Remember, Remember
Nov 5, 2017 16:54:34 GMT -5
Joey Flash, The Very Big Śpainards, and 1 more like this
Post by John Rabid on Nov 5, 2017 16:54:34 GMT -5
“Remember, remember!
The fifth of November,
Gunpowder treason and plot;
I know of no reason
Why the Gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot!”
- “The Fifth of November”, English Folk Verse
Friday, 3rd of November.
WCF Headquarters.
Reading, Pennsylvania.
Orange flames licked across a symposium of history as a large glass cabinet, containing ornate WCF World title belts and tournament cups of decades past, shook under the shuddering influence of sporadic explosions outside. In the cold November night, sparks of tinder rose with wild abandon from a raging bonfire, it’s chaotic dance trapped within the cabinet’s reflective surface. The lobby of the complex was under duress now from a canopy of fireworks outside, that rained down on the buildings roof in all directions. A screaming, exploding celebration of treason and execution, reconstituted for a new purpose.
This is Guy Fawkes Night, two days early. John Rabid’s gift to the staff of the WCF, who had recently endured the siege of UCI. They emerged after Helloween as conquerors, but it was a Pyrrhic victory, one tinged with the tragic loss of a colleague. Yet, as the whizz bang of gunpowder missiles roared overhead, this moment seemed almost serine for The Ripper; as if everything had been strategically placed outside on the complex’s lawn for this particular reason. A contrived celebration, hidden within another.
John Rabid stood facing the glass cabinet in his customary charcoal suit; contemplating the perfect fresco of fire and gold before him as his chilled glass of chateau lafite was raised with a smug little toast.
John Rabid: Gentlemen? My turn.
The clatter of heels approached. It was Emily, she was dressed in a snug black roll neck sweater, the fabric hugged her svelte curvatures and encapsulated her imposing elegance perfectly. Long legs wrapped in leather pants strode to meet The Ripper as Emily flicked aside a long length of blonde hair while attending to her own glass of bubbly. Their glasses meeting with a simple clink as she arrived.
Emily Rush: So, here we are. We did it. Two years, Jason. Two whole years. Did you honestly suspect it would take this long?
John Rabid: Lots of pieces in play, my dear. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, the WCF has to be the most insane juggling act in combat sports history, and they’re all carrying knives. Some of which I haven’t managed to dodge.
Emily Rush: Yes, but you wear your scars well. Besides, a Serpent has to be patient, right?
John Rabid: It’s a virtue. Are they readying the effigy outside?
Emily Rush: A feather stuffed Spencer Adams will meet it’s fate in a few minutes. Neat idea, taking Guy Fawkes night and rechristening it as the sacking of UCI. It’s a shame Dorian had to miss this. But Seth looks pleased.
John Rabid: Really? Seth is pleased? That’s rarely a good sign.
Emily smiled, then placed a hand upon her husband’s shoulder. Comforting, but with a tinge of manipulation.
Emily Rush: Laura is here too. Did you know?
John Rabid: Chinlock’s daughter? I hear her mother isn’t doing so well.
Emily Rush: Margaret suffered a breakdown a few years ago, apparently she’s been “fragile” ever since. I spoke with Laura’s teachers today, there’s been talk of social services getting involved in her case. Look, John, I was thinking, she deserves a decent Christmas at least, how about…
John Rabid: Okay.
Emily raised an eyebrow.
Emily Rush: Really? It’s that easy to convince you these days?
Rabid swilled the expensive wine around in it’s glass, contemplating.
John Rabid: I should have been quicker. What happened to Laura’s father? It’s my responsibility. So yes, let’s do right by her.
Emily placed her index finger under Rabid’s chin and raised it up to meet her electric blue eyes. Her ruby red nail imprinting upon his strong jaw as he managed a smile.
Emily Rush: So, is this how a World championship changes you? Compassion? I’m not sure I like this new you.
John Rabid: It’s not new, Emily. It’s old. Very, very old.
A framed picture of FPV crucified by Nathan Von Libert shook in its humble frame. John looked away, his mind burying the past as it encased itself once again inside a cold, Machiavellian shell
Rabid Vlog 11/04/17:
Jacob Black? Didn’t Zero Tolerance split up already? Why does this racist have another contract? #JuggalosAreNotCulturallyImportant
Jacob Black? What, another Creeping Death clone? Isn’t Kevin Bishop bad enough on his own? #RuinedGimmick
Jacob Black? Is he back with the wolf head? Will Bates clap during another bone fracture? #NotMyHoneyBadger
Jacob Black, an enigma to the entire WCF galaxy, a midcard Seattle nobody who has fans feeling befuddled and confused. After all, who is this Jacob Black? Is he some kind of legacy character? An echo of heroes past? To the uninitiated, Jacob Black is a mystery. But to me, Jacob Black is an open book, nothing more than a factually inept, cut and paste wrestler. A flat, lifeless robotic talent devoid of even a single spark of truth to bolster his lame “New Era” shtick. Jacob Black, the fourth best Black in WCF history, a sloth millennial who this week has been given the greatest opportunity in the world, a middling to fair talent blessed with a chance at ending my two hundred and thirty nine day Television title reign. This Sunday, November 5th. Guy Fawkes night no less. Black will step inside the Toyota Center in Houston, Texas and onto hallowed ground. Determined to desecrate a sanctified event in front of eighteen thousand screaming fans. What this match is, is an epoch, a moment that only comes along once in a lifetime inside a twenty by twenty ring. And yet, the best effort that “Fourth Best Black” can conjure up, the best shot he can muster, is that I’m a corporate stooge? That I toe the party line for power? That I denigrate myself upon the orders of Seth Lerch?
Pathetic. Utterly pathetic.
Black’s big time narrative this week is accusing me of being a sycophant to Seth Lerch’s all powerful autocratic stereotype. Yes, I’m afraid, we’re stuck in that old mire again it seems. It just goes to show how bone fucking idle this new breed are. They waltz through the doors of the Reading center, face buried in a smart phone, and they think all it takes to get up to speed within the WCF is a half arsed speed read on wikipedia.
Wrong. Dead wrong, Jacob. I have never been the chosen one. I have never been Seth Lerch’s (not Berch, you ignorant dunce) shining knight. When I first arrived two years ago, I waltzed into Seth’s cordoned off skybox, perched precariously above the unwashed masses with Jimothy Thuggin in tow, and was ousted immediately from paradise for my bolshiness. For my willingness to work with the boss. Ever since then it’s been a battle of wills between myself and Lerch. Lerch screwed me over during the Final Destination match at F15teen. After Mexico I was treated as an outsider and a traitor all the way up until last year’s Hellimination match when I faced and defeated Seth’s hand-picked “Team WCF” a combined force of ZT and Brotherhood members out to decimate me and the rest of my so-called “invasion”.
It’s taken me a full year to overcome the stigma that Bates liberally painted my career with, branding me a vilified traitor to the WCF cause. I had to overcome being screwed out of the WCF title by Seth himself, who had my World Title match on the twelfth of April edition of Slam last year restarted so a TRUE HANDPICKED CHAMPION like Bates could lose a match TWICE in one night and STILL walk out with the belt. That, is living inside the back pocket of your boss, Jacob. A locale I have never occupied. And NEVER will.
Your canvass this week is a fraud, Black. You have this notion of painting a fresco dedicated to a non existent struggle against an all powerful corporate junta that has no knowledge of you/ Because you, Black are a zero; a gnat swatted away by giants. In your mind this is a personal contest against Seth, who runs the halls and pays the bills, while you Black, in your deluded little world, see yourself as an instrument of change, a force dedicated to revolution. It’s the oldest tale in wrestling, the dynasty and the underdog. This time however, It’s lazy and wrong, and it’s going to cost you EVERYTHING.
Right now, Jacob, you must be feeling pretty confident in your delusion, believing that you’ve nailed the ripper to the wall. But let me assure you, the moment you opened your mouth and constructed your careless argument, based upon one Hellimination performance and a press conference I’m obliged to attend, you threw yourself under the bus. You’re nothing more now than an effigy, a Guy Fawkes doll burning on my November 5th bonfire. You’re a fool doused in kerosene, dead on impact as I light the fuse. My two hundred and thirty nine day reign is secure and intact as you ignite, skin frayed from flesh as I’m about to extended by reign by another seven, Jacob; because you don’t have the gumption nor the staying power to challenge me and survive. Look at you, your spacial awareness must be glaucomic when it comes to what’s actually happening. You’re this glib little six foot one troll, that honestly thinks he can mirror my skills and match them? Seriously?
You must be touched, JB. Look at your competition so far, a forgettable Slam tag match two weeks ago where you didn't even record the pinfall, and that was with Dan Capello and Adam Young in the ring. Do you have any idea how embarrassing that is for you? Adam Young is famous for two things in life.
1. An endless array of jobber tag teams (i.e The Black Skulls) that all amount to zero.
And 2. Losing.
I gifted Adam the trios titles once because I was bored with dealing with Jared Holmes and his constant sophomore shit. It’s sort of become tradition around here to record a loss to him, It’s like a good luck charm. But for you? You won, and looked like a bewildered bystander while doing it. Standing on the outside unable to comprehend how this Wrestling lark actually works. Like a Pinocchio who had his Jepetto strings cut. And as for beating Capello a week later at Hellimination? You couldn’t record a more meaningless win. Capello is a void dedicated to the God of curtain jerking; he’s proof of a nihilistic universe. A former telemarketer who doesn’t know the difference between a rest hold from a rest home. If you wanted to garner some respect from me, Jacob, you’d have been better off pinning the fucking ring bell.
After enduring your three, “masterworks” so far of mind numbing promo boredom, I’ve come to the depressingly obvious conclusion that they’re all the same. It’s always you heralding the genesis of a “New Era” inside the WCF. Dumb tactics instigated by two left hands struggling at the wheel. Cumbersome and embarrassing, your style is the epitome of a tired gimmick. Look around you Jacob, look around at the history of the WCF and what do you see? I see Mikey eXtreme and his psychotic “Mikey’s America”. Bobby Cairo and his Che Guevara inspired “Magnum Opus: Liberation”, ICE Beckman, foaming at the lake over his “Ice age”. All predictable fair; the wailings of talent ensnared within the grip of their own ambition,, so they lose focus and dream too big; forgetting that the most important ratio of all is twenty by twenty; the dimensions of a wrestling ring.
Guy Fawkes dreamt big too; a catholic reformist that once fought for the Spanish in the eighty years war. He returned to England’s shores and attempted to instigate a revolution, determined to dethrone King James I. On the 5th of November, 1605, deep within the undercroft of the House of Lords, he was discovered. Three months later, his body was hung, drawn and quartered. Three months, Black. It wasn’t quick, it wasn’t neat. But then, not once did he set foot in the WCF. Not once did he meet me.
But for you, inside the Toyota Center?
Expect a bout of swift mercy. Courtesy of the King.
I’m feeling generous.
Pathetic. Utterly pathetic.
Black’s big time narrative this week is accusing me of being a sycophant to Seth Lerch’s all powerful autocratic stereotype. Yes, I’m afraid, we’re stuck in that old mire again it seems. It just goes to show how bone fucking idle this new breed are. They waltz through the doors of the Reading center, face buried in a smart phone, and they think all it takes to get up to speed within the WCF is a half arsed speed read on wikipedia.
Wrong. Dead wrong, Jacob. I have never been the chosen one. I have never been Seth Lerch’s (not Berch, you ignorant dunce) shining knight. When I first arrived two years ago, I waltzed into Seth’s cordoned off skybox, perched precariously above the unwashed masses with Jimothy Thuggin in tow, and was ousted immediately from paradise for my bolshiness. For my willingness to work with the boss. Ever since then it’s been a battle of wills between myself and Lerch. Lerch screwed me over during the Final Destination match at F15teen. After Mexico I was treated as an outsider and a traitor all the way up until last year’s Hellimination match when I faced and defeated Seth’s hand-picked “Team WCF” a combined force of ZT and Brotherhood members out to decimate me and the rest of my so-called “invasion”.
It’s taken me a full year to overcome the stigma that Bates liberally painted my career with, branding me a vilified traitor to the WCF cause. I had to overcome being screwed out of the WCF title by Seth himself, who had my World Title match on the twelfth of April edition of Slam last year restarted so a TRUE HANDPICKED CHAMPION like Bates could lose a match TWICE in one night and STILL walk out with the belt. That, is living inside the back pocket of your boss, Jacob. A locale I have never occupied. And NEVER will.
Your canvass this week is a fraud, Black. You have this notion of painting a fresco dedicated to a non existent struggle against an all powerful corporate junta that has no knowledge of you/ Because you, Black are a zero; a gnat swatted away by giants. In your mind this is a personal contest against Seth, who runs the halls and pays the bills, while you Black, in your deluded little world, see yourself as an instrument of change, a force dedicated to revolution. It’s the oldest tale in wrestling, the dynasty and the underdog. This time however, It’s lazy and wrong, and it’s going to cost you EVERYTHING.
Right now, Jacob, you must be feeling pretty confident in your delusion, believing that you’ve nailed the ripper to the wall. But let me assure you, the moment you opened your mouth and constructed your careless argument, based upon one Hellimination performance and a press conference I’m obliged to attend, you threw yourself under the bus. You’re nothing more now than an effigy, a Guy Fawkes doll burning on my November 5th bonfire. You’re a fool doused in kerosene, dead on impact as I light the fuse. My two hundred and thirty nine day reign is secure and intact as you ignite, skin frayed from flesh as I’m about to extended by reign by another seven, Jacob; because you don’t have the gumption nor the staying power to challenge me and survive. Look at you, your spacial awareness must be glaucomic when it comes to what’s actually happening. You’re this glib little six foot one troll, that honestly thinks he can mirror my skills and match them? Seriously?
You must be touched, JB. Look at your competition so far, a forgettable Slam tag match two weeks ago where you didn't even record the pinfall, and that was with Dan Capello and Adam Young in the ring. Do you have any idea how embarrassing that is for you? Adam Young is famous for two things in life.
1. An endless array of jobber tag teams (i.e The Black Skulls) that all amount to zero.
And 2. Losing.
I gifted Adam the trios titles once because I was bored with dealing with Jared Holmes and his constant sophomore shit. It’s sort of become tradition around here to record a loss to him, It’s like a good luck charm. But for you? You won, and looked like a bewildered bystander while doing it. Standing on the outside unable to comprehend how this Wrestling lark actually works. Like a Pinocchio who had his Jepetto strings cut. And as for beating Capello a week later at Hellimination? You couldn’t record a more meaningless win. Capello is a void dedicated to the God of curtain jerking; he’s proof of a nihilistic universe. A former telemarketer who doesn’t know the difference between a rest hold from a rest home. If you wanted to garner some respect from me, Jacob, you’d have been better off pinning the fucking ring bell.
After enduring your three, “masterworks” so far of mind numbing promo boredom, I’ve come to the depressingly obvious conclusion that they’re all the same. It’s always you heralding the genesis of a “New Era” inside the WCF. Dumb tactics instigated by two left hands struggling at the wheel. Cumbersome and embarrassing, your style is the epitome of a tired gimmick. Look around you Jacob, look around at the history of the WCF and what do you see? I see Mikey eXtreme and his psychotic “Mikey’s America”. Bobby Cairo and his Che Guevara inspired “Magnum Opus: Liberation”, ICE Beckman, foaming at the lake over his “Ice age”. All predictable fair; the wailings of talent ensnared within the grip of their own ambition,, so they lose focus and dream too big; forgetting that the most important ratio of all is twenty by twenty; the dimensions of a wrestling ring.
Guy Fawkes dreamt big too; a catholic reformist that once fought for the Spanish in the eighty years war. He returned to England’s shores and attempted to instigate a revolution, determined to dethrone King James I. On the 5th of November, 1605, deep within the undercroft of the House of Lords, he was discovered. Three months later, his body was hung, drawn and quartered. Three months, Black. It wasn’t quick, it wasn’t neat. But then, not once did he set foot in the WCF. Not once did he meet me.
But for you, inside the Toyota Center?
Expect a bout of swift mercy. Courtesy of the King.
I’m feeling generous.
FIN.