Post by Dr. Remus Micayle on Feb 2, 2014 13:11:15 GMT -5
Potential threat detected.
- Cocaine (?k?-?k?n, ?k?-): A powerful drug that is used in medicine to stop pain or is taken illegally for pleasure. A bitter crystalline alkaloid C17H21NO4 obtained from coca leaves that are used especially in the form of its hydrochloride medically as a topical anesthetic and illicitly for it’s euphoric effects and that may result in a compulsive psychological need. First Known Use: 1874.
Potential solution found.
- (Solitary) Confinement (k?n-?f?n-m?nt): The act of confining someone or something: the state of being confined. An act of confining: the state of being confined, solitary confinement; especially: lying-in. First known use: 1592.
Application of solution in progress.
The Arcade Restaurant is arguably Memphis's most famous restaurant - and for good reason. The quaint bistro is a neon palace in the middle of the big city, a flashback to the past bordering skyscrapers and other modern architectural marvels. Waiting outside its door is Doctor Remus Micayle, dressed casually in a polo tee, jeans, and loafers. He is tapping his foot impatiently and checking his handphone constantly, almost as if he's waiting for someone.
Doctor Remus Micayle: Darn it, those incompetent hoodlums are late. I should have known.
He takes out his handphone once more and goes to the Messages application. Quickly typing a message, he sends it to two separate individuals, Zack Wild, and The Original Gangster.
Where are you nincompoops? I have been waiting for you for the longest time. Plus, what are you fellas wearing? Never seen your faces before, so pleas identify yourselves. Tyvm.
Micayle hits the send button. Mere seconds later, a reply pops out.
On the way. Calm your tits there Doctor. OG is the one in a suit, while I have a coolass beard on my face. Ciao. Zack.
The Doctor harrumphs after reading the text and stores his phone. What a disaster this week is already proving to be. After such a dominating performance on Sunday against Benjamin Atreyu, he had the sheer luck to be booked against him yet again. Furthermore, it's not even going to be a one-on-one bout. No no, it's a tag team bout against S-PAC, and he hasn't even seen his partners before! Heck, the Wild Gangsters... are they are a boy band or something?
Micayle squints, trying to recall what they seem to look like. But despite how hard he tried, that thought eludes him. He shrugs. Not surprising, given their statuses as curtain jerkers.
Suddenly, he spies two men walking towards him. One of them slightly taller than the other, and dressed in a smart-looking suit and tie. However, his slightly thuggish appearance off sets the sophistication that the formal attire would have otherwise given him, making him look like a pimp of some sorts. The other has one of the wildest beards he has ever seen in his life, and coupled with his leather jacket and boots, resembles a Hell Angel.
Bingo.
Micayle struts towards the duo, which upon spotting the United States champion, start bursting into excited chatter. Frowning, Micayle points a finger as he approaches.
Micayle: Hey, about time. Zack Wild and The Original Gangster right?
The two men look at each other questioningly, before nodding straight back at Micayle.
'The Original Gangster': Sure am. What's up, Doctor Remus Micayle? Big fan of your work, I truly am. I mean, your style is surely the coolest I've ever seen in my entire life. The Formula, the Doctor Bomb, Darwin's Touch and everything. It's t--
The Scientist waves a hand dismissively.
Micayle: Yeah whatever. So, you ready to train or what?
The pair looks at Micayle, slightly confused.
'Zack Wild': Train...?
The 'Wild Gangsters' look at the Scientist expectantly. Irked, the Arizona native snaps back.
Micayle: Yes. Train. Remember? I messaged you the other day asking if you would like to meet up for a sparring session before our big match against S-PAC on Sunday. You said yes, and here we are now. What did you think; this would be a tea session? With cake and crumpets and a pretty English maid serving Earl Grey at your every command?
Suddenly, both men look slightly more enthusiastic.
'Wild': Oh yeah! Sorry bro, it just slipped our mind. Our car is just over there, and we were about to drive to one of our favourite haunts. You ready?
As he is talking, Micayle is already walking towards the direction of their proposed vehicle.
Micayle: Fine, let's go. I don't have time to waste.
'The Original Gangster' smirks.
'TOG': The very best, my friend. Let's go to my car.
<Three minutes later>
Two very familiar figures approach the bistro and stop. One of them clearly an O.G, dressed in a sleek-looking suit and tie, while the other with a magnificent specimen of a beard on his face who wouldn't look out of place in a motorcycle gang. The duo glance down at their wristwatches before looking at each other in what can only be confusion.
The Original Gangster: So where the hell is Micayle? The fucker said he's here already.
The other half of the Wild Gangsters frowns and scratches the top of his head, squinting at the sun as he does so.
Zack Wild: Guess the idiot hasn't arrived yet then. Let's get a cup of coffee or something; I can't wait to hit the weights.
Secondary threat detected.
- Darkness (?därk): Having very little or no light. Not light in color: of a color that is closer to black than white. Of a color: having more black than white: not light. Devoid or partially devoid of light: not receiving, reflecting, transmitting, or radiating light. Transmitting only a portion of light. Wholly or partially black. Of a color: of low or very low lightness. Being less light in color than other substances of the same kind. Arising from or showing evil traits or desires: evil. Dismal, gloomy. Lacking knowledge or culture: unenlightened. Relating to grim or depressing circumstances. Middle English derk, from Old English deorc; akin to Old High German tarchannen to hide. First Known Use: before 12th century.
Potential solution found.
- Light (?l?t): The form of energy that makes it possible to see things: the brightness produced by the sun, by fire, a lamp, etc. Something that makes vision possible. The sensation aroused by stimulation of the visual receptors. Electromagnetic radiation of any wavelength that travels in a vacuum with a speed of about 186,281 miles (300,000 kilometers) per second; specifically: such radiation that is visible to the human eye. Daylight. Dawn. A source of light. Middle English, from Old English l?oht; akin to Old High German lioht light, Latin luc-, lux light, luc?re to shine, Greek leukos white. First Known Use: before 12th century.
Application of solution in progress.
Scene: The Bunny Ranch, Memphis, Tennessee, USA (Thursday, 1600hrs, 30th January 2014)
Ahhh... the Bunny Ranch. One of Memphis's most famous 'underground' brothels. Created in 1983, the whorehouse has had numerous incarnations over the years. Once frequented by the most influential men in society, the recent laws put in place to curb such establishments have rendered the cathouse to nothing more than a shadow of it's former shelf. Politicians, athletes, teachers, and men from all walks of life have frequented the halls of the Bunny Ranch - albeit sneakily.
But one man is in the very halls of this silent temple of lust, unknowing of what he is walking into. Until it's staring right at him in the eye.
Or rather... she is staring at him right in the eye.
Doctor Remus Micayle gulps at the sudden erotic scene he finds himself in. He turns to his left and right for support, but only sees the beguiled, lust-filled faces of 'The Original Gangster' and 'Zack Wild' respectively. Not finding help on either end, the Scientist turns his attention back to the female in the centre of the lounge that they have booked for an hour, carefully analyzing her for the first time since he has entered the place.
The working girl bares an uncanny resemblance to Chelsea Black Armstrong, notes Micayle. Save her... love handles; the facial features are pretty much an exact replica of the female member of S-PAC. Seemingly in her late twenties, from the upturned nose, half-full lips, lush brown hair, and almond-shaped eyes, if she were to lose about a hundred and fifty pounds off her overweight tummy, she could easily have passed off as a twin of The Sweet Nightmare.
'Wild' leers at the scantily clad woman, before nudging Micayle in the rib, breaking him from his diagnostic thoughts.
'Wild': What do you think about her?
Micayle glares accusingly at his tag team partner. Fortunately, 'The Original Gangster' has more than a few compliments to deliver to her.
'TOG': Damn son, she is looking fine! Just look at those big ole' tatas hanging on her chest! I'll pay to fuck those puppies any day!
Micayle snorts in contempt.
Hooker: And what are you waiting for? They are getting a bit lonely, don't you think...?
The duo guffaws as the fat tub of lard preens and poses for her potential customers. Micayle silently stews in the centre of the room. 'Wild', ever the ringleader, decides to take charge of the entire situation. He looks pointedly at both Micayle and 'The Original Gangster', before moving forward and gently caressing the woman around her waist.
'Wild': I think you'll do just fine, sweet lips. Why don't you get a partner in here and start being busy? We gentlemen are going to retreat to the couch for the time being.
His hand is getting awfully comfortable around the tire-sized waist of the call girl. A simpering look on her face, the lady of the night puts her arms around 'Wild''s neck before delivering a smooch to his left cheek.
Hooker: A partner, eh? Would you like it to be a dude or a gal? We are here to fulfill your every request... of course.
Enthralled, 'Wild' immediately turns back to Micayle and 'TOG', an enraptured expression blooming on his face. 'The Original Gangster' begins to hop up and down, eager for more estrogen in the room. 'Wild' winks at the two, before returning a sloppy kiss to the prostitute.
'Wild': Get a guy partner then. We are in the mood for a little live action. But you'll serve us right after, am I right?
'TOG' begins to open his mouth in protest, but is immediately silenced by a piercing stare. The lady giggles, before moving to separate herself from 'Wild'.
Hooker: Of course... now just give me a second, good looking. I'll get my colleague over immediately.
She leaves the room, and 'The Original Gangster' immediately goes in an outburst.
'TOG': THE FUCK BRO! Why not another chick! We could totally watch them go all lesbian on each other! Scissors action homie! But now we got another dude, what the fuck! You a gay fish or something? Huh!?
'Wild': Look, I panicked all right! Her hot ass was in my hands and I felt bad for asking for another lady to join us!
'TOG': But sloppy seconds! URGH! Fucking sick! I'm going first, I don't care.
Micayle coughs. The gesture catches the attention of the dueling duo and quietens them down. The Arizonian folds his arm and sits down on a comfortable-looking couch in the corner. He glowers at the two men, before speaking.
Micayle: First of all, when you said that we are going to have a training session, I presumed we will be heading to the gym and try out a few moves. Not an afternoon of hiding the snake in the bush with a disease-ridden harlot.
'Wild' snickers and starts to open his mouth, but Micayle raises a finger to cut him off rudely.
Micayle: Not done. Next, not only you engaging in this filth, you are expecting me to join you in it. Really? Of all people, you have myself, the United States Champion and champion of all things American in a whorehouse with you. Are you thinking of what you are doing, or are you just going on with the flow? I expected better from my supposed tag team partners, despite the fact that your combined IQ is not even half of mine.
Both 'Wild' and 'The Original Gangster' are crestfallen, fully silent for the first time since they have met. Micayle studies their expressions carefully.
Micayle: This place is for the weak of heart. It's no place for a man of science such as myself, and if I have my way, for America as well. I strongly urge you to leave, because I am most certainly about to do. Any questions?
He eyes them. Neither man makes an attempt to join him.
Shaking his head in dismay, the Scientist approaches the door, but stumbles back in surprise as the fat prostitute returns without a single word. And along with her is her partner for the afternoon, a buff lord whose biceps are the size of Micayle's shoulders. The pair gently pushes Micayle back to the couch, before they retreat to the king-sized bed situated in the centre of the room. Bemused, the Second Coming Of Darwin has no choice but to stay there. 'Wild', still wary of the Scientist after his words of warning, gently whispers to him.
'Wild': Look, I know it isn't exactly what you were hoping for, but just see it through okay? We can go training later. I promise.
Micayle sighs.
Micayle: Yeah whatever. Just get this nonsense over and done with, will you? And can we get a bottle of wine here or something? I need something stronger than water to get through this.
<Twenty minutes later>
'Wild': Woo!
'TOG': Get that deep in that slut yo! Pound that poon tang!
Micayle couldn't believe what he was seeing with his own eyes. The Bunny Ranch was a brothel; he got that much. But he was certainly not prepared to see the fat hooker bust out a provocative Playboy BDSM costume and put on a show with it. Thus far, he had already endured a hot wax session, an enema, and a solid ten minutes of unoriginal, completely monotonous porn talk. Only in the past three minutes have the actual 'action' started. And he was already bored stiff.
Hooker: Oh yeah baby, get it deep within me.
Do all call girls talk like that? It must make for a horrible experience for all patrons, doesn't it?
Partner: Yeah, yeah, yeah! YEAH!
He doesn't look very satisfied. She must be a lousy lay. Hmm, probably like the real Chelsea Black Armstrong as well.
Hooker: OH YES BABY YOU ARE SO GOOD!
He slams down the shot he was taking. He's getting a headache. This isn't working at all.
Micayle: Okay that's it.
Finally pushed past his tipping point, Micayle stands up, looking affronted at the chaos that is happening all around him. The overweight hooker and the male volunteer are still caught up in the sick pleasures they are indulging in, but both 'Wild' and 'The Original Gangster' have noticed Micayle's lack of interest in the afternoon's activities.
'Wild': Dude, what the fuck? This is super awesome! Sit back down; I heard there's a part two to this entire fable!
'The Original Gangster' chuckles and gulps down another shot. His blurry, unfocused eyes fixate on the overweight hooker as he starts to unbutton his pants.
'TOG': Oh yeah baby. I don't know about you, but that lass over there looks as good as pie. I'm joining the party.
'Wild': I'll join you soon homie, just give me a second. What about you, boss man? You ready to plug it into this bitch? It'll be her fantasy yo; four men all up her stanky ho ass! Totally air tight baby ha ha!
The tangled-up duo on the bed moans their approval at that plan, while the drunk 'Original Gangster' is beside himself in hysterics. His eyes flashing dangerously around the room, Micayle walks slowly to 'Wild' and grabs the man by his collar. He moves his face near the similarly tipsy fellow and whispers in a slow, menacing tone.
Micayle: I should have known it would have been futile to even try to work with two uncultured idlers. You bums have fun in this crazy carnival; I'm going off to actually train. You are preoccupied with pleasure and have no self-respect for yourselves whatsoever. I'm out of this place.
The Scientist moves his head back and takes a good sniff of the room, wrinkling his nose in disgust as he does so.
Micayle: You ought to clean this room up after your illicit little... gathering. Smells like the cast of a pornographic set crashed through it. I'll see the both of you also-rans on Sunday.
Glancing derisively at the crapulous 'Wild', Micayle throws him back down on the couch and walks out of the room, slapping his hands together in an attempt to brush away all the nastiness that conspired in the room. He quickly makes his way down the stereotypical spiral staircase that seems to be installed into every brothel and house of ill repute, and walks towards the front door. The entrance lobby is deserted - all the better for an inconspicuous exit. Micayle looks around nervously before putting a hand on the door. And then...
Turkey Man: GOBBLE GOBBLE GOBBLE! Hey, you haven't paid your bill! GOBBLE GOBBLE!
Out of nowhere, a large turkey jumps out from behind a pillar and accosts the professional wrestler!
Micayle: Ahhh!
Purely on instinct, Micayle shoots out a fist. The blow catches the turkey man off guard and hits him squarely on the nose. Blood immediately began pulsating out, and the man raises his hands to cover his nose in an attempt to stop the heavy flow.
Turkey Man: GOBBLE GOBBLE! Ouch!
Taking advantage of the opportunity, Micayle kicks the turkey suit-wearing bastard in the stomach HARD, before hoisting him up in the air in a powerbomb position. The Scientist, purely operating on bloodlust by the point of time, exhales hard and lifts the turkey in the air even higher. Both men scream out - one in outright fear, the other in fury - as Micayle smashes him back down on to the ground, cracking the back of his skull on the marble.
Micayle glances at the unconscious turkey, before stomping out of the house. He steps off quickly, but the two fan boys aren't too far away. Dressed in a disheveled state (no doubt caused by an unrelenting mission to pursue the United States champion), both 'Wild' and 'TOG' run as quickly as they can to the Scientist.
Micayle: What in the world have I stepped into? This is absolutely crazy! America has places like this out in broad daylight? I have a lot of work to do...
The duo sprints, finally able to catch up to Micayle, interrupting his train of thought.
'Wild': Doctor Micayle! Doctor Micayle! Wait up!
'TOG': We can explain!
He pauses mid-step, ready to hear their explanation. The duo trade glances, before hesitantly, they begin talking. Throughout the entire encounter, he never once turns to look at them.
'Wild': Look... we have to admit. We are not really Zack Wild or The Original Gangster. We are just... two dudes who happened to chance upon you just now. We decided to say we were so we could hang.
'TOG': We're sorry, all right? We saw you on the streets and were super psyched to see you, and we just... y'know, just said that. You ain't angry, are ya? We really didn't mean for things to reach this stage.
Finally, Micayle turns back to the impostors and studies their expressions. The sobered up duo genuinely look sorry for their actions and seem remorseful enough. He breaks into a small smile.
Micayle: Of course. I'm sorry for bursting out of there as well. It's... discomforting to me.
The duo look at each other in joyful glee, jubilant that their hero isn't angry at them. 'Zack Wild' immediately clings on to Micayle's arm, before gabbing on excitedly.
'Wild': Oh wow! I'm so relieved! Do you want to hang out some more in that case? I know another place that's equally awesome, and I think you would really like it!
'The Original Gangster' speeds forward and holds on to the other arm, an equally wide grin on his face.
'TOG': Truth tea homie! Come with us! We fan boys will show you the best time in the world! Zack, did you see how laid out that dude dressed in the turkey outfit was? I bet you anything our US Champ here dropped him with a Doctor Bomb!
Micayle looks at the both of them, before widening his smile.
Micayle: Sure thing. Lead the way boys.
Yipping in joy and jumping in delight, both of the impostors walks off ahead, already starting to craft battle plans on where to head towards. But before they could get too far ahead, Micayle calls out.
Micayle: Guys...?
The pair turns.
And wham! Micayle charges ahead with a sickening double running lariat, knocking both of them flat on their backs! 'Wild's' head smashes on to the solid concrete with a stomach-churning thud, and he rolls over, clutching his injured head in pure agony. 'TOG', on the other hand, fared slightly better. The force behind The Formula threw him back several feet, eventually pushing him with enough strength into a brick wall, where his body collides into the unforgiving material. Both men start groaning in pain, in too much hurt to even fathom the betrayal that was just invoked on them. Without another word, Micayle turns away and starts walking away from the assault scene.
: Micayle!
His head swivels at the direction of the sound. With wide, glaring eyes, from a distance, Micayle spots the waving hand of the actual Zack Wild. Beside him is the real Original Gangster, toying with his smartphone. His temper flaring once more, the Second Coming Of Darwin takes off towards the direction of the Wild Gangsters. Charging ahead, he skids to a halt mere inches away from the two of them.
Zack Wild: We're here! So... where you actually at about?
The Original Gangster: Aye, wassup dawg? We've been looking for you for a while now. Don't cha ever pick up that phone of yours? Been giving you missed calls for twenty minutes now.
Upon hearing that, Micayle purpled. He splutters in an attempt to speak, but apparently his mind works faster than his biological functions. Saliva gets caught in his throat, and he bends over and coughs violently, trying his best to catch his breath. Concerned, Zack Wild puts a hand on his back, but Micayle shrugs him off violently. Standing back up, the Scientist points a finger accusingly at his tag team partners.
Micayle: Do not touch me! You two have the cheek to finally show up!? You said you wanted to have a training session, and I generously granted you an hour of my time. Do you know what I have went through? Do you!? But both of you idiots showed up late, and I ended up in this...
He gestures wildly at the brothel behind him, apparently at a loss of words.
Micayle: ...PLACE! You know what? Fine! You think I am a joke? I am your United States Champion, and I deserve to be respected as such! The two of you are nothing but jobbers, and I am sick and tired of being strapped to losers like the both of you! If that's the way it's going to be with the two of you, so be it! Stay out of my way come Sunday, and you better stay out of my way in the locker room! Bugger off!
Huffing in disbelief, Micayle turns on his heels and strides away, clearly upset with the entire situation. Bewildered, the Wild Gangsters look at each other in confusion before simultaneously bursting into speech.
Wild Gangsters: What the hell is up with this dude, man?
The Original Gangster stares at the retreating back of Micayle and frowns in annoyance.
TOG: No idea bro. But he better wake up soon, or we're going to be fucked up. Ain't no telling when some crazy motherfucker like him gonna go loose and kick his own partners in the head.
The duo continues looking at Micayle until he walks out of view. Exhaling a soft sigh in relief, Wild looks up at the building and to his partner, before returning his gaze back to the building and dropping his jaw in shock.
Wild: Wait just a damn minute... was he in a whorehouse!?
Tertiary threat detected.
- God (?gäd): capitalized; the supreme or ultimate reality: as the Being perfect in power, wisdom, and goodness who is worshipped as creator and ruler of the universe. Christian Science: the incorporeal divine Principle ruling over all as eternal Spirit, infinite Mind. A being or object believed to have more than natural attributes and powers and to require human worship; specifically one controlling a particular aspect or part of reality. A person or thing of supreme value. A powerful ruler. Middle English, from Old English; akin to Old High German got god. First Known Use: before 12th century.
Proven solution found.
- Deicide (?d?-?-?s?d, ?d?-?-): The act of killing a divine being or a symbolic substitute of such a being. The killer or destroyer of a god. Ultimately from Latin deus god + -cidium, -cida -cide. First Known Use: 1577
Application of solution in progress.
www.wcfwrestling.com/doctor.remus.micayle/blog/post=4
Good day ladies and gentlemen. I hope you are doing well. With temperatures dipping every single day, take note to actually pay the bills and avoid freezing to death this very solemn winter. A day or two without food won't kill you and might actually be beneficial for the corpulent tubs that you are. That time without heat however, just might. So please learn how to manage your finances properly. I wouldn't want my efforts to educate the country to go to waste just because you didn't know how to survive the cold.
And to those readers of Chinese descent, here's wishing a very happy Lunar New Year to all of you. Enjoy the holidays, and collect as many red packets as you can from those stingy, mercenary relatives of yours. The food may be hearty and the gatherings sweet, but remember that at the end of the day to watch your weight. America does not need any more paunch turkeys in her country, and as United States champion, I will not tolerate any attempt to further destroy the health of her people.
Now then! Seems that I've gotten all the niceties out of the way. Time to get down to business. Or more specifically... my business.
First of all, I would like to extend a polite round of applause to Mister Benjamin Atreyu. The man, as you would have no doubt already known, tried his very best to defeat me and claim the United States title for his own. It was a foregone conclusion from the very start that The Second Coming Of Darwin Himself would walk away with the victory, but it was an admirable effort from the man. I admit; it takes significant courage to strut into the ring when you know that you are going to be destroyed as easily as the Charlotte Bobcats going to South Beach. Benjamin did his very best, but alas! All that pompous bragging was for naught as for the third time, I've defeated someone who claimed that he was more deserving of being America's representative more than I. The Formula was taught to Benjamin, and I daresay it was a painful enough lesson for him.
Payback was also memorable for another reason altogether. At the very end of my match, after I raised my conquering foot off the limp carcass of the 'God-Given Greatness', I was confronted with a video of a war veteran begging pitifully for help. My help. Mark Dillinger, was it? Or should I address you my another... moniker? Now, on the off chance that your maggot-infested vagrant self manages to steal a laptop and read my blog, here's my message to you.
Go away. I do not have time for your hobo nonsense.
Well, not at least until I solve the issues that I have undertaken the past month, mainly the glorification of foreign culture, obesity, and self-harming. Mentally handicapped veterans are still a long way off from my priority list, and that isn't going to change for the foreseeable future. Team Science has better things to take care off.
Take this week for instance. Seth Lerch, our recently reinstated boss, has decided that it is in the company's best interests to schedule a six-man tag team match. Fair enough. What failed to resonate in the troglodyte's cerebrum is that on one side of the team, you have a cohesive fighting unit, the Savage Political Action Committee headed by Scott Savage and defended on both ends by the former number one contender for the WCF World Championship, the former number one contender for the WCF United States Championship, and a former Television Champion. And on the other end of the table, you have a honorable, intelligent, compassionate, visionary, perceptive, gorgeous, vogue, amiable, and most importantly humble wrestler doing battle alongside two... common racketeers. Fabulous.
Now, I am not one to commonly complain and whine about the state of things, but one truly has to question Seth Lerch's cognitive capabilities if he was to book such a match. I am without a doubt the most skilled competitor in the squared circle, but is it really fair on my part to have to carry two subpar, average, homely fighters throughout the bout? Granted, I have defeated Benjamin in the ring soundly last Sunday - and he is by far the most robust athlete amongst the three currently active in S-PAC - but really? Do you book a team that has proven itself to be fundamentally sound - if not a tad incapable - against a genius and two hoodlums who have never seen eye-to-eye on anything in their everyday lives? It's an insult on the greatest level, and I do deplore the fact that I have to do all the hard work this Sunday and hope that neither one of the Wild Gangsters make a potentially fatal mistake that will erase all hope of victory.
It's insanity, really.
But ah, what else can I expect from a Machiavellian such as Mister Scott Savage? The man has a reputation of getting things done his way, and I highly suspect that this match is just another favor that he has cashed in from Mister Lerch. After all, save Miss Chelsea Black Armstrong, both Mister Waylon Cash and Benjamin succumbed to horrific defeats at Payback. From a purely scientific standpoint, this supposedly lopsided bout would be the perfect opportunity for a team on its decline to regain its morale and gather some strength before heading to the battlefields again. Brilliant plan there, Scott. Brilliant indeed. I've seen through your actions and they are remarkable to say the least. The combination of hallucination-inducing cologne along with a supposed gift of spiked liquor would have created the perfect opportunity you needed to get Seth Lerch into the exact hypnotized state of mind you needed to arrange this match for your clients. And knowing the alcoholic beast that lies within our boss, there will be no way that he will deny you entry to his office for a supposed 'chat'. That is where your supposed magical charisma (Spoiler: no it isn't. It's merely a combination of chemistry and pre-handled tricks) kicked in. The drug-addled Seth would then have thought that it would be a good idea to order this match, and hey presto! We have ourselves exactly what you ordered.
Kudos to you indeed for managing to pull of such a crafty thing in order to stack the deck. Nothing else I would have expected from a varmint-worshipping salesman such as yourself. I would have done the same thing in your shoes, being a sycophantic servant to the boss in order to get things done your way.
But I must apologize Scott. For despite your best efforts to have your team gain the morale that it so desperately needs in order to survive their impending break-up, I, as WCF United States Champion, will not stand for such trickery. My tag team partners and myself may not have the same rapport that your S-PAC crew does, but my superiority in the ring ought to be more than sufficient to overcome this deficit. And this is why.
Three foes I'll be facing on Sunday. Three hounds of doom. And three wrestlers I've seen through thoroughly.
We have Mister Waylon Cash, lieutenant of the S-PAC fighting force and the wrestler with the most credentials to his name. A former WCF World Champion, a former WCF Television Champion, and a former three-time WCF Tag Team Champion. Once a decent main eventer with the world in the palm of his hand, he threw it all away when the temptations of drugs and drink came calling on his very door.
Look what happened. He challenged Jonny Fly to a championship bout at Payback and lost. The second-last time he tried for the title, he lost to Steve Orbit. I have not had the opportunity to meet the man face-to-face in the ring, but from what I have heard from my peers in the locker room, the man perpetually smells of booze. If this losing streak is by any indication, it may mean the very end of his career, despite his association with Scott. The man has not conducted himself well in recent months, and has been languishing in purgatory for pretty much the last quarter of 2013. True, he may have won the WCF Tag Team Titles, but it was won during a time when the pickings were lean. Once a capable contender emerged, the championships were stripped quicker from S-PAC than a crack baby from his drugged-up mother.
You need help, Waylon. And I can give it to you. Not Scott, not Roxanne, and certainly not Jesus. You need professional help given from the word of science.
But until then, I'm afraid The Formula would have to be taught to you. It'll be a shocking jerk to reality for your drug-addled brain, but it'll be a brief respite nonetheless. When you are unconscious and your brain is able to finally rest after being put through the strenuous task of supporting that inebriated body of yours 24/7... you'll thank me.
And you are most certainly welcome.
Next up, we have Miss Chelsea Black Armstrong, the newcomer to this talent management business. A former WCF Television Champion, she moved over from the now-defunct NWA and has had considerable success ever since her move. I admit, before I made my debut in the Wrestling Championship Federation and impressed both the Congress and the fans, you were someone I had my eye on for a while. Not sexually mind you - I do not deal with wenches - but professionally. Your ring style reminds me strongly of a young Ayria Adams, personality so much like Nightmare, and enough spunk in you to resemble a female version of a certain Victor Taylor. I was impressed, and still am, truth be told.
There's so much promise in you, that I was a little shell-shocked when you decided to join the Savage Political Action Committee. You were brooding with the curtain jerkers here in the federation, but I didn't see what was wrong with that. Not everyone can be a Sarah Twilight, a Steve Orbit, or a Corey Black, and in my opinion, you had a steady flow of income that could perhaps get you a nice suburban apartment in Wyoming when you eventually retire at the very top of your game. If I am not mistaken, achievers such as yourself earn a very respectable income (close to twenty five grand a year?), and even though the investment market is subpar at best at the very moment, a small fortune can still be can still be cultivated for you to spend the rest of your days with your husband.
But instead of committing to that future, you decided to throw it all away and join with the brooding vultures that are currently picking away at the very carcass of your future home. You abandoned a good career to hightail with a Satanic master and his three lapdogs. Was it their prowess at extramarital tag-team coitus that made you decide to do so? Or was it the dissatisfaction of losing so often on national television that cracked the nutcase? Either way, it's a pity that one of WCF's finest had to renounce her career as WCF's stepping stone to success so that she can fail at yet another thing.
Sad, if nothing else. And it'll be an even more miserable day when I have to put down Scott's newest hound down with a clubbing shot to the head. She'll whelp and scream and maybe even bite a little, but it's just an inconvenience that comes with the job.
I'll make it quick, Chelsea. I promise.
Lastly, we have Benjamin, former WCF United States Champion, former two-time WCF Tag Team Champion, and most importantly, the most recent recipient of my lessons in the ring. This man requires no further trash-talk from yours truly. As I have already mentioned, despite his very best efforts, there was no way on earth that he was going to defeat me for my championship last Sunday. And I am going to proclaim it right now: he is not going to do the same this week. We had a tough brawl at Payback, Benjamin, and truth be told, my body didn't fully recover until Tuesday. You hit hard... and you hit well. But no matter how hard you hit, you will never be able to hit me just enough to make me topple down to the mat and stay down. I've proven it last week and I am going to prove it yet again on Sunday.
My friend, you could have gone so much further in your career if you have only made the right choices in life. I constantly expound in my Team Science videos that life is all about cause-and-effect, and it is true. Just think about it. If you had the willpower to lift your shoulder off the mat last Sunday after I hit you that last time, you would not have fallen to the majestic power of The Perspicacious One. If you could just somehow force that last vestige of strength out of you and lift me in the air for that third sit-out facebuster, you might - and just might have - have wrenched that title away from my hands.
You could have become United States Champion. And more importantly, you could have defeated me.
But you didn't. And you most certainly will not this time round either. Neither you nor the other two members of your supposed 'crème de la crème' talent agency.
But I am a man of science, and I must make room for error. Despite everything, things might not go my way. A bout mapped out by providence might occur, the stars might not align themselves quite the right way, or perhaps my two bumbling partners might trip over their own toes and knock themselves out. You three will never defeat me, but you just might conquer the duo that will be standing beside me on the canvas come Slam. The greatest risk in this six-man match, in my opinion, is not my three opponents. They are my tag team partners. The Wild Gangsters. I have never teamed with them in the ring before, and mark my words - I would much rather not even breathe in the same country as such vermin. But orders have been made, and I have no alternative but to acknowledge - albeit grudgingly - them as equals. At least for this match.
Wild Gangsters, if you are even capable of reading the English language and have somehow accessed this page through a stolen little girl's laptop, here's what I have to say to you. Do not make a mess of things. Do not lose the match for me. Stay on the sidelines like a couple of good, law-abiding citizens, and let the true wrestler do the actual wrestling. I can always do with some moral support. Perhaps a handshake of commendation after I drop Waylon for the 1-2-3. Maybe a hearty thump on the back after Benjamin gets reintroduced to The Formula. Or possibly a fist bump after I kick Chelsea in the head. Any of that, really. Just don't wrestle and ruin my chances at victory. I'm serious.
But on hindsight, no. Don't touch me. Not at all. Stay in one corner of the arena, really far away from me. Do that, and we will be good. And don't feel bad about not participating in the match when I claim a victory out of nowhere. You are still invited to come into the ring and act as if you contributed significantly when in actual fact; everyone in the globe knows it's all the work of the Scientist.
But hey, anything for team spirit, am I right?
S-PAC, you are good. I acknowledge that. Scott Savage has chosen his clients well, but know this (and know it well!): this supposedly easy match will be anything but. I know my partners don't give a hoot about their win-loss record here in this federation, and I can understand that, seeing that they have one foot out of the building already. But I cannot stand to end my night in defeat, even if it's in a tag team bout where I know accidents can happen out of nowhere.
I am the WCF United States Champion, and much like our glorious country, I'm not going to just step away from a fight. The Scientist is going on a rampage, and you aren't going to like it. Benjamin already knows the muscles that come along with the brain aren't for show, and if anyone else on your beau monde, haut monde team even dares to show much as test me... you know the outcome.
Lying on your back blinking at the lights, wondering why your upper torso feels as if it got blasted by a shotgun, and wishing that your manager has never tried to charm Seth Lerch into booking you into this match.
I'll see you lot on Sunday.
Cheers to all, and may the elements have mercy on both S-PAC and my tag team partners.
Remus Micayle, Ph. D.
- Cocaine (?k?-?k?n, ?k?-): A powerful drug that is used in medicine to stop pain or is taken illegally for pleasure. A bitter crystalline alkaloid C17H21NO4 obtained from coca leaves that are used especially in the form of its hydrochloride medically as a topical anesthetic and illicitly for it’s euphoric effects and that may result in a compulsive psychological need. First Known Use: 1874.
Potential solution found.
- (Solitary) Confinement (k?n-?f?n-m?nt): The act of confining someone or something: the state of being confined. An act of confining: the state of being confined, solitary confinement; especially: lying-in. First known use: 1592.
Application of solution in progress.
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Scene: Arcade Restaurant, Memphis, Tennessee, USA (Thursday, 1500hrs, 30th January 2014)
The Arcade Restaurant is arguably Memphis's most famous restaurant - and for good reason. The quaint bistro is a neon palace in the middle of the big city, a flashback to the past bordering skyscrapers and other modern architectural marvels. Waiting outside its door is Doctor Remus Micayle, dressed casually in a polo tee, jeans, and loafers. He is tapping his foot impatiently and checking his handphone constantly, almost as if he's waiting for someone.
Doctor Remus Micayle: Darn it, those incompetent hoodlums are late. I should have known.
He takes out his handphone once more and goes to the Messages application. Quickly typing a message, he sends it to two separate individuals, Zack Wild, and The Original Gangster.
Where are you nincompoops? I have been waiting for you for the longest time. Plus, what are you fellas wearing? Never seen your faces before, so pleas identify yourselves. Tyvm.
Micayle hits the send button. Mere seconds later, a reply pops out.
On the way. Calm your tits there Doctor. OG is the one in a suit, while I have a coolass beard on my face. Ciao. Zack.
The Doctor harrumphs after reading the text and stores his phone. What a disaster this week is already proving to be. After such a dominating performance on Sunday against Benjamin Atreyu, he had the sheer luck to be booked against him yet again. Furthermore, it's not even going to be a one-on-one bout. No no, it's a tag team bout against S-PAC, and he hasn't even seen his partners before! Heck, the Wild Gangsters... are they are a boy band or something?
Micayle squints, trying to recall what they seem to look like. But despite how hard he tried, that thought eludes him. He shrugs. Not surprising, given their statuses as curtain jerkers.
Suddenly, he spies two men walking towards him. One of them slightly taller than the other, and dressed in a smart-looking suit and tie. However, his slightly thuggish appearance off sets the sophistication that the formal attire would have otherwise given him, making him look like a pimp of some sorts. The other has one of the wildest beards he has ever seen in his life, and coupled with his leather jacket and boots, resembles a Hell Angel.
Bingo.
Micayle struts towards the duo, which upon spotting the United States champion, start bursting into excited chatter. Frowning, Micayle points a finger as he approaches.
Micayle: Hey, about time. Zack Wild and The Original Gangster right?
The two men look at each other questioningly, before nodding straight back at Micayle.
'The Original Gangster': Sure am. What's up, Doctor Remus Micayle? Big fan of your work, I truly am. I mean, your style is surely the coolest I've ever seen in my entire life. The Formula, the Doctor Bomb, Darwin's Touch and everything. It's t--
The Scientist waves a hand dismissively.
Micayle: Yeah whatever. So, you ready to train or what?
The pair looks at Micayle, slightly confused.
'Zack Wild': Train...?
The 'Wild Gangsters' look at the Scientist expectantly. Irked, the Arizona native snaps back.
Micayle: Yes. Train. Remember? I messaged you the other day asking if you would like to meet up for a sparring session before our big match against S-PAC on Sunday. You said yes, and here we are now. What did you think; this would be a tea session? With cake and crumpets and a pretty English maid serving Earl Grey at your every command?
Suddenly, both men look slightly more enthusiastic.
'Wild': Oh yeah! Sorry bro, it just slipped our mind. Our car is just over there, and we were about to drive to one of our favourite haunts. You ready?
As he is talking, Micayle is already walking towards the direction of their proposed vehicle.
Micayle: Fine, let's go. I don't have time to waste.
'The Original Gangster' smirks.
'TOG': The very best, my friend. Let's go to my car.
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<Three minutes later>
Two very familiar figures approach the bistro and stop. One of them clearly an O.G, dressed in a sleek-looking suit and tie, while the other with a magnificent specimen of a beard on his face who wouldn't look out of place in a motorcycle gang. The duo glance down at their wristwatches before looking at each other in what can only be confusion.
The Original Gangster: So where the hell is Micayle? The fucker said he's here already.
The other half of the Wild Gangsters frowns and scratches the top of his head, squinting at the sun as he does so.
Zack Wild: Guess the idiot hasn't arrived yet then. Let's get a cup of coffee or something; I can't wait to hit the weights.
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Secondary threat detected.
- Darkness (?därk): Having very little or no light. Not light in color: of a color that is closer to black than white. Of a color: having more black than white: not light. Devoid or partially devoid of light: not receiving, reflecting, transmitting, or radiating light. Transmitting only a portion of light. Wholly or partially black. Of a color: of low or very low lightness. Being less light in color than other substances of the same kind. Arising from or showing evil traits or desires: evil. Dismal, gloomy. Lacking knowledge or culture: unenlightened. Relating to grim or depressing circumstances. Middle English derk, from Old English deorc; akin to Old High German tarchannen to hide. First Known Use: before 12th century.
Potential solution found.
- Light (?l?t): The form of energy that makes it possible to see things: the brightness produced by the sun, by fire, a lamp, etc. Something that makes vision possible. The sensation aroused by stimulation of the visual receptors. Electromagnetic radiation of any wavelength that travels in a vacuum with a speed of about 186,281 miles (300,000 kilometers) per second; specifically: such radiation that is visible to the human eye. Daylight. Dawn. A source of light. Middle English, from Old English l?oht; akin to Old High German lioht light, Latin luc-, lux light, luc?re to shine, Greek leukos white. First Known Use: before 12th century.
Application of solution in progress.
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Scene: The Bunny Ranch, Memphis, Tennessee, USA (Thursday, 1600hrs, 30th January 2014)
Ahhh... the Bunny Ranch. One of Memphis's most famous 'underground' brothels. Created in 1983, the whorehouse has had numerous incarnations over the years. Once frequented by the most influential men in society, the recent laws put in place to curb such establishments have rendered the cathouse to nothing more than a shadow of it's former shelf. Politicians, athletes, teachers, and men from all walks of life have frequented the halls of the Bunny Ranch - albeit sneakily.
But one man is in the very halls of this silent temple of lust, unknowing of what he is walking into. Until it's staring right at him in the eye.
Or rather... she is staring at him right in the eye.
Doctor Remus Micayle gulps at the sudden erotic scene he finds himself in. He turns to his left and right for support, but only sees the beguiled, lust-filled faces of 'The Original Gangster' and 'Zack Wild' respectively. Not finding help on either end, the Scientist turns his attention back to the female in the centre of the lounge that they have booked for an hour, carefully analyzing her for the first time since he has entered the place.
The working girl bares an uncanny resemblance to Chelsea Black Armstrong, notes Micayle. Save her... love handles; the facial features are pretty much an exact replica of the female member of S-PAC. Seemingly in her late twenties, from the upturned nose, half-full lips, lush brown hair, and almond-shaped eyes, if she were to lose about a hundred and fifty pounds off her overweight tummy, she could easily have passed off as a twin of The Sweet Nightmare.
'Wild' leers at the scantily clad woman, before nudging Micayle in the rib, breaking him from his diagnostic thoughts.
'Wild': What do you think about her?
Micayle glares accusingly at his tag team partner. Fortunately, 'The Original Gangster' has more than a few compliments to deliver to her.
'TOG': Damn son, she is looking fine! Just look at those big ole' tatas hanging on her chest! I'll pay to fuck those puppies any day!
Micayle snorts in contempt.
Hooker: And what are you waiting for? They are getting a bit lonely, don't you think...?
The duo guffaws as the fat tub of lard preens and poses for her potential customers. Micayle silently stews in the centre of the room. 'Wild', ever the ringleader, decides to take charge of the entire situation. He looks pointedly at both Micayle and 'The Original Gangster', before moving forward and gently caressing the woman around her waist.
'Wild': I think you'll do just fine, sweet lips. Why don't you get a partner in here and start being busy? We gentlemen are going to retreat to the couch for the time being.
His hand is getting awfully comfortable around the tire-sized waist of the call girl. A simpering look on her face, the lady of the night puts her arms around 'Wild''s neck before delivering a smooch to his left cheek.
Hooker: A partner, eh? Would you like it to be a dude or a gal? We are here to fulfill your every request... of course.
Enthralled, 'Wild' immediately turns back to Micayle and 'TOG', an enraptured expression blooming on his face. 'The Original Gangster' begins to hop up and down, eager for more estrogen in the room. 'Wild' winks at the two, before returning a sloppy kiss to the prostitute.
'Wild': Get a guy partner then. We are in the mood for a little live action. But you'll serve us right after, am I right?
'TOG' begins to open his mouth in protest, but is immediately silenced by a piercing stare. The lady giggles, before moving to separate herself from 'Wild'.
Hooker: Of course... now just give me a second, good looking. I'll get my colleague over immediately.
She leaves the room, and 'The Original Gangster' immediately goes in an outburst.
'TOG': THE FUCK BRO! Why not another chick! We could totally watch them go all lesbian on each other! Scissors action homie! But now we got another dude, what the fuck! You a gay fish or something? Huh!?
'Wild': Look, I panicked all right! Her hot ass was in my hands and I felt bad for asking for another lady to join us!
'TOG': But sloppy seconds! URGH! Fucking sick! I'm going first, I don't care.
Micayle coughs. The gesture catches the attention of the dueling duo and quietens them down. The Arizonian folds his arm and sits down on a comfortable-looking couch in the corner. He glowers at the two men, before speaking.
Micayle: First of all, when you said that we are going to have a training session, I presumed we will be heading to the gym and try out a few moves. Not an afternoon of hiding the snake in the bush with a disease-ridden harlot.
'Wild' snickers and starts to open his mouth, but Micayle raises a finger to cut him off rudely.
Micayle: Not done. Next, not only you engaging in this filth, you are expecting me to join you in it. Really? Of all people, you have myself, the United States Champion and champion of all things American in a whorehouse with you. Are you thinking of what you are doing, or are you just going on with the flow? I expected better from my supposed tag team partners, despite the fact that your combined IQ is not even half of mine.
Both 'Wild' and 'The Original Gangster' are crestfallen, fully silent for the first time since they have met. Micayle studies their expressions carefully.
Micayle: This place is for the weak of heart. It's no place for a man of science such as myself, and if I have my way, for America as well. I strongly urge you to leave, because I am most certainly about to do. Any questions?
He eyes them. Neither man makes an attempt to join him.
Shaking his head in dismay, the Scientist approaches the door, but stumbles back in surprise as the fat prostitute returns without a single word. And along with her is her partner for the afternoon, a buff lord whose biceps are the size of Micayle's shoulders. The pair gently pushes Micayle back to the couch, before they retreat to the king-sized bed situated in the centre of the room. Bemused, the Second Coming Of Darwin has no choice but to stay there. 'Wild', still wary of the Scientist after his words of warning, gently whispers to him.
'Wild': Look, I know it isn't exactly what you were hoping for, but just see it through okay? We can go training later. I promise.
Micayle sighs.
Micayle: Yeah whatever. Just get this nonsense over and done with, will you? And can we get a bottle of wine here or something? I need something stronger than water to get through this.
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<Twenty minutes later>
'Wild': Woo!
'TOG': Get that deep in that slut yo! Pound that poon tang!
Micayle couldn't believe what he was seeing with his own eyes. The Bunny Ranch was a brothel; he got that much. But he was certainly not prepared to see the fat hooker bust out a provocative Playboy BDSM costume and put on a show with it. Thus far, he had already endured a hot wax session, an enema, and a solid ten minutes of unoriginal, completely monotonous porn talk. Only in the past three minutes have the actual 'action' started. And he was already bored stiff.
Hooker: Oh yeah baby, get it deep within me.
Do all call girls talk like that? It must make for a horrible experience for all patrons, doesn't it?
Partner: Yeah, yeah, yeah! YEAH!
He doesn't look very satisfied. She must be a lousy lay. Hmm, probably like the real Chelsea Black Armstrong as well.
Hooker: OH YES BABY YOU ARE SO GOOD!
He slams down the shot he was taking. He's getting a headache. This isn't working at all.
Micayle: Okay that's it.
Finally pushed past his tipping point, Micayle stands up, looking affronted at the chaos that is happening all around him. The overweight hooker and the male volunteer are still caught up in the sick pleasures they are indulging in, but both 'Wild' and 'The Original Gangster' have noticed Micayle's lack of interest in the afternoon's activities.
'Wild': Dude, what the fuck? This is super awesome! Sit back down; I heard there's a part two to this entire fable!
'The Original Gangster' chuckles and gulps down another shot. His blurry, unfocused eyes fixate on the overweight hooker as he starts to unbutton his pants.
'TOG': Oh yeah baby. I don't know about you, but that lass over there looks as good as pie. I'm joining the party.
'Wild': I'll join you soon homie, just give me a second. What about you, boss man? You ready to plug it into this bitch? It'll be her fantasy yo; four men all up her stanky ho ass! Totally air tight baby ha ha!
The tangled-up duo on the bed moans their approval at that plan, while the drunk 'Original Gangster' is beside himself in hysterics. His eyes flashing dangerously around the room, Micayle walks slowly to 'Wild' and grabs the man by his collar. He moves his face near the similarly tipsy fellow and whispers in a slow, menacing tone.
Micayle: I should have known it would have been futile to even try to work with two uncultured idlers. You bums have fun in this crazy carnival; I'm going off to actually train. You are preoccupied with pleasure and have no self-respect for yourselves whatsoever. I'm out of this place.
The Scientist moves his head back and takes a good sniff of the room, wrinkling his nose in disgust as he does so.
Micayle: You ought to clean this room up after your illicit little... gathering. Smells like the cast of a pornographic set crashed through it. I'll see the both of you also-rans on Sunday.
Glancing derisively at the crapulous 'Wild', Micayle throws him back down on the couch and walks out of the room, slapping his hands together in an attempt to brush away all the nastiness that conspired in the room. He quickly makes his way down the stereotypical spiral staircase that seems to be installed into every brothel and house of ill repute, and walks towards the front door. The entrance lobby is deserted - all the better for an inconspicuous exit. Micayle looks around nervously before putting a hand on the door. And then...
Turkey Man: GOBBLE GOBBLE GOBBLE! Hey, you haven't paid your bill! GOBBLE GOBBLE!
Out of nowhere, a large turkey jumps out from behind a pillar and accosts the professional wrestler!
Micayle: Ahhh!
Purely on instinct, Micayle shoots out a fist. The blow catches the turkey man off guard and hits him squarely on the nose. Blood immediately began pulsating out, and the man raises his hands to cover his nose in an attempt to stop the heavy flow.
Turkey Man: GOBBLE GOBBLE! Ouch!
Taking advantage of the opportunity, Micayle kicks the turkey suit-wearing bastard in the stomach HARD, before hoisting him up in the air in a powerbomb position. The Scientist, purely operating on bloodlust by the point of time, exhales hard and lifts the turkey in the air even higher. Both men scream out - one in outright fear, the other in fury - as Micayle smashes him back down on to the ground, cracking the back of his skull on the marble.
Micayle glances at the unconscious turkey, before stomping out of the house. He steps off quickly, but the two fan boys aren't too far away. Dressed in a disheveled state (no doubt caused by an unrelenting mission to pursue the United States champion), both 'Wild' and 'TOG' run as quickly as they can to the Scientist.
Micayle: What in the world have I stepped into? This is absolutely crazy! America has places like this out in broad daylight? I have a lot of work to do...
The duo sprints, finally able to catch up to Micayle, interrupting his train of thought.
'Wild': Doctor Micayle! Doctor Micayle! Wait up!
'TOG': We can explain!
He pauses mid-step, ready to hear their explanation. The duo trade glances, before hesitantly, they begin talking. Throughout the entire encounter, he never once turns to look at them.
'Wild': Look... we have to admit. We are not really Zack Wild or The Original Gangster. We are just... two dudes who happened to chance upon you just now. We decided to say we were so we could hang.
'TOG': We're sorry, all right? We saw you on the streets and were super psyched to see you, and we just... y'know, just said that. You ain't angry, are ya? We really didn't mean for things to reach this stage.
Finally, Micayle turns back to the impostors and studies their expressions. The sobered up duo genuinely look sorry for their actions and seem remorseful enough. He breaks into a small smile.
Micayle: Of course. I'm sorry for bursting out of there as well. It's... discomforting to me.
The duo look at each other in joyful glee, jubilant that their hero isn't angry at them. 'Zack Wild' immediately clings on to Micayle's arm, before gabbing on excitedly.
'Wild': Oh wow! I'm so relieved! Do you want to hang out some more in that case? I know another place that's equally awesome, and I think you would really like it!
'The Original Gangster' speeds forward and holds on to the other arm, an equally wide grin on his face.
'TOG': Truth tea homie! Come with us! We fan boys will show you the best time in the world! Zack, did you see how laid out that dude dressed in the turkey outfit was? I bet you anything our US Champ here dropped him with a Doctor Bomb!
Micayle looks at the both of them, before widening his smile.
Micayle: Sure thing. Lead the way boys.
Yipping in joy and jumping in delight, both of the impostors walks off ahead, already starting to craft battle plans on where to head towards. But before they could get too far ahead, Micayle calls out.
Micayle: Guys...?
The pair turns.
And wham! Micayle charges ahead with a sickening double running lariat, knocking both of them flat on their backs! 'Wild's' head smashes on to the solid concrete with a stomach-churning thud, and he rolls over, clutching his injured head in pure agony. 'TOG', on the other hand, fared slightly better. The force behind The Formula threw him back several feet, eventually pushing him with enough strength into a brick wall, where his body collides into the unforgiving material. Both men start groaning in pain, in too much hurt to even fathom the betrayal that was just invoked on them. Without another word, Micayle turns away and starts walking away from the assault scene.
: Micayle!His head swivels at the direction of the sound. With wide, glaring eyes, from a distance, Micayle spots the waving hand of the actual Zack Wild. Beside him is the real Original Gangster, toying with his smartphone. His temper flaring once more, the Second Coming Of Darwin takes off towards the direction of the Wild Gangsters. Charging ahead, he skids to a halt mere inches away from the two of them.
Zack Wild: We're here! So... where you actually at about?
The Original Gangster: Aye, wassup dawg? We've been looking for you for a while now. Don't cha ever pick up that phone of yours? Been giving you missed calls for twenty minutes now.
Upon hearing that, Micayle purpled. He splutters in an attempt to speak, but apparently his mind works faster than his biological functions. Saliva gets caught in his throat, and he bends over and coughs violently, trying his best to catch his breath. Concerned, Zack Wild puts a hand on his back, but Micayle shrugs him off violently. Standing back up, the Scientist points a finger accusingly at his tag team partners.
Micayle: Do not touch me! You two have the cheek to finally show up!? You said you wanted to have a training session, and I generously granted you an hour of my time. Do you know what I have went through? Do you!? But both of you idiots showed up late, and I ended up in this...
He gestures wildly at the brothel behind him, apparently at a loss of words.
Micayle: ...PLACE! You know what? Fine! You think I am a joke? I am your United States Champion, and I deserve to be respected as such! The two of you are nothing but jobbers, and I am sick and tired of being strapped to losers like the both of you! If that's the way it's going to be with the two of you, so be it! Stay out of my way come Sunday, and you better stay out of my way in the locker room! Bugger off!
Huffing in disbelief, Micayle turns on his heels and strides away, clearly upset with the entire situation. Bewildered, the Wild Gangsters look at each other in confusion before simultaneously bursting into speech.
Wild Gangsters: What the hell is up with this dude, man?
The Original Gangster stares at the retreating back of Micayle and frowns in annoyance.
TOG: No idea bro. But he better wake up soon, or we're going to be fucked up. Ain't no telling when some crazy motherfucker like him gonna go loose and kick his own partners in the head.
The duo continues looking at Micayle until he walks out of view. Exhaling a soft sigh in relief, Wild looks up at the building and to his partner, before returning his gaze back to the building and dropping his jaw in shock.
Wild: Wait just a damn minute... was he in a whorehouse!?
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Tertiary threat detected.
- God (?gäd): capitalized; the supreme or ultimate reality: as the Being perfect in power, wisdom, and goodness who is worshipped as creator and ruler of the universe. Christian Science: the incorporeal divine Principle ruling over all as eternal Spirit, infinite Mind. A being or object believed to have more than natural attributes and powers and to require human worship; specifically one controlling a particular aspect or part of reality. A person or thing of supreme value. A powerful ruler. Middle English, from Old English; akin to Old High German got god. First Known Use: before 12th century.
Proven solution found.
- Deicide (?d?-?-?s?d, ?d?-?-): The act of killing a divine being or a symbolic substitute of such a being. The killer or destroyer of a god. Ultimately from Latin deus god + -cidium, -cida -cide. First Known Use: 1577
Application of solution in progress.
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Good day ladies and gentlemen. I hope you are doing well. With temperatures dipping every single day, take note to actually pay the bills and avoid freezing to death this very solemn winter. A day or two without food won't kill you and might actually be beneficial for the corpulent tubs that you are. That time without heat however, just might. So please learn how to manage your finances properly. I wouldn't want my efforts to educate the country to go to waste just because you didn't know how to survive the cold.
And to those readers of Chinese descent, here's wishing a very happy Lunar New Year to all of you. Enjoy the holidays, and collect as many red packets as you can from those stingy, mercenary relatives of yours. The food may be hearty and the gatherings sweet, but remember that at the end of the day to watch your weight. America does not need any more paunch turkeys in her country, and as United States champion, I will not tolerate any attempt to further destroy the health of her people.
Now then! Seems that I've gotten all the niceties out of the way. Time to get down to business. Or more specifically... my business.
First of all, I would like to extend a polite round of applause to Mister Benjamin Atreyu. The man, as you would have no doubt already known, tried his very best to defeat me and claim the United States title for his own. It was a foregone conclusion from the very start that The Second Coming Of Darwin Himself would walk away with the victory, but it was an admirable effort from the man. I admit; it takes significant courage to strut into the ring when you know that you are going to be destroyed as easily as the Charlotte Bobcats going to South Beach. Benjamin did his very best, but alas! All that pompous bragging was for naught as for the third time, I've defeated someone who claimed that he was more deserving of being America's representative more than I. The Formula was taught to Benjamin, and I daresay it was a painful enough lesson for him.
Payback was also memorable for another reason altogether. At the very end of my match, after I raised my conquering foot off the limp carcass of the 'God-Given Greatness', I was confronted with a video of a war veteran begging pitifully for help. My help. Mark Dillinger, was it? Or should I address you my another... moniker? Now, on the off chance that your maggot-infested vagrant self manages to steal a laptop and read my blog, here's my message to you.
Go away. I do not have time for your hobo nonsense.
Well, not at least until I solve the issues that I have undertaken the past month, mainly the glorification of foreign culture, obesity, and self-harming. Mentally handicapped veterans are still a long way off from my priority list, and that isn't going to change for the foreseeable future. Team Science has better things to take care off.
Take this week for instance. Seth Lerch, our recently reinstated boss, has decided that it is in the company's best interests to schedule a six-man tag team match. Fair enough. What failed to resonate in the troglodyte's cerebrum is that on one side of the team, you have a cohesive fighting unit, the Savage Political Action Committee headed by Scott Savage and defended on both ends by the former number one contender for the WCF World Championship, the former number one contender for the WCF United States Championship, and a former Television Champion. And on the other end of the table, you have a honorable, intelligent, compassionate, visionary, perceptive, gorgeous, vogue, amiable, and most importantly humble wrestler doing battle alongside two... common racketeers. Fabulous.
Now, I am not one to commonly complain and whine about the state of things, but one truly has to question Seth Lerch's cognitive capabilities if he was to book such a match. I am without a doubt the most skilled competitor in the squared circle, but is it really fair on my part to have to carry two subpar, average, homely fighters throughout the bout? Granted, I have defeated Benjamin in the ring soundly last Sunday - and he is by far the most robust athlete amongst the three currently active in S-PAC - but really? Do you book a team that has proven itself to be fundamentally sound - if not a tad incapable - against a genius and two hoodlums who have never seen eye-to-eye on anything in their everyday lives? It's an insult on the greatest level, and I do deplore the fact that I have to do all the hard work this Sunday and hope that neither one of the Wild Gangsters make a potentially fatal mistake that will erase all hope of victory.
It's insanity, really.
But ah, what else can I expect from a Machiavellian such as Mister Scott Savage? The man has a reputation of getting things done his way, and I highly suspect that this match is just another favor that he has cashed in from Mister Lerch. After all, save Miss Chelsea Black Armstrong, both Mister Waylon Cash and Benjamin succumbed to horrific defeats at Payback. From a purely scientific standpoint, this supposedly lopsided bout would be the perfect opportunity for a team on its decline to regain its morale and gather some strength before heading to the battlefields again. Brilliant plan there, Scott. Brilliant indeed. I've seen through your actions and they are remarkable to say the least. The combination of hallucination-inducing cologne along with a supposed gift of spiked liquor would have created the perfect opportunity you needed to get Seth Lerch into the exact hypnotized state of mind you needed to arrange this match for your clients. And knowing the alcoholic beast that lies within our boss, there will be no way that he will deny you entry to his office for a supposed 'chat'. That is where your supposed magical charisma (Spoiler: no it isn't. It's merely a combination of chemistry and pre-handled tricks) kicked in. The drug-addled Seth would then have thought that it would be a good idea to order this match, and hey presto! We have ourselves exactly what you ordered.
Kudos to you indeed for managing to pull of such a crafty thing in order to stack the deck. Nothing else I would have expected from a varmint-worshipping salesman such as yourself. I would have done the same thing in your shoes, being a sycophantic servant to the boss in order to get things done your way.
But I must apologize Scott. For despite your best efforts to have your team gain the morale that it so desperately needs in order to survive their impending break-up, I, as WCF United States Champion, will not stand for such trickery. My tag team partners and myself may not have the same rapport that your S-PAC crew does, but my superiority in the ring ought to be more than sufficient to overcome this deficit. And this is why.
Three foes I'll be facing on Sunday. Three hounds of doom. And three wrestlers I've seen through thoroughly.
We have Mister Waylon Cash, lieutenant of the S-PAC fighting force and the wrestler with the most credentials to his name. A former WCF World Champion, a former WCF Television Champion, and a former three-time WCF Tag Team Champion. Once a decent main eventer with the world in the palm of his hand, he threw it all away when the temptations of drugs and drink came calling on his very door.
Look what happened. He challenged Jonny Fly to a championship bout at Payback and lost. The second-last time he tried for the title, he lost to Steve Orbit. I have not had the opportunity to meet the man face-to-face in the ring, but from what I have heard from my peers in the locker room, the man perpetually smells of booze. If this losing streak is by any indication, it may mean the very end of his career, despite his association with Scott. The man has not conducted himself well in recent months, and has been languishing in purgatory for pretty much the last quarter of 2013. True, he may have won the WCF Tag Team Titles, but it was won during a time when the pickings were lean. Once a capable contender emerged, the championships were stripped quicker from S-PAC than a crack baby from his drugged-up mother.
You need help, Waylon. And I can give it to you. Not Scott, not Roxanne, and certainly not Jesus. You need professional help given from the word of science.
But until then, I'm afraid The Formula would have to be taught to you. It'll be a shocking jerk to reality for your drug-addled brain, but it'll be a brief respite nonetheless. When you are unconscious and your brain is able to finally rest after being put through the strenuous task of supporting that inebriated body of yours 24/7... you'll thank me.
And you are most certainly welcome.
Next up, we have Miss Chelsea Black Armstrong, the newcomer to this talent management business. A former WCF Television Champion, she moved over from the now-defunct NWA and has had considerable success ever since her move. I admit, before I made my debut in the Wrestling Championship Federation and impressed both the Congress and the fans, you were someone I had my eye on for a while. Not sexually mind you - I do not deal with wenches - but professionally. Your ring style reminds me strongly of a young Ayria Adams, personality so much like Nightmare, and enough spunk in you to resemble a female version of a certain Victor Taylor. I was impressed, and still am, truth be told.
There's so much promise in you, that I was a little shell-shocked when you decided to join the Savage Political Action Committee. You were brooding with the curtain jerkers here in the federation, but I didn't see what was wrong with that. Not everyone can be a Sarah Twilight, a Steve Orbit, or a Corey Black, and in my opinion, you had a steady flow of income that could perhaps get you a nice suburban apartment in Wyoming when you eventually retire at the very top of your game. If I am not mistaken, achievers such as yourself earn a very respectable income (close to twenty five grand a year?), and even though the investment market is subpar at best at the very moment, a small fortune can still be can still be cultivated for you to spend the rest of your days with your husband.
But instead of committing to that future, you decided to throw it all away and join with the brooding vultures that are currently picking away at the very carcass of your future home. You abandoned a good career to hightail with a Satanic master and his three lapdogs. Was it their prowess at extramarital tag-team coitus that made you decide to do so? Or was it the dissatisfaction of losing so often on national television that cracked the nutcase? Either way, it's a pity that one of WCF's finest had to renounce her career as WCF's stepping stone to success so that she can fail at yet another thing.
Sad, if nothing else. And it'll be an even more miserable day when I have to put down Scott's newest hound down with a clubbing shot to the head. She'll whelp and scream and maybe even bite a little, but it's just an inconvenience that comes with the job.
I'll make it quick, Chelsea. I promise.
Lastly, we have Benjamin, former WCF United States Champion, former two-time WCF Tag Team Champion, and most importantly, the most recent recipient of my lessons in the ring. This man requires no further trash-talk from yours truly. As I have already mentioned, despite his very best efforts, there was no way on earth that he was going to defeat me for my championship last Sunday. And I am going to proclaim it right now: he is not going to do the same this week. We had a tough brawl at Payback, Benjamin, and truth be told, my body didn't fully recover until Tuesday. You hit hard... and you hit well. But no matter how hard you hit, you will never be able to hit me just enough to make me topple down to the mat and stay down. I've proven it last week and I am going to prove it yet again on Sunday.
My friend, you could have gone so much further in your career if you have only made the right choices in life. I constantly expound in my Team Science videos that life is all about cause-and-effect, and it is true. Just think about it. If you had the willpower to lift your shoulder off the mat last Sunday after I hit you that last time, you would not have fallen to the majestic power of The Perspicacious One. If you could just somehow force that last vestige of strength out of you and lift me in the air for that third sit-out facebuster, you might - and just might have - have wrenched that title away from my hands.
You could have become United States Champion. And more importantly, you could have defeated me.
But you didn't. And you most certainly will not this time round either. Neither you nor the other two members of your supposed 'crème de la crème' talent agency.
But I am a man of science, and I must make room for error. Despite everything, things might not go my way. A bout mapped out by providence might occur, the stars might not align themselves quite the right way, or perhaps my two bumbling partners might trip over their own toes and knock themselves out. You three will never defeat me, but you just might conquer the duo that will be standing beside me on the canvas come Slam. The greatest risk in this six-man match, in my opinion, is not my three opponents. They are my tag team partners. The Wild Gangsters. I have never teamed with them in the ring before, and mark my words - I would much rather not even breathe in the same country as such vermin. But orders have been made, and I have no alternative but to acknowledge - albeit grudgingly - them as equals. At least for this match.
Wild Gangsters, if you are even capable of reading the English language and have somehow accessed this page through a stolen little girl's laptop, here's what I have to say to you. Do not make a mess of things. Do not lose the match for me. Stay on the sidelines like a couple of good, law-abiding citizens, and let the true wrestler do the actual wrestling. I can always do with some moral support. Perhaps a handshake of commendation after I drop Waylon for the 1-2-3. Maybe a hearty thump on the back after Benjamin gets reintroduced to The Formula. Or possibly a fist bump after I kick Chelsea in the head. Any of that, really. Just don't wrestle and ruin my chances at victory. I'm serious.
But on hindsight, no. Don't touch me. Not at all. Stay in one corner of the arena, really far away from me. Do that, and we will be good. And don't feel bad about not participating in the match when I claim a victory out of nowhere. You are still invited to come into the ring and act as if you contributed significantly when in actual fact; everyone in the globe knows it's all the work of the Scientist.
But hey, anything for team spirit, am I right?
S-PAC, you are good. I acknowledge that. Scott Savage has chosen his clients well, but know this (and know it well!): this supposedly easy match will be anything but. I know my partners don't give a hoot about their win-loss record here in this federation, and I can understand that, seeing that they have one foot out of the building already. But I cannot stand to end my night in defeat, even if it's in a tag team bout where I know accidents can happen out of nowhere.
I am the WCF United States Champion, and much like our glorious country, I'm not going to just step away from a fight. The Scientist is going on a rampage, and you aren't going to like it. Benjamin already knows the muscles that come along with the brain aren't for show, and if anyone else on your beau monde, haut monde team even dares to show much as test me... you know the outcome.
Lying on your back blinking at the lights, wondering why your upper torso feels as if it got blasted by a shotgun, and wishing that your manager has never tried to charm Seth Lerch into booking you into this match.
I'll see you lot on Sunday.
Cheers to all, and may the elements have mercy on both S-PAC and my tag team partners.
Remus Micayle, Ph. D.
