Post by Deleted on Nov 24, 2013 3:32:58 GMT -5
Mark IV: "Season Of The Fall"
A lilting acoustic guitar melody plays. We see thousands upon thousands of leaves stacked in dozens of individual piles. Yellows and browns. Reds and oranges. The colors of autumn. A season for the fall. And the fall will come... and it does. But that's a foreboding gesture. Right now it's time to play. Children frolic. They let loose all inhibitions and dance and jump and run and dive headfirst into the piles. These children are rather large and in fact they aren't children at all. Zombie McMorris emerges from a leaf pile, his tattered garb covered in dirt and dead leaves, possibly even dog droppings... unless those are rat turds. It's all the same to ZMAC. They might as well be M&M's as he gobbles them down without even chewing.
Diablo Calzone observes this abhorrent gesture and gags, nearly losing his lunch in the process. And what a hearty lunch it was: beef, vegetable and potato perfectly seasoned and slow cooked for hours in a big pot of stew. Certainly went down easier than dog droppings or rat turds. Whatever that shit was that ZMAC just ate. ZMAC notices D-LO's repulsed expression and dismisses this as effeminate.
ZMAC: Don't sweat the technique, nig. Feces contains iron and starch and all that good shit. Makes a man out of ya. Puts hair on your chest.
ZMAC pokes D-LO in the chest with a stick. D-LO's flannel shirt rumples. He brushes the stick away with his hand.
Calzone: Can you not do that, my man? I don't want your doo-doo stick touching my seventy-dollar Duluth flannel.
ZMAC: Oh wow. Seventy bucks. You're a big man now that you got some bread in your pocket, huh? Too good to have a little bit of fun with your old buddy ZMAC?
Calzone: I didn't say that, man, I just don't like poop as much as you.
ZMAC: And I don't like poop as much as Jorge Diaz, what's your point? I simply recognize its nutritional benefits. You try being a coked up zombie and see if you're never tempted to eat shit, not even once.
Calzone scoffs at first, but then he stops and considers the scenario that ZMAC has outlined. He sighs.
Calzone: Admittedly, if I were a coked up zombie I might be tempted to eat shit. However I'm not a coked up zombie. I'm a dopesick Devil-worshiping gangster from Brooklyn, so your hypothetical scenario doesn't carry weight with me.
ZMAC: All of this is beside the point anyway, D-LO. We didn't come here to roll around in the leaves like a couple of kids or even to throw poop at each other. Those are great things, don't get me wrong, wholesome things like snorting the blow, smashing the BBW poon and dropping jobbers on their motherfucking heads--
ZMAC is thrown offguard by the continuing acoustic guitar melody that seems to be looping once and again without pause, throwing off Zombie's train of thought.
ZMAC: What the fuck is this, NPR? What's with this acoustic bullshit? They need to play some Rob Zombie or Slayer up in this motha.
Calzone scans the perimeter, those piercing eyes with their poon-wetting tendencies not missing a beat. He locates the perpetrator at no less than a five-hundred yard range.
Calzone: College kid, twelve o'clock-- Caucasian dreadlocks and Birkenstocks with socks.
ZMAC pulls the Deagle out of his sludged up jeans and stalks over to the hippie. ZMAC points the barrel of the gun at the hippie scum's face. The kid scatters in half-a-heartbeat, leaving his guitar behind. ZMAC curbstomps the piece of shit acoustic noisemaker and pisses on its smashed up remains.
ZMAC: Shit was annoying me.
Calzone: I know. I hate liberals too.
ZMAC: Liberal. Conservative. Atheist. Catholic. It's all bullshit, D-LO. Ain't no truth or reason to any of that BS. You think The Honey Badger gives a shit about political ethos? I sleep in a railway car on most nights, son. With an old black man to the left of me and a fat white bitch underneath me. That's truth. That's reality. Fuck your right-wing, left-wing, Democrap, Republipuke.
Calzone: All I'm sayin is shit was better when Reagan was in the White House.
ZMAC: Maybe so, kid. Maybe not. Who's to say? I can't remember last week much less two, three decades ago. Was Reagan a great American cowboy? Better than he was a great American president. Yet with today's standards, who knows. He ran the country better than Sarah Twilight is running WCF. I know that much.
Calzone nods his head, appreciative of the science that ZMAC is dropping. Calzone is a self-made tough guy and all-around New York ruffian, but he's smart enough to recognize that he doesn't know all that he needs to know about the hurting people game or life in general. This is where ZMAC's guidance is vitally important to young Calzone.
Calzone: See? That's what I figured. Sarah is... she's too plaintive.
ZMAC scoffs at his youthful protege.
ZMAC: Plaintive? She's a fucking cunt. A cartoon character without the humor or the charm. Look at me. You think I need to strut around with a dick up my ass, all uptight, talking this doom and gloom, end of the world bullshit? Talking about how evil and scary I am because I'm a Wiccan, like that makes anyone special? Special in the retard sense of the term, but that's about it. Me? All I care to do at the end of the day is watch the world burn.
ZMAC grabs his gas can, saturating the leaves with the flammable liquid. He empties the can and tosses it aside, then pulls out the Zippo lighter that he lifted off a dead hooker in NOLA. ZMAC throws the lighter into the pile as it goes up in a sweet, angelic blaze of glory. ZMAC breathes deep over the pile, the aroma of burning leaves filling his lungs.
Calzone: You getting high? You can't get high off of yard clippings... can ya?
ZMAC: Poison ivy.
Calzone: What?
Calzone takes a few steps back and puts his flannel over his face to block out the smoke.
Calzone: That shit can kill you.
ZMAC: Look at it, D-LO. Breathe deep. WCF is like this pile of leaves. Dried, stale, end of its life. Yeah, at first you get excited that fall is here and there’s a certain charm to it. You frolic, you get merry-- queer with the thought of not having a care in the world. Then it piles up. The leaves keep coming, falling off the tree. You have to rake and rake, scooping the shit up and putting them in piles. Sure, you could bag them and leave them on the curb but then some asshole like me will just come along and throw it all over the interior of your car or in your house. Make you realize the error of your ways. What do you do when the very thing that gave the tree its majestic quality falls to the ground, shriveled and broken, like the roster and management from the once mighty WCF? You burn that shit and breathe deep the smoke emanating off your fallen enemies. You take their power away from them so they can't go to Heaven, to immortality. They don't deserve it. If anyone thinks Sarah Twilight or WCF is doing a good job-- they deserve to be right here, on a stake like Joan of Arc, or me-- after I popped that French bitch's cherry with my thickness. D-LO, what has come from WCF? Rather what has come to WCF?
Calzone: Those NWA guys?
ZMAC: And?
Calzone: A bunch of useless jobbers that muddle the system. All playing grab ass in the back. Sucking that Twilight phantom cock that could not hold up to The Thickness. Complaining about their time in the ring, their lack of a shot they feel they deserve. Pontificating about their ability to get shit done. All the while not winning any matches?
ZMAC: Precisely. Some of those NWA guys are good. I ran with them in Hellimination. Good shit but the others-- they are the fallen leaves of autumn. Right now you or they may think that Cairo and Odin-- The Godfather and All-Father respectively-- are the exception in WCF. They are the minority due to their skill, commitment and ability to get shit done. Once upon a midnight waxing they were part of the majority. When guys like Adam Young were on the fringe-- the very fringe. Now things have flip flopped. Do you see what I'm saying?
Calzone: Set them leaves on fire, this roster on fire. The world on fire.
ZMAC: There is more than one way to watch the world burn, young thick-ni. And there are better ways to get shit done in this company than throwing a butthurt surprise at the roster because you cannot manage a company.
ZMAC pokes D-LO in the face with the poop stick. D-LO panics and knocks the stick away and out of ZMAC's hands.
Calzone: Get that shit outta my face!
ZMAC: Then you are not ready. Life will always poke you with shit. Right in the meat of your eye. What are you gonna do about that? I have to prepare you for the shit that Sarah Twilight's going to throw at you for being associated with The Thickness and The Honey Badger.
Calzone: Trust me, I can handle it.
ZMAC: Can you? You just panicked like a petrified whore staring down the barrel of my Deagle - well, Odin's Deagle - and knocked the stick out of my hand.
Calzone: Exactly. I got rid of the threat.
ZMAC picks up the poop stick again.
ZMAC: You will never get rid of the poop stick. You're going to knock it away and I'm going to pick it up again and do you know why?
Calzone: Cuz you're an asshole!
ZMAC: True. But besides that, I know that it bothers you. It gets to you, crawls under your skin and festers. Twilight knows it'll get to you. And do you know how to shut that bitch up?
Calzone: How?
ZMAC smears the tip of the poop stick onto his fingers and presents it to Calzone; leaving Calzone to contemplate eating the shit or not.
ZMAC: You don't have to be a coked up zombie to eat shit. But you do have to be a man.
Interlude: "Internal Mechanism"
As young Calzone wrestles with his decision whether or not to eat the shit and validate his manhood once and for all, we harken down memory lane, reminiscing about the last time that we saw D-LO in action on Sunday Night Slam. Two weeks ago in Pierre, South Dakota the team of Big Time Thickness (Diablo Calzone, Zombie McMorris and Adam "Super Villain" Young) defeated the hardboiled yet mismatched trio of "The God Of Emptiness" Oblivion, Doc "The Cock" Henry and "The Coldblooded Assassin" TEK. Oh sure that latter team has plenty of nicknames to its credit and even some really nice and wonderful championship accomplishments on its resume. But do you know something, Sarah Twilight? It didn't fucking matter. Not one iota. Big Time Thickness owned that shit. Doc got pinned by AY. The world laughed. The world cried. The world danced. Oh holy hallelujah, they rejoiced! Much poon was smashed.
While young Calzone did not score the fall for his team, he played an integral role in his team's victory. And make no mistake about it. Big Time Thickness cemented their status as the uncrowned six-man champs of professional wrestling. No one can defeat them and no one ever will. That's what makes it such a special experience for a greenhorn like D-LO. He encountered the privilege of working directly with two seasoned veterans of the sport in Young and McMorris. Traveling with them, wrestling with them, getting high and fucking bitches with them. All of that is good shit, bonding shit, puts hair on your chest... much like eating shit. But the success that we see on TV and in these promos is for all intents and purposes a secondary issue. The question is: What's inside of Diablo Calzone? What makes the young man tick? Does he really want it? We all get hungry for big meaty sandwiches from Subway or the local Jewish delicatessen, but how many of us are hungry to be world champions?
Mark V: "The Vapor Kings"
D-LO closes his eyes and nods his head. He knows now what he must do. He opens his mouth. ZMAC's shit coated fingers are inserted. D-LO's licks and sucks the shit right off ZMAC's hand. The taste is repugnant, like that is a Mongolian woman's poon. If crawfish had been left to sit and rot in the sun for a week during the hottest days of the summer and then inserted into Sarah Twilight's twat-- well, nevermind. This tastes better than that. But it's still pretty bad and D-LO frowns and scowls and tries to intimidate ZMAC with demonstrative gestures, but D-LO is still the one eating shit from ZMAC's hand and that fact gives ZMAC the advantage no matter your perspective.
ZMAC: I'm proud of you, D-LO. This is a good step for you. There's going to be things in this world that you are going to do that you may not want to, but you're going to do them because they will make you stronger than all of the steroid junkies and Aryan supermen who ever walked this earth. I see you pounding your chest like a motherfuckin King Kong when you walk out to the ring. And that's good and healthy, I love the enthusiasm. But you gotta be able to show the true heart and grit. Show Sarah Twilight that nothing she can throw at your is ever gonna bring you down. Can I tell you something, D-LO?
D-LO, having swallowed all of the shit from ZMAC's hand, grimaces and throws a sneer or thirty in ZMAC's direction. D-LO is NOT a happy camper. He just ate enough shit to star in his own German scat porn. That ain't cool. Not for a prideful young man from Brooklyn who's used to cappin fools for a single wrong look. Diablo Calzone has been humbled.
ZMAC: That wasn't dog shit and it wasn't some accident that I stepped in it. That was MY shit, D-LO, my feces from my ass. I choreographed this whole little shit eating festival in order to teach you a lesson.
D-LO strikes ZMAC in the face with the hardest right hand that he can throw, a strong enough punch to instantly KO ninety-eight percent of boxing's heavyweight division. ZMAC doesn't even flinch. It helps that the nerve endings in his face have long since been frayed by self-immolation and attempted political assassinations by his enemies.
Calzone: You asshole! Why would you do that?
ZMAC: You need balls, kid. You're close to doing something big here. You're on the verge of a major breakthrough. You've got a special way about you, an aura... an allure. You've got talent too. Talent for days. What I need to see is that you got the balls to see this mission through. You can eat shit? Good. That's a first step. Like I said, you won't always like doing the things that you have to do in order to be successful in this life, but you'll do them because it's far better than having to spend a lifetime on your knees sucking Sarah Twilight's clit and begging for a handy in return, or some kind of release, any kind of release. You remain in that position for too long and your cock and balls atrophy from lack of activity. You think Sarah Twilight gives a fuck? Hell no. She wants to turn all of us into eunuchs.
Calzone spits and spits and spits and rinses with a hit of Evan Williams whiskey and spits and spits some more, but it doesn't erase the taste. Nothing ever will. He ate ZMAC's shit. He probably has AIDS right now.
Calzone: If you gave me AIDS I'm gonna kill your immortal ass, ZMAC!
ZMAC: You now have AIDS and virtually every other disease known to man-- and many that remain unknown. Don't worry though. They're balancing each other out in perfect harmony. You'll never feel a thing aside from occasional light-headedness during orgasm and an occasional pinching of the testes during urination. Possibly some blood in your stool. But hey that was going to happen sooner or later. A good solid liver punch or a week of binge drinking has the same effect.
Calzone: Well, I suppose that's true... still you should have told me. What's with all of these secrets?
ZMAC: Sometimes it's the only way to teach a stubborn punk kid. Don't even try to play it off like you don't know, D-LO. You know. You call me an asshole and you're right about that, but take a look in the mirror. You might be surprised by what you see.
ZMAC breathes in the vapors of poison ivy that continue to fill the air. The more that he breathes the clearer that his sinuses become. Soon his breathing is so fluid that he's able to bench press a VW Beetle without so much as breaking a sweat. D-LO is hesitant to breathe the junk, not wanting to die from the poisonous fumes or contribute any further maladies to his already overworked immune system. Finally ZMAC convinces the kid to just go with the flow and inhale. D-LO's world is instantly turned upside down. He's transported to the 1960's. Kennedy is in the White House. The Beetles are topping the pop charts. The Vietnam War is presently just a modest conflict having yet to escalate into full blown AIDS. D-LO dances with Marilyn Monroe at the Hammerstein Ballroom in New York. D-LO steps on Marilyn's pinky toe. She yelps. He apologizes. She kicks him in the shin. They laugh about it and dance some more.
D-LO and Marilyn sit down and enjoy a nice, quiet dinner under guise of candlelight, soft jazz music playing in the background. D-LO in his tuxedo and Marilyn in her gown, looking for all the world like Hollywood's premier power couple. Will they marry? This is what the paparazzi wants to know. Will she kick Joe DiMaggio to the curb? Will Diablo Calzone topple Antonino Rocca for the World's Heavyweight Wrestling Championship? These are questions that burn at society's consciousness. D-LO drops to a kneeling position, pulls out the velvet box with the 24-karat diamond ring inside. She opens the box. Loves the ring. Nearly as big as your thickness, she says. He smiles. Poses the magic words, "Marilyn, you are my bitch and my one true love. Will you give me the honor of smashing your poon for as long as we both shall live?" She hesitates. His heart stops cold and dead in its tracks. David Lynch, film director extraordinaire, simply looks at Diablo with a blank expression and shrugs. It's like... what could David Lynch really say in that moment to comfort Diablo Calzone? And anyway it's too late now. "Cult Of Personality" hits the PA system in the ballroom. It's time for D-LO's match with CM Punk.
Crowd: CM PUNK! CM PUNK! CM PUNK!
D-LO wakes up, finding himself buried under a pile of leaves, barely a hint of daylight peeking through. He thrashes about and discards the leaves from his person, stumbling up to his feet in the process. He frantically glances about and spots ZMAC playing catch, tossing the pigskin around with some local neighborhood kids. One of the kids is wearing a Peyton Manning Denver Broncos jersey. Denver, Colorado. Host city of WCF's pot luck Slam. D-LO has spent a great deal of time contemplating this topic and all of the what-ifs that naturally rear their heads. What if... what if I get a shot at Jonny Fly with the title at stake? Imagine that shit. This is what D-LO tells himself. That one opportunity could change his entire life, much less his career. Has he earned a shot at Fly? Not even close. He recognizes this without a shadow of a doubt. But pot luck ain't about earning shit. It's about the luck of the draw.
Two days earlier - literally forty-eight hours ago on the dot - D-LO was rolling blunts with Bobby Cairo "The Godfather" using the finest cigars from Fidel Castro's personal stash. You see while the USA might have a trade embargo with Cuba, the Poon Guinean government does not recognize such nonsense. Free trade is fair trade in the eyes of the Poon Guinean administration and they put this theory into practice. So anyway Cairo and D-LO are rolling blunts, smoking mad reefer, and they're talking about the progression of young Calzone's wrestling career.
Cairo: We've discussed it - we being the hierarchy of The Thickness - and we like what we're seeing from you. ZMAC is earning his money and then some.
Calzone: I don't really like working with him. He's out of his fucking mind.
Cairo: You're too young to understand, D-LO. You're still a kid. You don't understand the inner workings of the world with its rotten core like produce left on the shelf beyond its expiration date. You need to realize that ZMAC is looking out for your best interests. If I'm your father - the level-headed adult male role model with impeccable logic and tasteful fashion sense - then ZMAC is your coked out uncle who's still shell shocked from the war.
Calzone: Which war?
Cairo: Nam, Desert Storm, Poonghanistan. Take your pick. It don't matter. Life is war, kid. WCF is war. WAR is war. Each of these factors contributes to your development as a man and a wrestling superstar. You have the chance to do something special on Sunday.
D-LO takes a toke on the blunt, inhaling the majestic kush without choking. He doesn't want to shame himself in front of Cairo. Never wants to shame himself in front of Cairo. That wouldn't be prudent.
Calzone: I actually, Bobby-- I actually had a dream that Ryan Rhodes was my opponent and I defeated him for the United States championship.
Cairo nods his head while envisioning the scenario in his own toked out brain. It feels good. He likes it. Cairo would like to see that red, white and blue belt around his protege's waist. But how does D-LO feel about it?
Cairo: It gave you pleasure? You enjoyed that feeling of being United States Champion?
Calzone: It felt good, Bobby. I felt galvanized, like someone had given me a kick in the balls, a beautiful bitch let's say, and that I became horny from it. Don't know if I'm explaining myself in a very articulate manner.
Cairo: No, I understand what you're saying. Don't get your hopes up because that is just one of many possibilities, you versus Rhodes, but I like your chances if you do end up facing him.
D-LO hesitates before asserting his next statement. He feels a sense of timidness spreading inside of him. This makes him feel even more uncomfortable than the initial thought itself. The thought that he might be forced to square off against...
Calzone: Bobby, what if we get booked to face each other? When you think about it the odds of that happening are as good as any other scenario.
Cairo tokes on his pot-laden cigar, toking that Bin Laden weed by way of Poon Guinea. He smiles. His smile spreads as wide as an ocean. As wide as Rihanna's legs when the thickness is smashing that fine Barbadian poon.
Cairo: If it happens... then so be it. It's not going to be a fight to the death. We'll go out there and put on a show that the wrestle-viewing public hasn't witnessed since the days of Flair-Steamboat. If I beat you then it's expected. If you beat me then it makes your career. Either way you get a boost.
D-LO nods his head in understanding. He had been nervous that such a scenario could cause him to be viewed as a threat by The Thickness hierarchy, but Cairo's words leave him feeling reassured. Of course this kush is laced with PCP, which Cairo didn't tell D-LO about in the first place, so maybe Bobby isn't telling him everything about the potential fallout of a match between the two, but oh well. There's worse things in the world than getting dusted with The Godfather. They would finish their smoke break, eat heaping portions of breaded pork chops and fuck fine black bitches. This leveled out any potential animosity between mentor and protege.
D-LO is brought back to the present, watching ZMAC play catch with the neighborhood kids. D-LO calls out to his "coked out uncle", an idea nibbling at his brain stem. ZMAC strips the ball from the smallest kid in the group and runs eighty-three yards in the opposite direction for the fumble recovery touchdown. His team wins 63 to 2. He spikes the football and dances the Moonwalk, shaming the losers and causing them to run home crying for their mommies.
ZMAC: Deuces, bitches.
D-LO finally manages to catch ZMAC's attention and flags him over.
Calzone: So maybe I was wrong earlier. I apologize.
ZMAC: Nig, I made you eat my shit and you're apologizing? That's some pussy shit right there, bro.
Calzone: It's not like that. I need the values that you've shown me. I need them because I won't survive in this world without them.
ZMAC is taken aback by D-LO's candidness, actually impressed by it.
ZMAC: You're learning. That's good. Part of an extensive, ongoing process to turn you from a bitch into a man.
Calzone: I think I know what I need right now.
ZMAC: Oh? You speak of things to me?
Calzone: Listen, man, this is the Mile High City and I need to get a mile high for my match. You think we could score some dust? I'll pay for it, man. I just need you to come up with the contact.
ZMAC: I can arrange for such things. And you won't pussy out, like when you refused to eat the poop?
Calzone: Nah, I'm way past that. Twilight can't get in my head no more, ZMAC. I'm ready for this shit.
ZMAC: You recognize the enemy in its sickening, ginger-esque form. I respect that. OK, kid. Let's jack this Vee-Dub and get rolling. I know a guy that we can cop from.
Calzone checks his money clip. Yep, he's got enough for the dust plus a weekend's supply of whiskey. Good thing since he just polished off that bottle of Williams. Feeling a bit buzzed, D-LO gets behind the wheel of the B.o.B.B.B. (Beetle of Booze, Blow and Bitches) and peels out before bursting through the massive flames of the leaf fires, an Alice Cooper eight-track tape blaring from the speakers. The Vapor Kings ride again. This is Hell. This is Life. This is Denver, Colorado. This is Diablo Calzone, coming to an episode of WCF Slam near you. Rock out with your cock out or get knocked out. The choice is yours, mein amigo. Welcome to... The Season of The Fall.
A lilting acoustic guitar melody plays. We see thousands upon thousands of leaves stacked in dozens of individual piles. Yellows and browns. Reds and oranges. The colors of autumn. A season for the fall. And the fall will come... and it does. But that's a foreboding gesture. Right now it's time to play. Children frolic. They let loose all inhibitions and dance and jump and run and dive headfirst into the piles. These children are rather large and in fact they aren't children at all. Zombie McMorris emerges from a leaf pile, his tattered garb covered in dirt and dead leaves, possibly even dog droppings... unless those are rat turds. It's all the same to ZMAC. They might as well be M&M's as he gobbles them down without even chewing.
Diablo Calzone observes this abhorrent gesture and gags, nearly losing his lunch in the process. And what a hearty lunch it was: beef, vegetable and potato perfectly seasoned and slow cooked for hours in a big pot of stew. Certainly went down easier than dog droppings or rat turds. Whatever that shit was that ZMAC just ate. ZMAC notices D-LO's repulsed expression and dismisses this as effeminate.
ZMAC: Don't sweat the technique, nig. Feces contains iron and starch and all that good shit. Makes a man out of ya. Puts hair on your chest.
ZMAC pokes D-LO in the chest with a stick. D-LO's flannel shirt rumples. He brushes the stick away with his hand.
Calzone: Can you not do that, my man? I don't want your doo-doo stick touching my seventy-dollar Duluth flannel.
ZMAC: Oh wow. Seventy bucks. You're a big man now that you got some bread in your pocket, huh? Too good to have a little bit of fun with your old buddy ZMAC?
Calzone: I didn't say that, man, I just don't like poop as much as you.
ZMAC: And I don't like poop as much as Jorge Diaz, what's your point? I simply recognize its nutritional benefits. You try being a coked up zombie and see if you're never tempted to eat shit, not even once.
Calzone scoffs at first, but then he stops and considers the scenario that ZMAC has outlined. He sighs.
Calzone: Admittedly, if I were a coked up zombie I might be tempted to eat shit. However I'm not a coked up zombie. I'm a dopesick Devil-worshiping gangster from Brooklyn, so your hypothetical scenario doesn't carry weight with me.
ZMAC: All of this is beside the point anyway, D-LO. We didn't come here to roll around in the leaves like a couple of kids or even to throw poop at each other. Those are great things, don't get me wrong, wholesome things like snorting the blow, smashing the BBW poon and dropping jobbers on their motherfucking heads--
ZMAC is thrown offguard by the continuing acoustic guitar melody that seems to be looping once and again without pause, throwing off Zombie's train of thought.
ZMAC: What the fuck is this, NPR? What's with this acoustic bullshit? They need to play some Rob Zombie or Slayer up in this motha.
Calzone scans the perimeter, those piercing eyes with their poon-wetting tendencies not missing a beat. He locates the perpetrator at no less than a five-hundred yard range.
Calzone: College kid, twelve o'clock-- Caucasian dreadlocks and Birkenstocks with socks.
ZMAC pulls the Deagle out of his sludged up jeans and stalks over to the hippie. ZMAC points the barrel of the gun at the hippie scum's face. The kid scatters in half-a-heartbeat, leaving his guitar behind. ZMAC curbstomps the piece of shit acoustic noisemaker and pisses on its smashed up remains.
ZMAC: Shit was annoying me.
Calzone: I know. I hate liberals too.
ZMAC: Liberal. Conservative. Atheist. Catholic. It's all bullshit, D-LO. Ain't no truth or reason to any of that BS. You think The Honey Badger gives a shit about political ethos? I sleep in a railway car on most nights, son. With an old black man to the left of me and a fat white bitch underneath me. That's truth. That's reality. Fuck your right-wing, left-wing, Democrap, Republipuke.
Calzone: All I'm sayin is shit was better when Reagan was in the White House.
ZMAC: Maybe so, kid. Maybe not. Who's to say? I can't remember last week much less two, three decades ago. Was Reagan a great American cowboy? Better than he was a great American president. Yet with today's standards, who knows. He ran the country better than Sarah Twilight is running WCF. I know that much.
Calzone nods his head, appreciative of the science that ZMAC is dropping. Calzone is a self-made tough guy and all-around New York ruffian, but he's smart enough to recognize that he doesn't know all that he needs to know about the hurting people game or life in general. This is where ZMAC's guidance is vitally important to young Calzone.
Calzone: See? That's what I figured. Sarah is... she's too plaintive.
ZMAC scoffs at his youthful protege.
ZMAC: Plaintive? She's a fucking cunt. A cartoon character without the humor or the charm. Look at me. You think I need to strut around with a dick up my ass, all uptight, talking this doom and gloom, end of the world bullshit? Talking about how evil and scary I am because I'm a Wiccan, like that makes anyone special? Special in the retard sense of the term, but that's about it. Me? All I care to do at the end of the day is watch the world burn.
ZMAC grabs his gas can, saturating the leaves with the flammable liquid. He empties the can and tosses it aside, then pulls out the Zippo lighter that he lifted off a dead hooker in NOLA. ZMAC throws the lighter into the pile as it goes up in a sweet, angelic blaze of glory. ZMAC breathes deep over the pile, the aroma of burning leaves filling his lungs.
Calzone: You getting high? You can't get high off of yard clippings... can ya?
ZMAC: Poison ivy.
Calzone: What?
Calzone takes a few steps back and puts his flannel over his face to block out the smoke.
Calzone: That shit can kill you.
ZMAC: Look at it, D-LO. Breathe deep. WCF is like this pile of leaves. Dried, stale, end of its life. Yeah, at first you get excited that fall is here and there’s a certain charm to it. You frolic, you get merry-- queer with the thought of not having a care in the world. Then it piles up. The leaves keep coming, falling off the tree. You have to rake and rake, scooping the shit up and putting them in piles. Sure, you could bag them and leave them on the curb but then some asshole like me will just come along and throw it all over the interior of your car or in your house. Make you realize the error of your ways. What do you do when the very thing that gave the tree its majestic quality falls to the ground, shriveled and broken, like the roster and management from the once mighty WCF? You burn that shit and breathe deep the smoke emanating off your fallen enemies. You take their power away from them so they can't go to Heaven, to immortality. They don't deserve it. If anyone thinks Sarah Twilight or WCF is doing a good job-- they deserve to be right here, on a stake like Joan of Arc, or me-- after I popped that French bitch's cherry with my thickness. D-LO, what has come from WCF? Rather what has come to WCF?
Calzone: Those NWA guys?
ZMAC: And?
Calzone: A bunch of useless jobbers that muddle the system. All playing grab ass in the back. Sucking that Twilight phantom cock that could not hold up to The Thickness. Complaining about their time in the ring, their lack of a shot they feel they deserve. Pontificating about their ability to get shit done. All the while not winning any matches?
ZMAC: Precisely. Some of those NWA guys are good. I ran with them in Hellimination. Good shit but the others-- they are the fallen leaves of autumn. Right now you or they may think that Cairo and Odin-- The Godfather and All-Father respectively-- are the exception in WCF. They are the minority due to their skill, commitment and ability to get shit done. Once upon a midnight waxing they were part of the majority. When guys like Adam Young were on the fringe-- the very fringe. Now things have flip flopped. Do you see what I'm saying?
Calzone: Set them leaves on fire, this roster on fire. The world on fire.
ZMAC: There is more than one way to watch the world burn, young thick-ni. And there are better ways to get shit done in this company than throwing a butthurt surprise at the roster because you cannot manage a company.
ZMAC pokes D-LO in the face with the poop stick. D-LO panics and knocks the stick away and out of ZMAC's hands.
Calzone: Get that shit outta my face!
ZMAC: Then you are not ready. Life will always poke you with shit. Right in the meat of your eye. What are you gonna do about that? I have to prepare you for the shit that Sarah Twilight's going to throw at you for being associated with The Thickness and The Honey Badger.
Calzone: Trust me, I can handle it.
ZMAC: Can you? You just panicked like a petrified whore staring down the barrel of my Deagle - well, Odin's Deagle - and knocked the stick out of my hand.
Calzone: Exactly. I got rid of the threat.
ZMAC picks up the poop stick again.
ZMAC: You will never get rid of the poop stick. You're going to knock it away and I'm going to pick it up again and do you know why?
Calzone: Cuz you're an asshole!
ZMAC: True. But besides that, I know that it bothers you. It gets to you, crawls under your skin and festers. Twilight knows it'll get to you. And do you know how to shut that bitch up?
Calzone: How?
ZMAC smears the tip of the poop stick onto his fingers and presents it to Calzone; leaving Calzone to contemplate eating the shit or not.
ZMAC: You don't have to be a coked up zombie to eat shit. But you do have to be a man.
Interlude: "Internal Mechanism"
As young Calzone wrestles with his decision whether or not to eat the shit and validate his manhood once and for all, we harken down memory lane, reminiscing about the last time that we saw D-LO in action on Sunday Night Slam. Two weeks ago in Pierre, South Dakota the team of Big Time Thickness (Diablo Calzone, Zombie McMorris and Adam "Super Villain" Young) defeated the hardboiled yet mismatched trio of "The God Of Emptiness" Oblivion, Doc "The Cock" Henry and "The Coldblooded Assassin" TEK. Oh sure that latter team has plenty of nicknames to its credit and even some really nice and wonderful championship accomplishments on its resume. But do you know something, Sarah Twilight? It didn't fucking matter. Not one iota. Big Time Thickness owned that shit. Doc got pinned by AY. The world laughed. The world cried. The world danced. Oh holy hallelujah, they rejoiced! Much poon was smashed.
While young Calzone did not score the fall for his team, he played an integral role in his team's victory. And make no mistake about it. Big Time Thickness cemented their status as the uncrowned six-man champs of professional wrestling. No one can defeat them and no one ever will. That's what makes it such a special experience for a greenhorn like D-LO. He encountered the privilege of working directly with two seasoned veterans of the sport in Young and McMorris. Traveling with them, wrestling with them, getting high and fucking bitches with them. All of that is good shit, bonding shit, puts hair on your chest... much like eating shit. But the success that we see on TV and in these promos is for all intents and purposes a secondary issue. The question is: What's inside of Diablo Calzone? What makes the young man tick? Does he really want it? We all get hungry for big meaty sandwiches from Subway or the local Jewish delicatessen, but how many of us are hungry to be world champions?
Mark V: "The Vapor Kings"
D-LO closes his eyes and nods his head. He knows now what he must do. He opens his mouth. ZMAC's shit coated fingers are inserted. D-LO's licks and sucks the shit right off ZMAC's hand. The taste is repugnant, like that is a Mongolian woman's poon. If crawfish had been left to sit and rot in the sun for a week during the hottest days of the summer and then inserted into Sarah Twilight's twat-- well, nevermind. This tastes better than that. But it's still pretty bad and D-LO frowns and scowls and tries to intimidate ZMAC with demonstrative gestures, but D-LO is still the one eating shit from ZMAC's hand and that fact gives ZMAC the advantage no matter your perspective.
ZMAC: I'm proud of you, D-LO. This is a good step for you. There's going to be things in this world that you are going to do that you may not want to, but you're going to do them because they will make you stronger than all of the steroid junkies and Aryan supermen who ever walked this earth. I see you pounding your chest like a motherfuckin King Kong when you walk out to the ring. And that's good and healthy, I love the enthusiasm. But you gotta be able to show the true heart and grit. Show Sarah Twilight that nothing she can throw at your is ever gonna bring you down. Can I tell you something, D-LO?
D-LO, having swallowed all of the shit from ZMAC's hand, grimaces and throws a sneer or thirty in ZMAC's direction. D-LO is NOT a happy camper. He just ate enough shit to star in his own German scat porn. That ain't cool. Not for a prideful young man from Brooklyn who's used to cappin fools for a single wrong look. Diablo Calzone has been humbled.
ZMAC: That wasn't dog shit and it wasn't some accident that I stepped in it. That was MY shit, D-LO, my feces from my ass. I choreographed this whole little shit eating festival in order to teach you a lesson.
D-LO strikes ZMAC in the face with the hardest right hand that he can throw, a strong enough punch to instantly KO ninety-eight percent of boxing's heavyweight division. ZMAC doesn't even flinch. It helps that the nerve endings in his face have long since been frayed by self-immolation and attempted political assassinations by his enemies.
Calzone: You asshole! Why would you do that?
ZMAC: You need balls, kid. You're close to doing something big here. You're on the verge of a major breakthrough. You've got a special way about you, an aura... an allure. You've got talent too. Talent for days. What I need to see is that you got the balls to see this mission through. You can eat shit? Good. That's a first step. Like I said, you won't always like doing the things that you have to do in order to be successful in this life, but you'll do them because it's far better than having to spend a lifetime on your knees sucking Sarah Twilight's clit and begging for a handy in return, or some kind of release, any kind of release. You remain in that position for too long and your cock and balls atrophy from lack of activity. You think Sarah Twilight gives a fuck? Hell no. She wants to turn all of us into eunuchs.
Calzone spits and spits and spits and rinses with a hit of Evan Williams whiskey and spits and spits some more, but it doesn't erase the taste. Nothing ever will. He ate ZMAC's shit. He probably has AIDS right now.
Calzone: If you gave me AIDS I'm gonna kill your immortal ass, ZMAC!
ZMAC: You now have AIDS and virtually every other disease known to man-- and many that remain unknown. Don't worry though. They're balancing each other out in perfect harmony. You'll never feel a thing aside from occasional light-headedness during orgasm and an occasional pinching of the testes during urination. Possibly some blood in your stool. But hey that was going to happen sooner or later. A good solid liver punch or a week of binge drinking has the same effect.
Calzone: Well, I suppose that's true... still you should have told me. What's with all of these secrets?
ZMAC: Sometimes it's the only way to teach a stubborn punk kid. Don't even try to play it off like you don't know, D-LO. You know. You call me an asshole and you're right about that, but take a look in the mirror. You might be surprised by what you see.
ZMAC breathes in the vapors of poison ivy that continue to fill the air. The more that he breathes the clearer that his sinuses become. Soon his breathing is so fluid that he's able to bench press a VW Beetle without so much as breaking a sweat. D-LO is hesitant to breathe the junk, not wanting to die from the poisonous fumes or contribute any further maladies to his already overworked immune system. Finally ZMAC convinces the kid to just go with the flow and inhale. D-LO's world is instantly turned upside down. He's transported to the 1960's. Kennedy is in the White House. The Beetles are topping the pop charts. The Vietnam War is presently just a modest conflict having yet to escalate into full blown AIDS. D-LO dances with Marilyn Monroe at the Hammerstein Ballroom in New York. D-LO steps on Marilyn's pinky toe. She yelps. He apologizes. She kicks him in the shin. They laugh about it and dance some more.
D-LO and Marilyn sit down and enjoy a nice, quiet dinner under guise of candlelight, soft jazz music playing in the background. D-LO in his tuxedo and Marilyn in her gown, looking for all the world like Hollywood's premier power couple. Will they marry? This is what the paparazzi wants to know. Will she kick Joe DiMaggio to the curb? Will Diablo Calzone topple Antonino Rocca for the World's Heavyweight Wrestling Championship? These are questions that burn at society's consciousness. D-LO drops to a kneeling position, pulls out the velvet box with the 24-karat diamond ring inside. She opens the box. Loves the ring. Nearly as big as your thickness, she says. He smiles. Poses the magic words, "Marilyn, you are my bitch and my one true love. Will you give me the honor of smashing your poon for as long as we both shall live?" She hesitates. His heart stops cold and dead in its tracks. David Lynch, film director extraordinaire, simply looks at Diablo with a blank expression and shrugs. It's like... what could David Lynch really say in that moment to comfort Diablo Calzone? And anyway it's too late now. "Cult Of Personality" hits the PA system in the ballroom. It's time for D-LO's match with CM Punk.
Crowd: CM PUNK! CM PUNK! CM PUNK!
D-LO wakes up, finding himself buried under a pile of leaves, barely a hint of daylight peeking through. He thrashes about and discards the leaves from his person, stumbling up to his feet in the process. He frantically glances about and spots ZMAC playing catch, tossing the pigskin around with some local neighborhood kids. One of the kids is wearing a Peyton Manning Denver Broncos jersey. Denver, Colorado. Host city of WCF's pot luck Slam. D-LO has spent a great deal of time contemplating this topic and all of the what-ifs that naturally rear their heads. What if... what if I get a shot at Jonny Fly with the title at stake? Imagine that shit. This is what D-LO tells himself. That one opportunity could change his entire life, much less his career. Has he earned a shot at Fly? Not even close. He recognizes this without a shadow of a doubt. But pot luck ain't about earning shit. It's about the luck of the draw.
Two days earlier - literally forty-eight hours ago on the dot - D-LO was rolling blunts with Bobby Cairo "The Godfather" using the finest cigars from Fidel Castro's personal stash. You see while the USA might have a trade embargo with Cuba, the Poon Guinean government does not recognize such nonsense. Free trade is fair trade in the eyes of the Poon Guinean administration and they put this theory into practice. So anyway Cairo and D-LO are rolling blunts, smoking mad reefer, and they're talking about the progression of young Calzone's wrestling career.
Cairo: We've discussed it - we being the hierarchy of The Thickness - and we like what we're seeing from you. ZMAC is earning his money and then some.
Calzone: I don't really like working with him. He's out of his fucking mind.
Cairo: You're too young to understand, D-LO. You're still a kid. You don't understand the inner workings of the world with its rotten core like produce left on the shelf beyond its expiration date. You need to realize that ZMAC is looking out for your best interests. If I'm your father - the level-headed adult male role model with impeccable logic and tasteful fashion sense - then ZMAC is your coked out uncle who's still shell shocked from the war.
Calzone: Which war?
Cairo: Nam, Desert Storm, Poonghanistan. Take your pick. It don't matter. Life is war, kid. WCF is war. WAR is war. Each of these factors contributes to your development as a man and a wrestling superstar. You have the chance to do something special on Sunday.
D-LO takes a toke on the blunt, inhaling the majestic kush without choking. He doesn't want to shame himself in front of Cairo. Never wants to shame himself in front of Cairo. That wouldn't be prudent.
Calzone: I actually, Bobby-- I actually had a dream that Ryan Rhodes was my opponent and I defeated him for the United States championship.
Cairo nods his head while envisioning the scenario in his own toked out brain. It feels good. He likes it. Cairo would like to see that red, white and blue belt around his protege's waist. But how does D-LO feel about it?
Cairo: It gave you pleasure? You enjoyed that feeling of being United States Champion?
Calzone: It felt good, Bobby. I felt galvanized, like someone had given me a kick in the balls, a beautiful bitch let's say, and that I became horny from it. Don't know if I'm explaining myself in a very articulate manner.
Cairo: No, I understand what you're saying. Don't get your hopes up because that is just one of many possibilities, you versus Rhodes, but I like your chances if you do end up facing him.
D-LO hesitates before asserting his next statement. He feels a sense of timidness spreading inside of him. This makes him feel even more uncomfortable than the initial thought itself. The thought that he might be forced to square off against...
Calzone: Bobby, what if we get booked to face each other? When you think about it the odds of that happening are as good as any other scenario.
Cairo tokes on his pot-laden cigar, toking that Bin Laden weed by way of Poon Guinea. He smiles. His smile spreads as wide as an ocean. As wide as Rihanna's legs when the thickness is smashing that fine Barbadian poon.
Cairo: If it happens... then so be it. It's not going to be a fight to the death. We'll go out there and put on a show that the wrestle-viewing public hasn't witnessed since the days of Flair-Steamboat. If I beat you then it's expected. If you beat me then it makes your career. Either way you get a boost.
D-LO nods his head in understanding. He had been nervous that such a scenario could cause him to be viewed as a threat by The Thickness hierarchy, but Cairo's words leave him feeling reassured. Of course this kush is laced with PCP, which Cairo didn't tell D-LO about in the first place, so maybe Bobby isn't telling him everything about the potential fallout of a match between the two, but oh well. There's worse things in the world than getting dusted with The Godfather. They would finish their smoke break, eat heaping portions of breaded pork chops and fuck fine black bitches. This leveled out any potential animosity between mentor and protege.
D-LO is brought back to the present, watching ZMAC play catch with the neighborhood kids. D-LO calls out to his "coked out uncle", an idea nibbling at his brain stem. ZMAC strips the ball from the smallest kid in the group and runs eighty-three yards in the opposite direction for the fumble recovery touchdown. His team wins 63 to 2. He spikes the football and dances the Moonwalk, shaming the losers and causing them to run home crying for their mommies.
ZMAC: Deuces, bitches.
D-LO finally manages to catch ZMAC's attention and flags him over.
Calzone: So maybe I was wrong earlier. I apologize.
ZMAC: Nig, I made you eat my shit and you're apologizing? That's some pussy shit right there, bro.
Calzone: It's not like that. I need the values that you've shown me. I need them because I won't survive in this world without them.
ZMAC is taken aback by D-LO's candidness, actually impressed by it.
ZMAC: You're learning. That's good. Part of an extensive, ongoing process to turn you from a bitch into a man.
Calzone: I think I know what I need right now.
ZMAC: Oh? You speak of things to me?
Calzone: Listen, man, this is the Mile High City and I need to get a mile high for my match. You think we could score some dust? I'll pay for it, man. I just need you to come up with the contact.
ZMAC: I can arrange for such things. And you won't pussy out, like when you refused to eat the poop?
Calzone: Nah, I'm way past that. Twilight can't get in my head no more, ZMAC. I'm ready for this shit.
ZMAC: You recognize the enemy in its sickening, ginger-esque form. I respect that. OK, kid. Let's jack this Vee-Dub and get rolling. I know a guy that we can cop from.
Calzone checks his money clip. Yep, he's got enough for the dust plus a weekend's supply of whiskey. Good thing since he just polished off that bottle of Williams. Feeling a bit buzzed, D-LO gets behind the wheel of the B.o.B.B.B. (Beetle of Booze, Blow and Bitches) and peels out before bursting through the massive flames of the leaf fires, an Alice Cooper eight-track tape blaring from the speakers. The Vapor Kings ride again. This is Hell. This is Life. This is Denver, Colorado. This is Diablo Calzone, coming to an episode of WCF Slam near you. Rock out with your cock out or get knocked out. The choice is yours, mein amigo. Welcome to... The Season of The Fall.
