Ep. 6: Blood On The Altar
Sept 2, 2018 21:17:47 GMT -5
Night Rider, Stephen Singh, and 1 more like this
Post by Kurt Navarro on Sept 2, 2018 21:17:47 GMT -5
Previously
An actress named Mischa Miller is shot and killed next to the Hollywood sign by LAPD sniper, Norman Cash; Cash is working for a disgraced Hollywood Producer named, Mario Brava, an alt right figure who wanted Miller silenced. All three are now dead, with one urban legend at the center of the puzzle, the serial killer known as, ”The Mothman”. Professional Fighter/Private Detective, Kurt Navarro has made a significant breakthrough in the case, zeroing in on Mothman’s apparent location. Now, one final confrontation with the Southern Californian urban legend seems inevitable, but with questions still unanswered, is Kurt ready for the revelations that are about to surface, revelations that could shake the delicate fabric of Hollywood?
Running parallel is the looming Battle Creek, Michigan confrontation between Kurt and long standing rival Kid Dynamo, a blockbuster WCF rematch scheduled to take place in front of nine thousand, eight hundred inside The Kellogg Arena as Kurt’s ongoing feud with The Church of Singh reaches boiling point. Unbeknownst to either opponent however, their match is inexplicably interwoven with Kurt’s investigations. Two worlds are about to collide head on as a dark serendipity comes into play.
The House Of Moths.
Friday, August, 31st. The Mystic Theater, Santa Clarita, California.
Oakdale Canyon didn’t really need an arthouse cinema anymore; the suburb had become a suburbian rest home for aging baby boomers, a maze of quiet bungalow streets keen just to vegetate after a hard day spent at the office. The kind of environment that was safe and dull, like watching Kid Dynamo perform in the ring.
Once upon a time everybody here knew everyone else, but those days were long gone, now a blindspot like an aging art deco monolith situated on the outskirts of town could operate unnoticed, a crumbling movie theatre baking under a midday sun named “The Mystic”.
My 1970 white Dodge Challenger felt like an oven as I checked the chamber of Lorna’s snub nosed 45’ with a hint of nerves twitching in my wrist. My sister’s pistol was more suited to this kind of work than the Desert Eagle I usually carried. If I was going to enter into the theater unnoticed however, I needed something I could conceal easily under my cord jacket. I didn’t expect to be padded down, but this was 2018 after all. We live in dangerous times.
As I exited the vehicle, The Mystic’s marquee front read: ‘Tarkovsky double bill! Stalker & Solaris’, Russian science fiction in the middle of the day probably meant my hipster appearance would fit in, although I didn’t expect anonymity for long, the Mothman knew my face, and he was probably expecting me.
Inside, the smell of cotton candy and ancient carpets soiled with beer flared up my nostrils as I walked cautiously the darkness. I grew up a cinefile, my sisters the real expert but I know my way around the classics. Playing on the big screen was not a Tarkovsky picture, that much was certain.
My right hand reached for my holster as I checked my surroundings; the seats were empty as the reel played, mono sound and a Goblin soundtrack reverberated over the dimly lit theater as a beam of smoke from the projectionist booth illuminated a scene from “The Mortician II: Time of Death’, a horrified nurse sliced open by a hooded killer in a medical smock. The nurse undergoing an autopsy on screen was twenty years younger, yet her eyes and distinct cheekbones were as recognizable as ever. This wasn’t the first time Mischa Miller had died before me, her screams once again leaving me with more questions than answers. My mind raced, there had to be some kind of personal connection between Mischa and “Oppenheimer” but what was it? As the scene froze, the reel of film burnt as wings fluttered and danced, mocking me.
I ran outside and entered a compact stairwell that spiraled upwards, the 45’ was levelled as I kicked open the door to the projectionist booth; adrenaline taking over as I aimed at…
Moths, the death’s head variety; my free hand swatting some away as I entered the booth to the sound of the projector’s mechanism clicking a steady percussive beat, film unspooling from the machine onto the floor as the moths continued to dance around me. Mothman was long gone by now, he’d probably seen me enter outside and made an escape via the fire exit. Pinned to a corkboard on a wall nearby was a reel schedule with a letter next to it. The letter was addressed to me.
Television? Nobody watches television anymore. I checked my phone for a news feed; wherever Mothman was it had to be be within driving distance. There was only one logical choice as the ABC7 eyewitness news report played. Veronica Miracle, the female news reporter on scene was as calm and as antiseptic as ever as she delivered her piece to camera:
“Here, outside the Hollywood walk of fame today, a protest has gathered in response to the double murder that shocked the Hollywood community a mere two weeks ago. Mario Brava, head of the ‘Dark Riders For America’ an alt-right group set up to follow the teachings of former WCF World champion and Trump supporter, Thomas Uriel Bates, was slain in his Orange County home while being visited by ‘close friend’, Norman Cash, a member of the LAPD. Both were instrumental in the formation of the D.R.A. which vowed to “flush the human garbage from the streets of California.” Brava however was not without controversy himself after being disgraced by the #metoo movement for historic acts of sexual misconduct on the set of his Mortician series of films, which so far have grossed over three point eight billion dollars.“
Behind Veronica stood a long line of ‘Morticians’ brandishing placards, gathering in an odd chanting nest around Brava’s star on the walk of fame; the ornate slab situated opposite a sex shop. Such is the way of Hollywood.
Charlemagne! Charlemagne! Charlemagne!
“One of those to speak out against Brava was actress Mischa Miller, gunned down at the Hollywood sign while holding a man hostage at gunpoint after murdering her husband. Toxicology reports stated that she was not taking her medication at the time and that she had become dangerous to the public. Miller was shot while brandishing a weapon, the man who took the shot? None other than Norman Cash; a former war hero who seemed unrepentant when interviewed for a statement.”
Charlemagne! Charlemagne! Charlemagne!
The fuck are they chanting? It didn’t matter, what was important was that I knew Mothman’s location. Time to have our little, “chat” and end this before tinseltown exploded.
Approved
Thursday, August, 30th. DRG recreation society, Paramount lot: Stage 26
A smoke filled bar on the periphery of society was the setting I had crafted for this week. If I knew then the turn of events that were destined to follow, I might have considered this in poor taste. “Thomas Bates” opened proceedings as per always, followed by his close cohort.
“Church is in session!”
In Hollywood there’s a face to match whatever historical figure you’re searching for. Some work in theme parks, others are extras with a hidden talent. Occasionally you’ll get a troupe that performs together at the comedy store while waiting for that elusive big break to materialize. Lucky for me, Mayans M.C. was filming in the neighborhood, a few calls later and I had my D.R.G. (although Caraid looked a bit ropey if you asked me)
“When are we gonna teach that rat bastard Scarecrow a lesson for getting involved in our business!”
Gonzo Murdock was good; he had that skittish psychotic intensity down pat. I could almost imagine George talking to his imaginary sci fi characters as he salivated over the prospect of holding yet another Slam to ransom.
“Now, Gonzo. We’re not Barbarians, we’re Gentlemen! It’ll be a fair fight on Slam. Just with the six of us surrounding him in a darkened corridor while I attack out of nowhere.”
A sheepish voice belonging to “Danny Anderson” piped up from the back of the bar.
“As I recall Scarecrow didn’t actually attack you last week, he--”
“Thank you, Danny for your contribution.”
Time to make my entrance, I clicked my fingers as the scene magically “froze”. An interloper from 2018, time travelling back three years as I walked Rod Serling like into frame..
“Hello, Kid. I want you to look around this depressing scene today and drink it in. You see this assorted group of right wing opportunists frozen in time behind me? There were known back in the day as “The Dark Riders Gang”. They’re the blueprint of “The Church of Singh”, that fragmenting group of neerdowell egotists whose coattails you surf. They have the same dynamic, the same ideology, the same goals. Only they have something you don’t possess, Kid. They have success.”
“Last week, you told Teo via email that “you like winning”, strange how you conveniently misplaced that sense of drive when facing Valhalla Vice. I wonder why? I’m going to go out on a limb here and say it has something to do with respect. You have no respect for Teo, no respect for the Tag belts, none for this business and even less for yourself. You can say that the Television title was all you cared about, but what makes you think you’re going to get another shot at that belt when you can’t be bothered defending the belts you have?”
“Maybe though this is all planned, maybe you don’t give a shit about the tag belts because, deep down, you know you’re just not good enough to carry any title and you’re looking for a way to dodge a possible rematch. Thinking about it, you’ve been in this business for what now? Twenty years? And in that time the highest echelon you’ve managed to achieve is being a Stephen Singh flunkie? Oh, and a half assed Television title run that the world blinked through, and missed. That’s it, that’s all you have, and yet you’ve been around longer than Christ. Why is that “Kid”, why are you so long in the tooth, yet so short on accolades?”
“How old are you now anyway “Kid”, seven hundred and change? Fucks sake, you’re so old you should come to the ring riding a pimped out mobility scooter with a blanket around your legs. You shouldn't fight for belts, it should be scrappin’ for a hot bowl of soup and a night out from the retirement home. I hear you use cobwebs for hair product. When the WCF has a WAR flashback, it’s seeing Logan winning the World title, for you? It’s Vietnam. Newsflash “Kid”, false teeth are not classified as mouth guards. Oh, and your hips sound like castanets when you try to run, it’s embarrassing.”
“All these are, of course, dad jokes. Which is perfect because you’re old enough to get them. Yet, not old enough to act like an adult. Or maybe it’s just a mid-life crisis. There has to be some explanation for how you can be so old, yet so fucking juvenile at the same time. You’re like that movie Cocoon, only the process went wrong. The mind got young, but the body stayed old. I think the medical term for it is dementia.”
“When you take a trip to a Church who do you see at the altar? Usually it’s the desperate, the old and the infirm. The needy are always the first praying for forgiveness, for salvation. You’re no different, Kid. You see Singh and you think there’s safety by his side. That the numbers will make up the difference and supplement your fading quota of talent. Wrong, pal. Nether Singh nor eXtreme give a shit about you. You’ll find that out the hard way this week at The Kellogg Arena when they work in ‘mysterious ways’ and leave you high and dry as the Vanishing point connects. Maybe Teo will saunter down to ringside to give you a nudge to see if you’re alive, then make off with the bets and find himself a decent partner with some level of self respect. Teo seems a decent fella, certainly more deserving of a title than you, you worthless piece of shit.”
“Last week you claimed to be oh so proud of yourself because you bounced back from a loss, well la dee dah, old father time, as if staying in the game after a defeat should be honored with a medel. You remind me of The Brotherhood, of Karma Bishop and her freak show of basement dwelling flunkies. You’re right down there with a Joe Smarts, Dynamo, bigging yourself up because you don’t know when to quit. This week you’ll learn exactly when to quit, because this week isn’t a easy title defence against the likes of a Jackson Caine or three count over a misogynist sister fucker like James Wolf. No, this week you’re up against the most unpredictable, the most dangerous finisher in professional wrestling today, guided by a man willing to pull the trigger to get the job done. And what do you have in response? Legs that know how to backpedal up a ramp when they sense danger. Terriffic, Kid. What an equalizer you possess.”
“Only, I’m in no mood to accept a count out. I want blood. I want you broken at my feet. I believe It’s time to set a marker for the rest of the WCF to take notice of, and it starts with you, Kid. Just like Red Dragon last week, you’re going to learn what it’s like to have a functional brain one minute, and a cracked skull the next. It’s as easy as clicking my fingers. But for you? You’re going to be crawling on all fours wondering when the bell will stop ringing. Minutes will become hours. Hours will become days. And still, you’ll have no answer.”
“Michigan's state motto is, “Si quaeris peninsulam amoenam, circumspice”, that’s Latin for, “ If you seek a pleasant peninsula, look about you”, this week I want you to look around, Kid, look around and see the hell you’ve dug for yourself. Then clasp your hands together and pray. Pray to the golden God and wait for an answer. After a merciful one two three from Zip Wingdinger, all you’ll hear though, is silence. No Church will stand by you, no career will comfort you, they’ll just be me and the destruction I’ve caused. To you. To your future. Maybe you think that I’m just another plucky rookie with a decent run under his belt. That I’ll mellow the way you have. That I’ll simply accept my place and swallow the shit the likes of a Singh dishes out. Just like you. Writing nonsensical scribbings that are designed to boost an ego, but look infantile on the page.”
“I’m not interested in being, "The Next Legend", I’d rather be the next champion. One the people can count on, rather that retreat from. I don’t want to follow in your footsteps,. Kid. I’d rather rub them out. Leave no trace of the Dynamo and look ahead. WAR is around the corner, you’ll play the part of the sacrificial lamb for Mikey and Steve that night; it’s written in the stars. But this week, this week you’re going to get a taster of what that’s going to feel like. The sting, the frustration and finally the guilt. After all, you can’t be a churchgoer without guilt. But don’t worry. This week on Slam. You’re going to die...for my sins”.
“Thanks in advance by the way. Oh, and if you’re wondering which member of the DRG you most resemble? It’s the one that approves.”
“You figure it out.”
“Case closed.”
Chinese Democracy
Friday, August, 31st. Grauman's Chinese Theater, Hollywood, California.
Plumes of white smoke spiraled upward from the chaos of the rally as I stood on the roof of the theater. The fire exit door creaked as Mothman lowered his rifle, his ancient wrinkled face smirked before turning to face me. He was a meek looking man, grey thinning hair, an almost emaciated appearance. Overhead, police chopper blades cut a sway through the sky, zeroing in. Everything seemed locked in a mobius loop about to repeat itself. Just enough time to clear up what I needed to know.
“Who are you?”
“Well, look who finally arrived. This city has been expecting you, Kurt. It needs you. Try not to disappoint it.” Mothman glanced down at the crowd now masked from view by a series of smoke canisters Lorna and Chet had let off. “Your handy work?”
“Friends, family. They come in handy from time to time.”
“Such a luxury, never take it for granted.”
“Why did you do it?”
“Kill Brava?”
“That night, at the Hollywood sign, I heard two shots ring out. At first I thought It was a miss. But it wasn't, was it? Mischa was your daughter, wasn’t she? And you shot her."
“Better it be at my hands, than those scum. It’s an odd thing to know the only way your child can find peace is to die at your hands. She was broken, just like me. But they made her worse. They sucked her into their pathetic little world and took what was good and noble about my child and crushed it. So I did what I was trained to do.”
“Cointelpro?”
“Good guess. I was trained by the FBI to destabilize groups deemed a potential threat. Hollywood in the nineteen seventies was becoming radicalized. I was sent in to put the fear of God back in their souls. I succeeded. But control didn’t know what to do with me. So I stayed. Went underground. That’s when I met a waitress, pretty like my mother. And the cycle began again. Mischa was born a few years later. I kept my distance, until the #metoo business. But by then it was too late to save her.”
The rotor blades grew louder. Mothman turned away and began to crouch. His hand reaching for the rifle.
“Time to leave, snoop. My turn”
I didn’t stay. The gunshot echoed into the stairwell as I descended. A moment later the phone rang as my silent client finally answered.
“Is it done? It is over?”
“Yeah, it’s over. Your company doesn’t have another tragedy on its hands. Unless you count Kid Dynamo.”
“Any casualties?”
I hung up. I didn’t feel like answering; too many ghosts. Fluttering, like moths.
End.
An actress named Mischa Miller is shot and killed next to the Hollywood sign by LAPD sniper, Norman Cash; Cash is working for a disgraced Hollywood Producer named, Mario Brava, an alt right figure who wanted Miller silenced. All three are now dead, with one urban legend at the center of the puzzle, the serial killer known as, ”The Mothman”. Professional Fighter/Private Detective, Kurt Navarro has made a significant breakthrough in the case, zeroing in on Mothman’s apparent location. Now, one final confrontation with the Southern Californian urban legend seems inevitable, but with questions still unanswered, is Kurt ready for the revelations that are about to surface, revelations that could shake the delicate fabric of Hollywood?
Running parallel is the looming Battle Creek, Michigan confrontation between Kurt and long standing rival Kid Dynamo, a blockbuster WCF rematch scheduled to take place in front of nine thousand, eight hundred inside The Kellogg Arena as Kurt’s ongoing feud with The Church of Singh reaches boiling point. Unbeknownst to either opponent however, their match is inexplicably interwoven with Kurt’s investigations. Two worlds are about to collide head on as a dark serendipity comes into play.
The House Of Moths.
Friday, August, 31st. The Mystic Theater, Santa Clarita, California.
Oakdale Canyon didn’t really need an arthouse cinema anymore; the suburb had become a suburbian rest home for aging baby boomers, a maze of quiet bungalow streets keen just to vegetate after a hard day spent at the office. The kind of environment that was safe and dull, like watching Kid Dynamo perform in the ring.
Once upon a time everybody here knew everyone else, but those days were long gone, now a blindspot like an aging art deco monolith situated on the outskirts of town could operate unnoticed, a crumbling movie theatre baking under a midday sun named “The Mystic”.
My 1970 white Dodge Challenger felt like an oven as I checked the chamber of Lorna’s snub nosed 45’ with a hint of nerves twitching in my wrist. My sister’s pistol was more suited to this kind of work than the Desert Eagle I usually carried. If I was going to enter into the theater unnoticed however, I needed something I could conceal easily under my cord jacket. I didn’t expect to be padded down, but this was 2018 after all. We live in dangerous times.
As I exited the vehicle, The Mystic’s marquee front read: ‘Tarkovsky double bill! Stalker & Solaris’, Russian science fiction in the middle of the day probably meant my hipster appearance would fit in, although I didn’t expect anonymity for long, the Mothman knew my face, and he was probably expecting me.
My right hand reached for my holster as I checked my surroundings; the seats were empty as the reel played, mono sound and a Goblin soundtrack reverberated over the dimly lit theater as a beam of smoke from the projectionist booth illuminated a scene from “The Mortician II: Time of Death’, a horrified nurse sliced open by a hooded killer in a medical smock. The nurse undergoing an autopsy on screen was twenty years younger, yet her eyes and distinct cheekbones were as recognizable as ever. This wasn’t the first time Mischa Miller had died before me, her screams once again leaving me with more questions than answers. My mind raced, there had to be some kind of personal connection between Mischa and “Oppenheimer” but what was it? As the scene froze, the reel of film burnt as wings fluttered and danced, mocking me.
I ran outside and entered a compact stairwell that spiraled upwards, the 45’ was levelled as I kicked open the door to the projectionist booth; adrenaline taking over as I aimed at…
Moths, the death’s head variety; my free hand swatting some away as I entered the booth to the sound of the projector’s mechanism clicking a steady percussive beat, film unspooling from the machine onto the floor as the moths continued to dance around me. Mothman was long gone by now, he’d probably seen me enter outside and made an escape via the fire exit. Pinned to a corkboard on a wall nearby was a reel schedule with a letter next to it. The letter was addressed to me.
Hello, Mister Navarro.
If you’re reading this, then the breadcrumbs I’ve left out for you at the hilltop road haven’t gone unnoticed. Good lad, I’m sure your grandfather would be proud of you for keeping up with me. Back in my prime I was always eluding him, but not by much. You seem to be cut from the same cloth he was, I’m glad of that. Eddie was a decent soul, you should be proud; he was honest, hard working. Just a tinge of cynicism around the edges I noticed, a spark of skepticism that probably keep him alive. That’s a good trait to have Kurt, as long as you keep it in check.
We should meet, I want to discuss matters with you. I want you to understand my motives. I owe it to Eddie, to your late father too. But especially to you. Consider it your legacy.
Turn on the television if you want to know where to find me. Don’t be shy, we have much to discuss.
The Mothman.
If you’re reading this, then the breadcrumbs I’ve left out for you at the hilltop road haven’t gone unnoticed. Good lad, I’m sure your grandfather would be proud of you for keeping up with me. Back in my prime I was always eluding him, but not by much. You seem to be cut from the same cloth he was, I’m glad of that. Eddie was a decent soul, you should be proud; he was honest, hard working. Just a tinge of cynicism around the edges I noticed, a spark of skepticism that probably keep him alive. That’s a good trait to have Kurt, as long as you keep it in check.
We should meet, I want to discuss matters with you. I want you to understand my motives. I owe it to Eddie, to your late father too. But especially to you. Consider it your legacy.
Turn on the television if you want to know where to find me. Don’t be shy, we have much to discuss.
The Mothman.
Television? Nobody watches television anymore. I checked my phone for a news feed; wherever Mothman was it had to be be within driving distance. There was only one logical choice as the ABC7 eyewitness news report played. Veronica Miracle, the female news reporter on scene was as calm and as antiseptic as ever as she delivered her piece to camera:
“Here, outside the Hollywood walk of fame today, a protest has gathered in response to the double murder that shocked the Hollywood community a mere two weeks ago. Mario Brava, head of the ‘Dark Riders For America’ an alt-right group set up to follow the teachings of former WCF World champion and Trump supporter, Thomas Uriel Bates, was slain in his Orange County home while being visited by ‘close friend’, Norman Cash, a member of the LAPD. Both were instrumental in the formation of the D.R.A. which vowed to “flush the human garbage from the streets of California.” Brava however was not without controversy himself after being disgraced by the #metoo movement for historic acts of sexual misconduct on the set of his Mortician series of films, which so far have grossed over three point eight billion dollars.“
Behind Veronica stood a long line of ‘Morticians’ brandishing placards, gathering in an odd chanting nest around Brava’s star on the walk of fame; the ornate slab situated opposite a sex shop. Such is the way of Hollywood.
Charlemagne! Charlemagne! Charlemagne!
“One of those to speak out against Brava was actress Mischa Miller, gunned down at the Hollywood sign while holding a man hostage at gunpoint after murdering her husband. Toxicology reports stated that she was not taking her medication at the time and that she had become dangerous to the public. Miller was shot while brandishing a weapon, the man who took the shot? None other than Norman Cash; a former war hero who seemed unrepentant when interviewed for a statement.”
Charlemagne! Charlemagne! Charlemagne!
The fuck are they chanting? It didn’t matter, what was important was that I knew Mothman’s location. Time to have our little, “chat” and end this before tinseltown exploded.
Approved
Thursday, August, 30th. DRG recreation society, Paramount lot: Stage 26
A smoke filled bar on the periphery of society was the setting I had crafted for this week. If I knew then the turn of events that were destined to follow, I might have considered this in poor taste. “Thomas Bates” opened proceedings as per always, followed by his close cohort.
“Church is in session!”
In Hollywood there’s a face to match whatever historical figure you’re searching for. Some work in theme parks, others are extras with a hidden talent. Occasionally you’ll get a troupe that performs together at the comedy store while waiting for that elusive big break to materialize. Lucky for me, Mayans M.C. was filming in the neighborhood, a few calls later and I had my D.R.G. (although Caraid looked a bit ropey if you asked me)
“When are we gonna teach that rat bastard Scarecrow a lesson for getting involved in our business!”
Gonzo Murdock was good; he had that skittish psychotic intensity down pat. I could almost imagine George talking to his imaginary sci fi characters as he salivated over the prospect of holding yet another Slam to ransom.
“Now, Gonzo. We’re not Barbarians, we’re Gentlemen! It’ll be a fair fight on Slam. Just with the six of us surrounding him in a darkened corridor while I attack out of nowhere.”
A sheepish voice belonging to “Danny Anderson” piped up from the back of the bar.
“As I recall Scarecrow didn’t actually attack you last week, he--”
“Thank you, Danny for your contribution.”
Time to make my entrance, I clicked my fingers as the scene magically “froze”. An interloper from 2018, time travelling back three years as I walked Rod Serling like into frame..
“Hello, Kid. I want you to look around this depressing scene today and drink it in. You see this assorted group of right wing opportunists frozen in time behind me? There were known back in the day as “The Dark Riders Gang”. They’re the blueprint of “The Church of Singh”, that fragmenting group of neerdowell egotists whose coattails you surf. They have the same dynamic, the same ideology, the same goals. Only they have something you don’t possess, Kid. They have success.”
“Last week, you told Teo via email that “you like winning”, strange how you conveniently misplaced that sense of drive when facing Valhalla Vice. I wonder why? I’m going to go out on a limb here and say it has something to do with respect. You have no respect for Teo, no respect for the Tag belts, none for this business and even less for yourself. You can say that the Television title was all you cared about, but what makes you think you’re going to get another shot at that belt when you can’t be bothered defending the belts you have?”
“Maybe though this is all planned, maybe you don’t give a shit about the tag belts because, deep down, you know you’re just not good enough to carry any title and you’re looking for a way to dodge a possible rematch. Thinking about it, you’ve been in this business for what now? Twenty years? And in that time the highest echelon you’ve managed to achieve is being a Stephen Singh flunkie? Oh, and a half assed Television title run that the world blinked through, and missed. That’s it, that’s all you have, and yet you’ve been around longer than Christ. Why is that “Kid”, why are you so long in the tooth, yet so short on accolades?”
“How old are you now anyway “Kid”, seven hundred and change? Fucks sake, you’re so old you should come to the ring riding a pimped out mobility scooter with a blanket around your legs. You shouldn't fight for belts, it should be scrappin’ for a hot bowl of soup and a night out from the retirement home. I hear you use cobwebs for hair product. When the WCF has a WAR flashback, it’s seeing Logan winning the World title, for you? It’s Vietnam. Newsflash “Kid”, false teeth are not classified as mouth guards. Oh, and your hips sound like castanets when you try to run, it’s embarrassing.”
“All these are, of course, dad jokes. Which is perfect because you’re old enough to get them. Yet, not old enough to act like an adult. Or maybe it’s just a mid-life crisis. There has to be some explanation for how you can be so old, yet so fucking juvenile at the same time. You’re like that movie Cocoon, only the process went wrong. The mind got young, but the body stayed old. I think the medical term for it is dementia.”
“When you take a trip to a Church who do you see at the altar? Usually it’s the desperate, the old and the infirm. The needy are always the first praying for forgiveness, for salvation. You’re no different, Kid. You see Singh and you think there’s safety by his side. That the numbers will make up the difference and supplement your fading quota of talent. Wrong, pal. Nether Singh nor eXtreme give a shit about you. You’ll find that out the hard way this week at The Kellogg Arena when they work in ‘mysterious ways’ and leave you high and dry as the Vanishing point connects. Maybe Teo will saunter down to ringside to give you a nudge to see if you’re alive, then make off with the bets and find himself a decent partner with some level of self respect. Teo seems a decent fella, certainly more deserving of a title than you, you worthless piece of shit.”
“Last week you claimed to be oh so proud of yourself because you bounced back from a loss, well la dee dah, old father time, as if staying in the game after a defeat should be honored with a medel. You remind me of The Brotherhood, of Karma Bishop and her freak show of basement dwelling flunkies. You’re right down there with a Joe Smarts, Dynamo, bigging yourself up because you don’t know when to quit. This week you’ll learn exactly when to quit, because this week isn’t a easy title defence against the likes of a Jackson Caine or three count over a misogynist sister fucker like James Wolf. No, this week you’re up against the most unpredictable, the most dangerous finisher in professional wrestling today, guided by a man willing to pull the trigger to get the job done. And what do you have in response? Legs that know how to backpedal up a ramp when they sense danger. Terriffic, Kid. What an equalizer you possess.”
“Only, I’m in no mood to accept a count out. I want blood. I want you broken at my feet. I believe It’s time to set a marker for the rest of the WCF to take notice of, and it starts with you, Kid. Just like Red Dragon last week, you’re going to learn what it’s like to have a functional brain one minute, and a cracked skull the next. It’s as easy as clicking my fingers. But for you? You’re going to be crawling on all fours wondering when the bell will stop ringing. Minutes will become hours. Hours will become days. And still, you’ll have no answer.”
“Michigan's state motto is, “Si quaeris peninsulam amoenam, circumspice”, that’s Latin for, “ If you seek a pleasant peninsula, look about you”, this week I want you to look around, Kid, look around and see the hell you’ve dug for yourself. Then clasp your hands together and pray. Pray to the golden God and wait for an answer. After a merciful one two three from Zip Wingdinger, all you’ll hear though, is silence. No Church will stand by you, no career will comfort you, they’ll just be me and the destruction I’ve caused. To you. To your future. Maybe you think that I’m just another plucky rookie with a decent run under his belt. That I’ll mellow the way you have. That I’ll simply accept my place and swallow the shit the likes of a Singh dishes out. Just like you. Writing nonsensical scribbings that are designed to boost an ego, but look infantile on the page.”
“I’m not interested in being, "The Next Legend", I’d rather be the next champion. One the people can count on, rather that retreat from. I don’t want to follow in your footsteps,. Kid. I’d rather rub them out. Leave no trace of the Dynamo and look ahead. WAR is around the corner, you’ll play the part of the sacrificial lamb for Mikey and Steve that night; it’s written in the stars. But this week, this week you’re going to get a taster of what that’s going to feel like. The sting, the frustration and finally the guilt. After all, you can’t be a churchgoer without guilt. But don’t worry. This week on Slam. You’re going to die...for my sins”.
“Thanks in advance by the way. Oh, and if you’re wondering which member of the DRG you most resemble? It’s the one that approves.”
“You figure it out.”
“Case closed.”
Chinese Democracy
Friday, August, 31st. Grauman's Chinese Theater, Hollywood, California.
Plumes of white smoke spiraled upward from the chaos of the rally as I stood on the roof of the theater. The fire exit door creaked as Mothman lowered his rifle, his ancient wrinkled face smirked before turning to face me. He was a meek looking man, grey thinning hair, an almost emaciated appearance. Overhead, police chopper blades cut a sway through the sky, zeroing in. Everything seemed locked in a mobius loop about to repeat itself. Just enough time to clear up what I needed to know.
“Who are you?”
“Well, look who finally arrived. This city has been expecting you, Kurt. It needs you. Try not to disappoint it.” Mothman glanced down at the crowd now masked from view by a series of smoke canisters Lorna and Chet had let off. “Your handy work?”
“Friends, family. They come in handy from time to time.”
“Such a luxury, never take it for granted.”
“Why did you do it?”
“Kill Brava?”
“That night, at the Hollywood sign, I heard two shots ring out. At first I thought It was a miss. But it wasn't, was it? Mischa was your daughter, wasn’t she? And you shot her."
“Better it be at my hands, than those scum. It’s an odd thing to know the only way your child can find peace is to die at your hands. She was broken, just like me. But they made her worse. They sucked her into their pathetic little world and took what was good and noble about my child and crushed it. So I did what I was trained to do.”
“Cointelpro?”
“Good guess. I was trained by the FBI to destabilize groups deemed a potential threat. Hollywood in the nineteen seventies was becoming radicalized. I was sent in to put the fear of God back in their souls. I succeeded. But control didn’t know what to do with me. So I stayed. Went underground. That’s when I met a waitress, pretty like my mother. And the cycle began again. Mischa was born a few years later. I kept my distance, until the #metoo business. But by then it was too late to save her.”
The rotor blades grew louder. Mothman turned away and began to crouch. His hand reaching for the rifle.
“Time to leave, snoop. My turn”
I didn’t stay. The gunshot echoed into the stairwell as I descended. A moment later the phone rang as my silent client finally answered.
“Is it done? It is over?”
“Yeah, it’s over. Your company doesn’t have another tragedy on its hands. Unless you count Kid Dynamo.”
“Any casualties?”
I hung up. I didn’t feel like answering; too many ghosts. Fluttering, like moths.
End.
