goes back to his friends. Opting to still load Dion’s bodybag into their portable sex dungeon; beautifully masked behind an old campervan and not the dumpster it was parked next to. Lighting up a smoke, I start walking back to the rental driver who’d already been spooked by the bodybag, when suddenly my phone rings.
“Josef, how the devil are you?”
“Not good David. There’s been a problem... “
“What? Never.”
My feigned surprise only serves to try the doctor’s patience.
“This isn’t the time for sarcasm Sanchez. it’s Price, he’s missing. The orderly went to check his IV and change his pissbag about an hour ago and he wasn’t there.”
Okay, so maybe this was a problem.
“Have you checked the sexual health wards? He could just be roaming for diseased poon. Or the cure for having one.”
One more little joke couldn’t hurt, could it?
“Cute, Dave. Real cute. I don’t think you understand quite how serious this is.”
“You’re overthinking it, Joe.”
Ah shit, that one slipped out.
“Stop calling me fuckin’ Joe. I’m a doctor. That’s not a doctor’s name! It’s JOSEF, with an F to make it sound FANCY!”
The German accent came out more when the doctor was angry. Much like the Incredible Hulk-- I didn’t like him when he was angry.
“Calm the fuck down DANK-OH, it’s Price. If it was anybody else, it would be a major concern. But it’s not… it’s PRICE!”
“What are you getting at? I thought the disposable one was already being… disposed of.”
Poor Dionysus, those dirty perverts were probably doing Greek God only knows what to his corpse by now.
“It’s already done, I took him home and left him with friends. Because I’m a mensch.”
Okay, that time; the bait was deliberate.
“Do not use that filthy Jew speak with me you sneaky, dago fuck! I will kill you in your sleep!”
He probably would too. The crazy old coot. He’d cut my throat and relocate to the South. Start a practice under the alias of Swastika Jones or some shit.
“All joking aside, Göring-- I’ll take care of it. The ward is locked down, so he can’t be too far. Has he got his phone?”
I already had a good idea how to find him.
“Shit! Shit! Shit! I’m looking at his possessions tray now. It’s missing! Everything else is here: seventeen dollars in singles, an extra-small condom and a wallet-sized picture of Corey Black. That’s everything but the phone! What if he calls the cops? I don’t want to change my name again!”
Danco had been on the run from one agency or another; living under false identities since 1979. What he’d actually done to begin with, I’d long since forgotten. Victor had told me the tale, once upon a time. But now, it was lost in the grey haze of opiates, mistruths and age. Whatever the cause-- his paranoia certainly had sturdy enough foundations, even if I felt it to be unnecessary.
“Okay… calming breaths. It’s fine. He’s not gonna call the cops. It’s just a waiting game, really. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Try to relax; I’ll handle this.”
“You better Dave, I’m starting to get deja-vu. If he doesn’t show up, or if you’re not back by sun-up. I’m burning this place to the ground with what’s left of your gay little gathering in it. Goodbye.”
He hangs up before I can get the last word in; further shitting on my mood.
“Well, I guess it’s just you and me; nameless driver number 356.”
The seventeen year old, possibly Peruvian adolescent still looks terrified as he gulps and plucks up the courage to talk.
“Where are we going now, Meester David? My name is Joaquin, its nice to--”
Time literally shat a lung and died in front of my eyes when this kid spoke.
“Shut up, Joe. Just start driving. We’ve gotta ditch you in the woods somewhere and then I’ve gotta Uber my ass to the airport. Head East, I’ll tell you when to stop.”
Obediently enough he gets back into the driver’s cab and starts the engine as I squeeze into the back of the shitty black rental limo they’d given me at the airport. Outraged at the poor minibar and virtually drugless seat cushions inside upon receipt, and now on the return journey, I’d have to do so without the warm, fuzzy sensation of knowing their was a body in the trunk. I missed home, Sickago was calling me. Connecting through bluetooth; I slide through my albums for a second before selecting David Bowie’s Hunky Dory, and exhaling to allow the fallen legend’s words to ease my woes, at least until I could fashion a foil-wrap and get some junk into my bloodstream.
F: TOCẠTCHẠPREDẠTOR
Remember when I said I love you?
Well, forget it-- I take it back!
I was just a stupid kid back then,
I take back every word that I said.
- Alkaline Trio
Remember when I said I love you?
Well, forget it-- I take it back!
I was just a stupid kid back then,
I take back every word that I said.
- Alkaline Trio
Operational Hive
Quarantine Ward 1B
Hope Valley Healthcare
Chicago, Illinois, USA
07/23/17 - 07:45 (Sunrise +3h)
Quarantine Ward 1B
Hope Valley Healthcare
Chicago, Illinois, USA
07/23/17 - 07:45 (Sunrise +3h)
“Haha, I knew you wouldn’t do it.”
Walking back into the circular hospital room, after passing a dazzling amount of added security measures that had seemingly been installed in my absence. Including, but not limited to: tripwire, bear-traps and locked doors where I’m almost certain there was just open space before.
“Shut up, David... we think we’ve finally got something!”
Danco hushes me without so much as a ‘welcome back,’ instead he’s too busy peering over the nurse's shoulder at the computer screen that was displaying footage from a great many number of security cameras at once.
“Uh… yeah. You’ve clearly got a fuckin’ genius in your midst here doc’. Can we lose the fuckin’ bear-traps please? Think about it for fuck’s sake.”
The nurses scarpers, busying herself with what resembled a very large jar of honey that she begins to smear onto the bare chest of Steven Singh at one side of the room. Somewhat disturbed by this, I turn back to Josef and shake my head but he still doesn’t twig.
“Fuckin’ think about it. There’s about fifty reasons that was a terrible idea. What were you going to bait the trap with? A fourteen year-old girl?-- and that’s ignoring the obvious fault in this which seems to have escaped you, comrade. BEAR-TRAPS!... B-E-A-R.”
Still not really listening to me, Danco grows frustrated with the screen. He growls something in German before finally turning to address me in his spinny chair, huffing like the world’s oldest teenager.
“That’s it. He’s gone, there’s no trace of him anywhere on this floor, and if he got out before we sealed off the public floors-- then the worst may already be happening and we need to start preparing. I’ve started shredding documents but--”
“Let me stop you right there. I already found him.”
He lets out a great sigh of relief before questioning me, excessively.
“Oh praise science! How did you find him? Where was he? How did he escape?”
Sipping again from the disgusting, vending machine brew. I begin to enlighten Josef as to how I’d solved ‘The Case of the Missing Pervert.’
“Well… it all started on the flight back from Dion’s funeral. I wasn’t really getting buzzed from the miniatures in First Class, so I decided to huff that half-a-joint we found on Johnny Rabid in the bathroom, and that’s when it came to me! Jayson Price is a pervert and an attention whore-- we don’t need to find him. If we leave him for long enough; he’ll lead us right to him. Sure as I’d had these thought; a quick Google Search led me to a Celebrity Leaks style of website; which featured a full-size picture of Jayson Price’s penis.-- a Snapchat message he’d sent to ‘some skank’ along with the caption: ‘alone and scared.’ and about twenty-six emojis. The picture had only been taken fifteen minutes earlier and sent in from somewhere in Chicago. Anyway, long-story-short he was sprawled out in the fire escape, having fallen down the steps. I noticed the stupid little ‘Hope Valley Healthcare Level 6 - Fire Exit.’ Sign in the background. As for how he got there to begin with… I’ve got an idea, for that too. Call the nurse over won’t you?”
Sandy, the halfwit orderly lumbers towards us now, a completely nude, comatose Jayson Price on his shoulders; before slamming him back down onto the hospital bed in a manner that would make the British Bulldog proud. He seems to then scold him for escaping; but yeah… as I said, the guy’s unconscious so take that as you will.
“Nurse, a word please.”
She replies obediently and runs over as quickly as she could manage, setting the cauldron-sized pot of honey down on a desk as she does so, making mental note to apply it to Price next. Before she can fully approach though, I grab her in a rear naked choke and begin to rip at what I suspect to be a wig.
“Coming Dr. Danco!”
She replies obediently and runs over as quickly as she could manage, setting the cauldron-sized pot of honey down on a desk as she does so, making mental note to apply it to Price next. Before she can fully approach though, I grab her in a rear naked choke and begin to rip at what I suspect to be a wig.
“You see… I figured he couldn’t have possibly done all of this on his own! Not without somebody on the inside, no. So I’m afraid, Josef. That your lovely assistant here, is reall.. CAMERAMAN B--”
The hair doesn’t move. Instead, crying; she tears away. Leaving me with a handful of female hair, and bloody chunks of scalp that hang loose.
“AHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!”
Danco shakes his head at me, walking away with the pot of honey himself in the direction of Jayson. Okay… well, at least I was half right.
“AHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!”
“Could you ple--”
“AHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!”
“If you j--”
“AHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!”
With no time to further fuck around, I quickly grab the nurse a cover her mouth with my whole left hand; using it’s powerful size to smother all of her airways simultaneously. I hold onto the slut for a few minutes-- just long enough for her to turn blue, before letting go and allowing her to crumble to floor.
******
“Hi Jayson. You’ve been quite problematic to keep here; d’you know that?”
For some reason I leave a pause, as though he my still be capable of response.
“No?… Not gonna wake up and scare me? Shame, I wouldn’t be suspecting it and I’m high as shit so you’d have a decent mental edge. No takers, going once, twice… gone?”
Nothing, not even the flutter of an eyelash; even when I turn and place my hands behind my back-- defenseless.
“Oh well, I guess I’ll just have to watch you embarrassing yourself online like everybody else instead of in living colour. It’s almost enough to bring a tear to my eye; you know if I was still capable of crying. Anyway Jay, let’s just fuck already and forget this drawn-out courting shit; shall we?”
Having already spent a lot more time with Price on my mind, and his penis on display than I’d planned; I continue on quickly.
“The year was 2012, the show; some GEW crossover snoozefest, unironically titled: ‘Shoot to Thrill.’ The hype was fuckin’ on. I’d just got back from my third tour of Japan, still competing at the Junior Heavyweight level back then, anyway-- Sam and I, we decided to check it out. So… we packed a two year-old Kayden in the car and went to the event. It was a pretty shitty show in my books: the highlight being a Clockwork Orange abortion between the Polar Phantasm and a younger, but just as unable to deliver under pressure Jay Price. You lost that match; on that night… to a fisherman suplex, might I add; but hey-- who’s keeping track. And in doing so; you lost my respect as a competitor. Not because you lost, no but because you couldn’t live up to the name you’d built for yourself and had to end up shaking that disgustingly pale creep’s hand to save face and seem humbled after the match. This-- well this is pretty much your entire problem now; just as it was back then. I remember hearing 4 Words to Choke Upon hitting the PA that night you came out and I remember how high my expectations were for you. I mean; at this time I was just doing the fuckin’ indies and you guys were making that REAL wrestling money on home soil; When I got to the GEW Arena that night, I thought I was going to see one of the best wrestlers in the entire world make a comeback and prove that he was one day going to be ranked amongst the greats…”
Dis-heartened now, I exhale deeply. Recalling how I felt by the end of that night.
“Corey Black lost to Oblivion in the main event that night; and I’m quite sure that NvL branded Nightmare in the middle of the ring-- but none of this. None of the ridiculously thrown together outcomes on this show left me with quite as bitter of a taste in my mouth as yours did. Last year, I finally learned why; somewhere between choking Polar Phantasm out myself in two consecutive matches, I finally found the answer to my feeling of being let down that day. I guess I’d looked up to you back then, the same could be said for when I first signed with the WCF, three years later in 2015. Almost conveniently; I came in just as you got Coma Kicked to the curb by what passed as Pantheon then, (mostly just goth-kids and some douche that talks to dinosaurs between space adventures.) But you were still a big part of why I weathered the storms of those awkward teething months against Del Sol and Chavis, before finally getting some gold by beating Bates for that United States Title… DESPITE the nameless, useless shitcunt that was substituting for Seth at the time giving me the wrong preparation advice. And d’you know? I couldn’t have done it without you, Jay. Not because you were in any way influential over me by this point in my life, though. No, but because of that contrast I’d seen between 2010 Price-- when I used to watch you on shitty, scrambled Jap TV’s after my own shows in front of 900 gooks, and that lacklustre performance I’d seen from you live and in the flesh in 2012.”
I take Jayson’s memory card out of his phone and toss it in my pocket with the other junk I’d acquired from these comatose chumps. He’d probably thank me for it, honestly. Who knows what kind of incriminating shit was on this tiny piece of plastic.
“You gave me wings, bro.”
I recall the feeling of inspiration I’d felt in the crowd that night in the Golden God forsaken GEW Arena.
“If this guy.... This useless fuckin’ piece of trash can get to very top of this industry. Then there’s going to be absolutely nothing that can prevent me from doing the same. Watching you live, and then wrestling with, and then against you; I’m almost glad I stopped giving a fuck about Jayson Price when I did. You don’t deserve half of the accolades against your name, but you’ll do anything-- even this, a match you’ve got slim to no chance of winning, or even upgrading your belt during.-- to add yet another little undeserving reign to your resume. Why bother packing the CV anymore Jayson? What’re you going to do? Sign somewhere else? Haha… fuck off. If you were ever going to leave it would have been last year when we all went indie-surfing for a few months while Bates and Logan touched some kids and Seth threw a chair at Torture-- or whatever really happened in Mexico. I wouldn’t know; see I was off being Mayor and filling my boots. Because why the fuck not? Nothing better to do at the time. Then the unthinkable happens and we’re all somehow at WAR in 2016, and about a dozen fuckin’ failed HQs later we finally sit down and things are said, shit’s discussed and plans put into place. Seems pretty standard issue, right?”
Pacing to and forth, I recite my thoughts to price as though I were reading from my own past blogs.
“Who was talking loudest? Why who else but Jayson-- going on and on about how he was going to maul these Zero Tolerance jobbers in Hellimination; when at the time-- the nine of us were led to thinking it was only going to be a five-person team we can put forward. It was one of those ‘aw fuck, who’s gonna be the one to break the kitten’s neck’ silences that fell. Everybody knew it, Joey and Jared outright said it-- if that was indeed going to be the case, the team would not include Mr. Every Title; it’s the bench for you, Wonderboy. Time to let the next wave of main event level talent take it’s place front and centre. John Rabid, David Sanchez, Wade Moor, Jared Holmes and Joey Flash…”
I shake my head slowly, imitating the crushing feeling of rejection he must have felt at this junction of his career.
“I’m sure you and ZMAC would’ve been fine watching on from the back; swapping war stories and letting him freshen up your Rohypnol rag. That was the dream anyway, but alas-- true to his character, Seth just threw fuckin’ everybody into that match. Like seriously, I’m surprised Buddy Roman wasn’t standing up on the apron with the rest of us, waiting for the tag. Still would’ve been a better pick than Twilight and Eric Price combined for the opposition though. But I digress… anyway, Price. We ended up winning that match; pretty much in spite of your presence. Yes, I know I got eliminated too; it was thirty three minutes after you did and it was done for the greater good. The whole build up to One, followed by the big night itself for you was just… well, lesbereal-- it was just fuckin’ awful!”
The crushing feeling fades now, instead I’m left with nothing but loathing.
“People say Flash is responsible for bringing Jason O’Neal and his radiant shitness upon us all, but that’s not really the case here, is it? What Joey did was fall victim to time and circumstance. O’Neal never outwrestled him, never really proved a damn thing in taking that Title, other than that he wasn’t ready to hold it, of course. See, by that point in time-- there’s nothing we could have done to prevent things going this way. It all started with you! With that night at One when you dropped the soap and proceeded to let that flailing, bald spastic reach up in there and pull your strings. Too busy were you; playing masked-Price and positioning yourself back at your previous station-- squatting to sit on a rickety wooden stool in the corner of Seth’s office; whistling your own entrance music and licking envelopes for him. That you let this fuckin’ talentless hack expose you; no pun intended, as the joke you’ve become.”
Taking the seat from beside his bed, I scoot right up to his pillow, spreading my legs around the back of the chair like a much younger man and lean forward so my words are now coming from mere inches apart from his face.
“You’re the new Sarah Twilight, Jayson-- she did a lot of shit once upon a time too. Now look at her; fighting for dinner scraps and vaccination shots. That’s what the future holds for you my below-averagely endowed friend. But it’s not all bad, I’m sure you’ll probably look better doing it. All of those wins are starting to pale in comparison to the more recent stretch of meh-worthy matches and absentee or cameo appearances. I’m not about to tell you that you don’t deserve this opportunity, haha-- I’m not that hypocritical. Fully aware, am I that the only person walking into this match without a belt is one David Sanchez of Chicago, Illinois. So don’t think I’m going to sit here and rattle off some edict about how you got handed your spot like you’ve been handed pretty much everything since about 2011-- no. Steven and Ethan are more than capable of covering the obvious. I’m the one that’s here to tell you that it’s okay… that I understand…
Dion Necurat vs Andre Holmes vs John Rabid vs Steven Singh vs Ethan King vs
If anything, that looks more like a Final Destination match than an Ultimate Showdown. It’s amazing what carelessly throwing a few big draws from yesteryear in there can do for revenues, eh Seth?
Dion Necurat vs Andre Holmes vs John Rabid vs Steven Singh vs Ethan King vs Gravedigger vs Jayson Price vs David Sanchez vs SJW
… that’s better, buyrate$ baby, it’s all about the Bingo funds at the end of the day, and personally I’m alright with that. Why should professional wrestling be any different than everything else in life?”
I motion for money with my fingers; yet it doesn’t rain.
“Bale Pascal is a fuckin’ socially awkward upstart. Losing the autistic kid in favour of some fancyman with a three-foot resume and and a three-inch squared penis; no unlike a button mushroom, if you will. Well, that just makes sense. I’m sure we can find something else for Bale in time; but for you-- once again, your most redeeming quality and foremost cause of your being relevant on this particular date is once again neither your skill nor prowess… but your constant ability to show up every thirty days and take in the ass to get some new chump over. A place for everything, and everything in it’s place. You’ve probably made me some more money just by being in this match; so thanks I guess. But that’s not really going to matter by the time the dust settles now is it?”
A quick look at my watch tells me that Jayson’s routine anesthesia top-up is due any minute and it is now time to wrap this up.
“In my books Price, you’re not really a bad guy. Just somebody who should’ve stopped trying to actually do things and adopted a more Doc Henry-esque position a long-ass time ago. You’re not even really sick either, if I’m honest-- not in a general sense, I mean you’ve got all sorts of disease going on and that neck of yours looks like it’s being held together by toothpicks, chewing gum and hope-- but you don’t have the specific sickness I’m out to cure. See, you’re not just another pop-up parasite looking to get his grubby little paws on the World Championship like most others in this mixture, no. You don’t have that in the tank anymore, and I think that much is obvious to everyone, yourself included.”
Already walking towards the door, Price’s monitors beep a chorus of robotic noises.
“So… you’ll do what you do and shuffle out to the ring-- getting quite the pop in the process I’m sure. But instead of aiming for that top spot, you’ll take a Tag Title or some shit and still go home at night with a self-gratifying pride for whatever token belt you take when somebody denies you a Kneegasm and makes you finish in the shower. Will it be me? Fuck no, there’s not enough latex gloves in the world to let me touch you for long enough to take that bragging right.”
Pulling the curtain aside and walking back towards the middle of the room, from where the nurse now smiles in my direction in that creepy, forced way hospital staff are expected to. I take a last look at Price and bid him farewell.
“So Jay, however this ends for you on Sunday; I just wanted you to know that I’m not bitter about the Pascal shit-- you’re just a guy, doing what he does. Just like you will be again at Showdown…
Just a guy… doing a JOB.”
G: MiKE
You learn what you need to kill and take care of the details.
It’s like changing a tire: The first time you’re careful.
By the thirtieth time, you can’t remember where you left the lug wrench.
- Ted Bundy
Soundbyte from a telephone conversation between David Sanchez and Mark Mattheson; Editor of The Climb: A True Story.
This call took place on the Eve of the Trios Cup Finals, three days after David’s Asesinato promos were aired in the United States:
This call took place on the Eve of the Trios Cup Finals, three days after David’s Asesinato promos were aired in the United States:
“What the fuck do you mean his name’s John? I already sent the fuckin’ reels to Production”
“Yeah… I just watched it over. Who the fuck is Mike?”
“I thought he was!”
“He’s John!”
“But I thought that was Rabi--”
“There can be more than one John!”
“I dunno, that seems like lazy marke--”
“It’s a very common name. Are you trying to tell me you’ve never met another guy called John?”
“No, you’re trying to tell me-- that this guy called Mike, is actually called John and that I’ve just wasted a whole recording reel of footage and am now going to look like a slavering retard to anybody who watches that tripe. I don’t really do first names unless I’m being patronizing… MATTHEW!”
“There’s a way around this, you know… to make it work in your favour.”
“I’m not playing the amnesia card. Gemini fucking murdered that angle, just before I murdered him.”
“No, it’s not that-- hear me out!”
“I’m listening…”
“Drugs and disconcern!”
“Come again? What are we, ordering breakfast?”
“You blame your excessive drug-use and lack of concern over a guy you’ve already conquered. You say that you were too busy snorting heroin or whatever it is you do to give a fuck what this guy’s real name is. You commit to the name… see if it sticks. Keep calling him Mike; run with it.”
“Genius! I’ll sell it like I sold that whole Vinnie Jones fuck-up.”
“Didn’t you just pretend that whole thing never happened?”
“Didn’t I just transfer sixty-thousand dollars into your bank account for doing fuck-all but dubbing over Singh’s Indian accent?”“Fair enough… Goodbye, David. I’ll be in Chicago at the end of July to help with the next cinematic marvel. Try not get fired or choke on your tongue in the meantime; remember-- life is art. You can paint it however you choose.”
The ward had long-since calmed back down in the time since Jayson Price’s prolonged game of hide and seek was cancelled in favour of regularly scheduled programming. I take one of the only two files remaining in the middle desk of the circular room and immediately begin to correct the personal information these documents displayed.
“Nurse, I’m gonna need you to go through this dossier and cross out the name ‘John’ each time it appears-- replacing it with ‘MIKE’ instead.”
The tired nurse wanders over; looking exhausted. She’d been sleeping in the on-call room between shifts as per the posting requirements and had thus far sailed through the week with little to no cause for concern; but as I approach her it becomes clear by the bags under her eyelids that a well-needed spell of mind-numbing, brainless paperwork could be just what the doctor ordered here.
“Okay, I can do that right away. I take it we’ve got the wrong information for this guy?”
She points down at where Gravedigger lay still in the hospital bed; his flesh shiny from all the coatings of this mysterious honey-like substance she kept applying to my captive friends here.
“It’s more of a professional courtesy. Sometimes, when you live under an alias for so long-- it’s easy to forget what your actual name is. John is a fictional character this man plays on the television… he wouldn’t want to die as a John Doe, darling. Just change the documents so they say ‘MIKE’ and let me say my heartfelt goodbyes to a fellow warrior, won’t you?”
Maybe it was the sleep deprivation, or indeed the drugs and disconcern I’d been urged to blame for all of my shortcomings, but whatever it was. Something was causing me to smile sympathetically at this nurse; in an almost human display of emotion. She smiles back and gathers the remaining files before scuttling off to the doctor’s lounge to probably fall asleep on the first page.
“Don’t you worry that shiny little head of yours, MIKE. I’ll make sure everybody remembers you as I do; and not as some random cunt called John. You can count on me, buddy. That’s what friends are for!”
After giving my best ‘justice will prevail’ pose and stating my intentions. I slump into the shitty plastic seat next to the hospital bed of the closest thing I had left to a nemesis.
“Gravy, Gravy, Gravy… you know what this is? This right here; is the third time you’ve consensually put yourself in a position with the potential to act as somewhat of an inconvenience to me. And due to this, I have to ask man; are you feeling okay?-- Like upstairs, in MIKE’s mental department? No nagging, repetitive thoughts? Sudden mood-swings? Dementia can manifest itself in many frightening and unusual ways, here; I brought some pamphlets for you to… well yeah. I guess reading isn't really up there with your strengths, given that you’ve still decided to take this mugging/booking; or at least that’s how it looks anyway-- from all the way up here. You know, on the level you used to compete at. But feel free to browse them at your own leisure, at least to the greatest extent that your education allows.”
Tossing an assortment of brochures explaining a variety of different mental illnesses known to affect men aged over forty onto his heaving, seasoned chest I begin to deliver him with his own little sermon; ‘Gravedigger: Don’t Call Me Mike’-- the book, as read by David de Sanches; soothing voice of reason.
“So, unlike my two ‘stooges’ as Ethan and Steven have found themselves being branded, I think it’s imperative to the overall that I say right now-- this isn’t going to be one of those ‘LOL too old, can’t compete with today’s top-tier talent’ textbook extracts posing as a shoot promo, no. We’ve come way too far for me to just fuckin’ flop on top of the seven-strong pile of protagonists claiming that you’ve seen your last defining moment in this sport, and that this match; much like your Internet Title reign and indeed your earning of that elusive Grand Slam bragging right-- are all just acts of kindness from Seth, who somehow; given that he’s still forcing Oblivion down our throats. Senses that your days are numbered and therefore wants to reward you for all those years that you kept this fuckin’ vessel afloat. And what better turn than could he have done you, than the one he did you already? By scratching the last few things off of your professional bucket list.”
Studying his body over, trying to find something worth taking to put with the other odds and ends I’d taken from the patients-come-competition I was keeping here.
“Can I actually back-up a little here before we even break open the shell of sure-footed experience and time-served anecdote amongst guest appearances on every fucking syndicated television show, ever? See, I have this little nagging problem in that, I kind of resent you calling my friends stooges. I mean, sure-- that pretty much sums them up in a fuckin’ word-- but what you’re forgetting here MIKE, is that there’s two worthless bums on the current roster that are, even by Bishop’s own admission; basically only on television because they used to follow you around. At least my stooges are on the level they should be. Your guys just pop up every two or three months, one of them demands a title-shot, they both get killed and immediately they head straight back to watching ‘WCF: From the Vault’ and dreaming of a time when they were taken seriously and not branded as a walking week-off from training. I don’t even think I’ve ever heard Priest speak. Ss he a mute? At least that would make him remotely interesting. Right now, those guys are hanging onto the time you guys rode together as a security blanket, talking it up at every impasse and you?-- well, you barely acknowledge their existence, if you even do at all.”
I spare a passing thought for a team that once held the Tag Titles and now struggle to hold their heads above water and an unnecessary amount of time dreading that Ethan and Steven could one day find themselves in just this such position.
“You’re rotting away just like them MIKE, so I’d maybe hold off on laughing as they’re marched towards the unemployment line for like the seventh time this year; crying out for whoever the fuck this ‘John’ guy is to come and chase away their torment and embrace them like long-lost brothers. That’s going to be you someday soon if you don’t stop fuckin’ showing up to these fights like you still put the fear of JOB in the guys in the back. Those days, much like your prime itself; are long gone. You want to back-track and talk about how I said I’d outperform you by the time my ticket gets punched? That’s fantastic; there’s actually a few things I was needing to clear up as far as that area is concerned. You see, MIKE… I wasn’t kidding there and that wasn’t just the Afghan Black talking, no. I believe every word I’ve ever said to be gospel; I’m a method-killer; and much like my cousins in acting I take myself super seriously.”
The machine’s my comatose chum here is wired to tick away quietly in the background as the Chicago sun starts to descend in the sky behind the flawlessly clean hospital window.
“All you done was win WAR and a couple of World Championships; I’m paraphrasing and brushing over a lot of the pointless, inane shit; excuse me… and you got landed into the original cast of Hall of Famers. Now all you ever bring up is how you’ve accomplished so much and that none of us are deserving of a seat at your fuckin’ wonky, chipboard table because, what? Because we can’t measure up to you? Please MIKE; you’re killing me. Stop, spare yourself the pain of defeat on an emotional level at least. There’s nothing we can do to save you from the actual, physical harm that’s coming your way but for the love of all that’s sacred-- stop making empty threats to people who’ve already beat you down and left you in the dirt; it’s embarrassing to watch. As another wrestler nearing 40 it makes me really uncomfortable, man… not to mention how much it frustrates me that you’ve set the bar so fuckin’ low for guys over 35 that I’ve tripped over it three times during this rant.”
It was getting dark, and with depleted light came excellent comes excellent, natural camouflage for the final fuckin’ future cadaver I had left to address. Then finally, it would be time to absolve these men of their illness and repurpose them as side-characters playing a background part in the triumphant yet tyrannical tale titled: ‘David Sanchez: Non-Absentee WCF World Champion and Future Emperor of America’s Midwest.’
“Now I’m left here; at 38 years old with my dick in my hand-- having been tarred with the same fuckin’ brush because your busted-up, broken down; battered beyond recognition ass can’t compete every week at the level expected of you. Every now and then, someone from fuckin’ Human Resources comes up to me in the back and offers me a reduced working schedule due to my date of birth; thanks a fuckin’ bunch dude. Do you have any idea how embarrassing shit like that is? I mean, fuckin’ come on. Ethan King’s like 16 or some shit, and he’s always around when it happens. The guy looks at me like I could be fuckin’ Grandpappy Atticio! That ain’t right man, and that just ain’t me. I know you’d pretty much given up hope by the time I got here; hopping onto that sweet commentary seat like a hipster hops on the mainstream hate-train. You were born to die in that seat though, dude. Quit kidding yourself with these fleeting moments of nostalgic glory-- they’re tainting your true purpose in life; well, your new purpose in life at least. You’re fuckin’ MIKE [redacted]... the guy who; by the end of Ultimate Showdown will have been embarassed by all three founding members of Everest: the worst named and yet most dominating force this company has ever entertained. That’s right; we’re claiming that now too-- suck it. That’s also a little heads up; we’re going to have Ethan in you; just so that he too can bask in that fruitless feeling of superiority over a guy who matters now only as far as money and media-pandering is concerned.”
Again; I find myself trying to make it rain magical money with my face on it. Still; nothing. I make a mental note to ask MIKE how Trump, Okada and countless others do that; you know, should he ever regain consciousness.
“That’s right, much like my feelings towards Jayson; I’ve summed up your being in this contest as a simple push for better buyrates by the bookerman. Don’t think I’m gonna shoot you with that wingless crow though; you’re far better than him-- but that’s not really a compliment at this point, is it? Hell, you gave me a fight and three-quarters back at Thirteen, you ALMOST done enough to beat Flash for the World Title the week before, and then you dragged up a team of abused, overused and ultimately broken cliches’ all the way to the Trios Cup Finals in Mexico. But the thing is… as much of a fight as you may have given us-- it still wasn’t enough to get the job done. It still wasn’t enough to actually win any of those matches. It still only served to disprove everything you claim about proven supremacy. How can you be in any way superior to somebody who, at this point is finding making you look invalidated to be habit-forming?”
The sun further sinks in the sky outside, and with it draws closer the conclusion of my little slumber party here.
“That’s just it MIKE, while you’re sitting there; cosy and warm in your pride over things that took place when I was in Japan, first learning how to take an Irish whip; the rest of us are just working out whether or not you’re being fuckin’ serious with those whole ‘I’ve still got what it takes’ shtick. I’ll make this easy for you; at my own expense as usual, but this time let’s see if it sinks in with an indoor-voice and a gentle manner of speaking instead of just repeatedly kicking you in the side of the head until you forget basic mathematics. The facts have been presented to you in every which way imaginable-- the lay of the land couldn’t be clearer before your eyes. Yes, MIKE. You do still have what it takes, you have exactly what it takes to be, and indeed to stay WCF Internet Champion:
1) Nothing better to do anymore.
2) The raw inability to conduct yourself in a way that isn’t an annoyance.
3) No real business being in a wrestling ring anymore.
4) ‘I’ll work when it suits me’ mentality.
5) Basic computer skills.
6) Dead hopes and dreams."
2) The raw inability to conduct yourself in a way that isn’t an annoyance.
3) No real business being in a wrestling ring anymore.
4) ‘I’ll work when it suits me’ mentality.
5) Basic computer skills.
6) Dead hopes and dreams."
Finishing my list of traits required for an Internet Championship reign, I sigh and swerve back onto the matter at hand.
“Ultimate Showdown is one of the biggest matches on WCF’s calendar. It comes around once a year and pretty much dictates the direction the company goes in, at least upon entering WAR season anyway. That shitshow throws a whole different spanner in the works of my blueprints; but one hurdle at a time, eh? So, it’s a huge night and it demands a huge draw or two to make damn sure it lives up to the huge hype. Enter messers MIKE and Jay; superstars and saviours extraordinaire. Here to fill seats, and shortly after-- to fill caskets. Because really; your names might be up in bright lights, right next to mine. But in terms of actual presence in this match; you’re looking at a three-minute power surge, immediately followed by a blackout. A couple of fleeting situations where it looks like you might actually do something-- then boom! The dream scene dissolves to darkness and you get eliminated in the blink of an eye. Not last, not even second last, or third. But probably immediately after; you’ve finally found your calling in that IT division MIKE. Finally, a whole league of people who have no idea why they lace up boots, but do so anyway; in spite of themselves. Like a thinner, literate Crazy J… or Kathy P with a smaller dick and kinder eyes.”
I stretch my legs out, they’d grown tired during the flight back from Dion’s dirty hometown.
“I was looking forward to having William the Behemoth in this match too, ya dick. That guy’s fuckin’ hilarious. Where’s your sense of humor man? For a guy who used to make me laugh, you sure do spoil a lot of shit for me lately, y’know. Not cool, MIKE. Not cool. Still, I guess you were a necessary commodity-- most of us in this match aren’t exactly household names, not yet anyway. Shit, people know you; they associate you with dominance inside of a wrestling ring… and Donald Trump. But that’s a whole different, and entirely depressing story for another day. I guess I should be thanking you for filling some extra seats and making the slaughtering and culling of the WCF such a spectacle. Everest is about to overthrow everything you’ve represented for over a decade and rebuild it in our image; a stone bust of three douchebags with no World Titles between them; enjoy the show fuckstick-- you’re practically paying me to push your shit in at this point.”
Another look at the wristwatch I’d donned my forearm with before leaving Casa Del Sanchez what felt like a lifetime ago. Eventually; I smile and let my eyes fall not on those of my fallen foe but instead they travel downwards, finally fixating on the worn wrestling boots he was still wearing. Unlacing one of them, I pull it off and toss it towards the curtain; making a mental note to preserve it with the rest of the stolen crap I'd acquired.
“Amidst all this shit I’m talking, though; a solemn sad truth remains in that you and I; we’re the only two men in this match. The only guys who’ve had to earn that big piece of chicken. Sure, the rest might get there someday… except Price, never Price. He’s far too precious and fragile of a commodity to risk going for broke and choking back the D’ in this one and my biggest fear, MIKE; is that with Corey Black and Jared Holmes in his ear, the Ripper may never be given the direct command to take the wheel and drive it on home. While you might be lying there; dead to the world and wondering why this devious dago cunt is presenting you with simple semantics instead of shoot; but give me the benefit of the doubt for a second here…. I’m going somewhere with this.”
Standing up; my legs now bending successfully without that popping noise and clicking sensation haunting my left patella.
“It’s anybody’s match really, with all things but one considered. That nagging, remaining nugget of knowledge though, is that while this contest could indeed go any which way imaginable-- I’ve taken every fuckin precaution imaginable to ensure that at the very least, I’ll be amongst the final two men in this little dance of ours, and that? Well MIKE-- that’s all I fuckin’ need. Because apparently unknown to you of all people; the fuckin’ walking ,selective collective of all WCF related wisdom and statistics. I’ve never had a one on one opportunity at the strap. Not one shot; and while this outcome still might not grant me that; it’s damn sure the closest thing I’m gonna get to a fair chance at grabbing the gold. Let me ask you something MIKE, when I came up to you in the back in 2015; asking for a match-- dangling my then United States Championship in front of your face as bait to get you to stop playing fuckin’ footsie with Freddy Whoa and fight me like the bald, precious bitch you are…”
Heading over to the curtain, my tone changes to that of a preemptive ‘I told you so.’ Grabbing the fabric in my brittle right hand I haul the sheet aside; revealing the rest of the hospital room one final time, just as the elevator doors open for the first time since Steven and Ethan had arrived; us non-residents forced to sneak up and down fire escapes since I sentenced my scattering of opponents to be quarantined here.
“... way back then, did I even seem like a threat to you? Or was I just another over-confident , overgrown child passing through the void with a chip on his shoulder and a bitter resentment for the old guard? Whatever you thought of me then, what changed your mind? More so… what makes you think this time around is going to be any different to when I eliminated you at WAR? Or when I shattered your face like a sheet of safety-glass at XIII? Or more recently, when Everest crushed your cripple-friendly Trios crusade at Asesinato?”
Seth’s face is the first I’m able to identify; though he is flanked by two burly security guards and behind him hangs a huge, ominous and almost inhuman figure.
“See… none of this makes even the slightest semblance of sense to me; but regardless-- I’ve brought you here and let you die like a man with the others; despite the fact that at the end of the day, I don’t even fuckin’ care about your being present at all. In 2015, I wanted a match with you because a victory over the legendary Gravedigger was going to be a huge metaphorical trophy to mount next to Logan’s head in my study. But by the time the actual match happened, it was fuckin’ me that went in as the motherfuckin’ bookmaker’s choice. That ain’t how I planned it! What use is beating up some twice-forgotten relic when you’ve already cemented yourself as one of the best in the world?”
I wave to Lerch, wishing MIKE a final farewell.
“Now, here we are… three squashes later and I’m still left wondering the same fuckin’ thing. Why am I even doing this anymore? Somewhere in the world, candy is being stolen from the pram of a sleeping baby, and this is probably going to be a more epic struggle than ours. So forgive me, MIKE and try not to think this as being respectful. It’s not an absence of appreciation for the commitment you’ve shown to this craft, but a surplus of sure-footed common sense. Gravedigger vs David Sanchez is a foregone conclusion-- the sooner you bite the headboard and relax your sphincter; the quicker this’ll be buddy. Now bend over and think of Miss. Miyamoto. I’ll be gentle-- by this time I know your body like the back of my hand.”
H: ABEARSNECESSiTiES
Wherever I wander, wherever I roam.
I couldn't be fonder of my big home.
The bees are buzzin' in the trees,
to make some honey just for me.
- Baloo, The Jungle Book.
“Finally on the last one, I s--.”
The nurse’s inane chatter would have to wait for the time-being; as would Andre Holmes-- the final vegetable left in my garden of sorts to be harvested. For now; Seth’s arrival meant my attention was taken up with ensuring the final phase of this plan went through without a hitch. As I approach him I place my dirty, calloused fingertip over the feminine mouth of the little lady in front of me, before continuing my march towards my boss.
“Can we make this quick? Every second I’m not sitting behind a desk, dragging Torture’s name through the muck is time that could’ve been better spent.”
He was rather ironically dressed in a full CoolWear tracksuit, with the hood pulled up to hide his face from the long-since deactivated security cameras. In his right hand, a cattle-prod; in his left-- what looked to be no more or less than polythene bag of mixed raw and bloody meats.
“Believe me, I’m not exactly keen to stick around either. I’m assuming you’ve brought our friend along? I thought I seen him when the doors opened but--”
Looking around at the circular room, each bed containing a member of his roster who had at one point or another served a decent purpose in one way or another; he seems almost blissfully unaware of what is happening.
“Yeah… he’s being prepared in the elevator now. Do I even ask what’s going on here?”
“You probably shouldn’t-- might fuck up any believable deniability you’ve got on your side; personally if anything goes pear-shaped, I plan to blame the whole thing on Price.”
He nods and offers a parting smile, heading first towards the elevator before veering left at the last second and opening the fire escape door.
“Oops, that was close.”
“Yeah… I’d suggest taking stairs this time around chief”
“So… if anything goes wrong, it’s just default settings then, basically?”
“Pretty much. Any idea how long I’ve got left before he’s ready?”
“I wouldn’t go roasting a chicken or anything but you’ve got time for a beer, or a… yeah”
Bless, I think he was still struggling with the thought of a heroin addict being the indirect ruler of his little world. Wasting not even the extra three seconds it would have taken to hear my response, seth is gone. He vanishes down the fire escape, hood still shielding his face from CCTV and security still shielding his person from, well-- everything else. Turning back around; I set an alarm on my phone for ten minutes before walking in the direction of the last man I had to address.
“NURSE!!! Have Danco meet me at the elevator in ten minutes, it’s time to lock everything down. Everything except the elevator and the fire escape, for now. Think you can handle that, sweetheart?”
Feeling condescended to, she sneers at me before responding, unable to muffle her excitement through glare alone.
“Does this mean we finally get to go home? My girls'll be so pleased to see me. I’ll handle that right away!”
“Sure… why not.”
I lied through my teeth but she didn’t notice; she was finally getting to leave this place, to go home and feed her cats, or kids… or whatever the fuck she was so keen to get back to.
“Andre! Holmedawg! Shapeshifter Holmes! Blackstuff McBlack… how’s life?”
The very second she turns, I take a seat next to Andre’s coma-ridden would-be corpse.
“I feel like I just talked a whole mess of shit about you a couple of weeks back, so you’ll have to excuse me if this seems in any way repetitive..."
I look up; expecting to find nothing, but just as I begin to form another sentence, the elevator doors part again, forcing me to double-look as a huge bear steps through the gap and places it’s paws on the ward for the first time.
“... Scratch that, good job your belt is a flaming pile of trash anyway. I’m out-- stay black.”
Snatching up the bag of meat and the cattle prod from the centre of the room, I stalk towards the bear; pausing only momentarily where Danco is trying to instruct both Sandy the half-wit and a rather lazily nameless nurse to move before they are eaten. The bear bounds forwards; his eyes bloodshot and hungry. To say this specimen was rabid; would have been an understatement, in reality-- the rabies was the least concerning affliction this mammal had to offer society.
“It’s been a pleasure working with you two; you’ve truly been an invaluable credit to the healthcare industry. It is with the deepest of regrets though, that I must now inform you that our time together, and indeed your time as a living organism on this rock has come to an end.”
The nurse lets out a cry that only serves to draw the zombified, rabid bear closer while Sandy slowly tries to grab me; perhaps sensing that his betrayal was fast approaching. His clutches barely close around my collar before I’m able to jab him with the cattle prod; shocking us both but creating enough distance that I’m able to wriggle free from his grip before jabbing him with the rod again; this time keeping the pressure on until he’s reduced to a giant, flailing mess on the ground. The nurse tries to run, turning on the spot; but as she does so I lift the animal control wand and instead of using it to shock her, simply strike her in the side of the head with the handle-- ultimately causing her to fall to the floor next to Sandy in a drooling; sleeping heap.
“Well, I guess we’d better make ourselves scarce…”
Again; that haunting sadness befalls me, even as I stab the electrified rod into the neck of my long-time friend and step over him; ultimately leaving him for dead. With a proverbial trail of human breadcrumbs laid, leading into the quarantine quarters where my opponents lay in wait of consumption; their bodies coated in honey for extra appeal I quickly step behind the fire exit door; shutting the power down in the entire ward with a mere button on my handset. With the wing locked down, it is all I can do to watch as Josef Danco’s face peers through the glass door at me momentarily before said face is ripped from the skull it had previously been welded to courtesy f a single, powerful swipe from the infamous, rabid bear.
“... that’s gotta sting.”
Danco’s torn-off face remains splattered and stuck to the glass, staring at me through dead-eyes as the rest of his body falls limp to the floor. I mutter this to myself before turning, beginning the long walk back down to ground level where I’d finally be greeted as the WCF World Champion-- whistling Disney’s Bare Necessities as I slide down the bannister with a newfound spring in my step and no further baggage to offload at the metaphorical curb.
DISKLAiMERRRR
ALL CHARACTERS AND EVENTS IN THIS PROMO--
EVEN THOSE BASED ON REAL (FICTIONAL) PEOPLE--
ARE ENTIRELY FICTIONAL (MORE FICTIONAL.)
NO WRESTLERS DIED IN THIS FEATURE:
JUST A LOWLY DOCTOR.
ALL VOICES AND LIKENESSES ARE IMPERSONATED… POORLY.
BY ACTORS WHO WERE PAID... POORLY
THIS CONTAINS COARSE LANGUAGE
SCENES OF VIOLENCE THROUGHOUT.
AND SERVES NO REAL PURPOSE.
DUE TO IT’S CONTENT--
THIS SHOULD NOT BE TAKEN SERIOUSLY BY ANYONE.
... EVEN YOU, SEFF.
EVEN THOSE BASED ON REAL (FICTIONAL) PEOPLE--
ARE ENTIRELY FICTIONAL (MORE FICTIONAL.)
NO WRESTLERS DIED IN THIS FEATURE:
JUST A LOWLY DOCTOR.
ALL VOICES AND LIKENESSES ARE IMPERSONATED… POORLY.
BY ACTORS WHO WERE PAID... POORLY
THIS CONTAINS COARSE LANGUAGE
SCENES OF VIOLENCE THROUGHOUT.
AND SERVES NO REAL PURPOSE.
DUE TO IT’S CONTENT--
THIS SHOULD NOT BE TAKEN SERIOUSLY BY ANYONE.
... EVEN YOU, SEFF.