"Malice (The Mosquito That Sucked The World Dry)"
Sept 26, 2014 15:14:57 GMT -5
Steve Orbit, Kaz, and 1 more like this
Post by Deleted on Sept 26, 2014 15:14:57 GMT -5
"There is little, if any, intellectual honesty to be found in today's political discourse. The Godfather aims to change that. See, you listen to this President Barry Oak--er, Barack Obama, whatever her name is. You listen to the Congress of the United States, the House and the Senate, their respective leaderships. What do you hear? You hear bloviating anuses expelling volatile gasses. Contrast it now-- You listen to The Godfather and what do you hear? You hear words of truth, peace and reason. Bobby Cairo shall set you free, my people. I am what you need. I am your daddy. Worship me. Praise me. Love me. LOVE ME! I am a fighter, I am an entertainer and I will never let you down, mien republica!" - excerpt from Truer Words Never Spoken: The Bobby Cairo Story... So Far
"Histler! State your case! Why should you be spared The Godfather's wrath?"
Bobby Cairo's voice boomed like an air raid siren-- it was not chopping, nor halting, but rather STOUT, ELECTRIC and ZEALOUS. He directed his tone toward the reanimated Adolf Hitler, former German Chancellor, Fuhrer and all-around fucked-in-the-head shit-bag dictator of Nazi-era Germany.
"Mien Godfather, please! I-I-I--"
"Shut up, Histler! SHUT UP!"
Cairo slammed his demonically-guided fists upon the table as he barked his orders. He scowled. "Heathens! Heathens all of them! Think about it!" Cairo assailed his noggin with the point of his index finger before rising to his feet and circuiting the perimeter of the conference room.
Some might ask the question: Why reanimate the leader of the Third Reich? Just to browbeat him? There was more to it than that. Cairo reasoned that to prepare for WAR, or more precisely, to prepare for victory under such pretenses he must place himself into the mindset of a man who guided evil, ferocious, diabolical forces during the greatest war ever sold: WW2.
Cairo reasoned that he must pick Hitler's brain. He must, in no uncertain terms, become Hitler. That was... not an easy task for a half-Jew Uzbek-born firebrand such as Bobby Cairo. Cairo regarded himself as more than just the Governor of Poon Guinea. More than the Mayor of New York City. More than a WCF Hall of Famer. Cairo believed that he wielded indomitable power in his hands as the King of All Jews.
Cairo got right in Hitler's face. He scowled at Hitler. He relished these moments, savored making Das Fuhrer cower before him. Cairo taunted Hitler. "Not so powerful now, are ya," Cairo said. "Dog shit breath? Oh I'm sorry. That must be the smell of Eva Braun's pussy after seventy years of rotting in Hell."
Cairo smirked sardonically at Hitler. He wore a shit-eating grin. He dared Hitler to make a move. He feinted toward Hitler with his fist and Hitler flinched. "Pussy," Cairo said. "Straight up fascist pussy. I heard you only had one testicle, dog shit breath. I guess you lost that when Franklin Delano Rosenblatt and Joseph Stalinberger made you their bitch, eh, mien chapped ass?"
Who could've fathomed that a conference room at the Robert Backlund Memorial Howard Johnson Resort and Casino in downtown Poon Town, Poon Guinea would play host to such a spectacle? Why had Cairo chosen this locale to scold Hitler? Had he wanted Hitler to witness the newfangled power of communist commerce under Jew leadership?
The mind games never ended for a man such as Cairo. He taunted Hitler as he would taunt his rivals in Phoenix, Arizona before vanquishing them under the guise of WAR. He told himself this. Swore himself this. Jonny Fly? Cairo smirked. Cairo inhaled deeply, the smoky oxygen in the conference room rejuvenated his lungs, his veins, his entire facade.
"Jonny Fly," Cairo spoke the words to Hitler's ears, whispering them like mother to darling newborn. "Jonny Fly amuses me, Histler. Does he amuse you?"
Cairo retracted his cranium and locked eyes with the mass-murdering German. Hitler's glance was quizzical, pleading. Hitler was free to move about the room, unimpeded by shackles or bindings of any kind. Yet he was frozen to his seat. He never wanted to leave that seat. Hitler never wanted to rise to his feet and march that march of death that he had forced so many others to march. Cairo knew this. It was his greatest power play, his final solution.
Cairo outstretched his arms, reached into the pocket of his suit pants and pulled out a pack of Newport cigarettes. "We play games, Histler. We... we, uh, we--" Cairo wove his hand in a spiral pattern toward the ceiling, searching for his words. Above his outstretched hand, dust settled upon a florescent lighting tube, a tube which proved to be one among many. The fluorescent tubes hummed as they illuminated the room beneath them, hummed like Negro women picking cotton in the sweltering plantation fields of Mississippi.
A billowing cloud of smoke pooled from a Newport cigarette, settled into the room. Vapor coiled like a noose from the tip of the fag. Cairo clasped his hands. His face lit up as he puffed the rejuvenating menthol elixir from his cigarette.
"Ah yes," Cairo exclaimed. "We play games. We cast not so subtle rhetoric in the other man's direction, the opponent's direction. We--" Cairo pulled a chair from the conference table and placed it next to where Hitler was seated, spinning the chair so that the back faced Hitler. He sat down on the chair and gazed directly into Hitler's eyes, taking another drag from his Newport.
"We try to gain that advantage, Histler. I do not truly have to play such games any longer, Das Fuhrerkind. Men, as you can relate to, fear me. They fear me because I am not a man. I am not a monster. I am humankind's moral barometer. I am your... conscience, Histler. I am the things that you wish you could do when no one is looking."
Cairo stared blankly at the art deco paneling on the walls while delivering his monologue to the petrified dictator. He should've been more interested if ordering a sandwich, could've been, but Cairo did not have to look at Hitler to feel the fear that consumed the Kraut's very essence.
"I no longer need to speak a single word, Histler. I--" Cairo clicked his tongue inside of his mouth. He rolled his neck from side to side and took another puff on his Newport, exhaling the smoke slower than molasses crawls down a tree.
"I hurl accusatory tones because it brings me pleasure," The Godfather exclaimed. "I can pummel my foes with fists and feet, but surely any brute can accomplish such a task? It takes a wordsmith to crush a man's psyche with vocabulary, Histler. You attempted such things with your-- what was his name? Gerbils? Hahaha. Always the fool, Histler. You tried to strike that Godfather posture, but ya don't come close."
Cairo rose to his feet, pushed his chair under the table and patted Hitler on his shoulder. The Godfather's massive sideburns protruded from his cranium, framed like windmills at either side of his face. 'The Lord God of Justice and Gubbernator Thickness' Bobby Cairo was sowing his oats today. He felt the power that Hitler had felt seven decades earlier, but he felt so much more than that. Hitler had believed that he would conquer the world, believed that he held such incomparable glory within the prism of his hands. He was wrong.
Cairo understood greater things. He understood what it meant to savor the taste of another man's dead spirit and shattered dreams. When the man broke, when the man wept, Cairo should delight in the sweet nectar of that man's fear, his desperation, his hopelessness. Cairo dropped to his knees with a single, calamitous thud upon the carpeted floor. He was smiling from ear to ear, arms outreached, shoulders breaching the scope of his earlobes. Hitler was terrified.
Hitler lamented. He held within the scope of his mind a crisis of conscience. Had he made a mistake when he assailed the Jews, the gypsies, the handicapped, the homosexual, and all others that he deemed flawed perversions of the proper human reflection? "Why, oh, why," Hitler gushed, the tears welling in his eyes. "Why did I go against my value system? I killed so many. I broke the pact. Stalin--oh, Stalin, I am sorry, my friend."
Hitler, by now, had slumped into his seat. Cairo peered at the defeated Nazi. He observed the Fuhrer's bereaved frown and sullen eyes. Hitler reached for a kerchief in the breast pocket of his formal garb. Adolf blew snots and sniffles and curds and whey into the silk cloth and dabbed his tears. This was perhaps the strongest outpouring of emotion that anyone had witnessed from Hitler. Brave men, strong men, triumphant men... they are not so brave, strong and triumphant when placed in The Godfather's crosshairs.
Hitler babbled, cooing like a child, screaming like a madman, begging like the coward that he always was. He pleaded with Cairo for leniency while offering no particular reason as to why The Godfather should agree to such a proposal. Finally, Hitler stumbled upon a revelation that he believed could spare him from Cairo's wrath. "I can explain it all," Hitler desperately assured Cairo. "I've reconciled my present with my past, don't you see? I've learned from my mistakes!"
The Godfather was skeptical. "Oh? You have, have you? Tell me, Histler, what have you learned? Why shan't I murder you in the coldest of cold blood as you murdered my ancestors, you glutinous cretin?"
Hitler contemplated bounding to his feet but he quickly dismissed the notion, realizing that such furtive movement would result in his being promptly thrashed by Cairo. "I've learned that we are stronger together, mien Godfather! I've heard all about you, Mr. Bobby. I know your plans. I know that you aim to conquer the world. I know... I know of your dealings."
Cairo openly chuckled. He was amused by Hitler's attempts to negotiate, to strike a compromise. He viewed this as being akin to a condemned man attempting to bargain with his executioner. Nonetheless Cairo was interested in hearing what Hitler had to say. "By all means, Histler-- indulge me. Don't keep me waiting here with bated breath, my lad. I only hold your life in my hands, haha! If I get bored and my hands should slip--"
Cairo feigned strangling Hitler with his bare hands. Hitler was startled. Cairo was laughing, biding his time before making the final kill. Recognizing that his audience with The Godfather was drawing ever nearer to a close, Hitler opted to spill his guts in a last ditch ploy to save himself. "Don't you see, mien Godfather? Poon Guinea and Germany are the two most enlightened societies in the world, just as the Soviet Union and Germany were during my era! I should've never waged war between the two great cultures. Bobby, my friend, please, please, I beg of you..."
"Do not get on your knees, Adolf. It will be the last mistake you ever make. You cannot handle this thickness, not at your age."
"We can work together, consolidate our forces," Hitler murmured, his face expressionless and pale as a ghost. He realized that his pleas had fallen upon deaf ears. It was hopeless. If he had been unable to persuade The Godfather by now then it wasn't likely to happen. They had been here for hours, days perhaps. Hitler was uncertain of the time but he knew that the proverbial noose around his neck drew tighter with each passing moment.
Hitler's fear was palpable. He feared Bobby Cairo. He feared the half-Jewish son of a Jewish mother. He instantly regretted his power play in Third Reich Germany. Regretted all of the innocent lives that he had stolen and snuffed out. He realized what a fool he had been to think that he held the world in his hands. Only one man could accomplish such a feat: Robert H. Cairo. Hitler understood this truly and completely. He accepted it as fact, just as he accepted the fate to which he had been condemned.
The Godfather no longer appeared amused. Now he appeared annoyed, ill-tempered, frowning. Hitler's gambit had failed. Cairo's was merely beginning. The world would know malice. The world would become well acquainted with the mosquito that sucked it dry.
Cairo mused while placing his loafer clad feet onto the conference table inches away from Hitler's slumped noggin. "You compromised your ethics, Adolf. Much like Seth Lerch when he decided to suspend honorable and productive members of the WCF roster for policing the locker room against deplorable scoundrels." Cairo scowled. Those memories never faded. The degradation. The insult. The conniving. The stink of impropriety.
Cairo cracked his knuckles, his frown protruding so high upon his face that it nearly shuttered his eyelids. "Boo."
Hitler's head violently convulsed as if the construct of the universe had imploded upon itself. The Godfather had delivered an R-CAIRO through the conference table, the furniture promptly collapsing under the weight of their two bodies. Hitler was down and out, forehead bloodied, arms and legs strewn akimbo. His body would remain in this awkward, lurching form of stasis for untold hours, days perhaps. Hitler would never be certain of the time again. His soul had returned to Hades, condemned for eternity once more.
Cairo chuckled uproariously, delightedly, deliriously. He rose to his feet and brushed the dirt off his shoulder like a pimp. His plan was in motion. WAR would commence in mere days. More work was to be done, but this was a fine start. Killing Hitler is always a fine start, in The Godfather's book.
The bombastic post-punk sounds of David Byrne and his Talking Heads filled the room, a room with an opulent though tasteful decor. Crushed red velvet carpets with gold trim lined the floor. Massive, oaken bookcases sprawled as far as the eye could see, displaying a vast collection of literature from names as varied as Joyce, Homer, Marx, Shakespeare, Twain and Orwell. A crystal chandelier dangled in a not-so-precarious manner from the ceiling, a ceiling made of marble, ivory, ebony, gold and silver. This was a thinking man's room, a study for a very important man, a man who conspired to control the world. This was Robert H. Cairo's study at his home, the Governor's Mansion in Poon Guinea, known as the Cairo Compound.
The Godfather sat upon his blood red throne of death, posed, prim, proper, inhaling and exhaling with a delighted air about his person. He looked magnificent in his tailored suit, with his nails manicured, his long black hair slicked back into a proper mane, beard styled with exotic berries and oils. Cairo appeared giddy. He had abandoned his hydraulic wheelchair on the most recent episode of WCF Slam while planting WCF owner Seth Lerch in the middle of the ring with an R-CAIRO. He no longer had need for such a device. He was once again among the walking, among the conventionally able bodied-- only he was much more than that. The Godfather had embraced the bionic way of life, his body now constructed from combination of human flesh and bone and the cybernetic organic materials and circuitry that one might associate with Hollywood feature films such as The Terminator.
The Godfather, in no uncertain terms, was more human than human. He owed this envious position to a man of science, one of his Team Thickness teammates at XIII, Doctor Remus Micayle. Micayle, brilliant scientist that he is, operated on Cairo after the team's heinous and grueling bout at XIII against Pantheon, whence Cairo's body became crippled through the sheer physical punishment of the conflict. By now, Cairo had recovered from the surgery. He was stronger, stronger than ever before. Stronger than the bodies of the men whose skulls formed the base of his blood red throne of death. Stronger than all who walked the earth today. Stronger than his foes at WAR.
In due time those foes would succumb to Bobby, much like the crushed red velvet that cushioned The Godfather's ass cheeks, yielded to his manner. Cairo had a dream last night. He dreamed that he was competing in WAR against Jonny Fly, Jayson Price, Logan, Brent Alpine, Jay Omega, all the names, all the egos, all the stakes, all the claims. Cairo dreamed of the sweat, the blood, broken bones, vitriol, defeat and victory. He dreamed of agony, torment, deceit, all the things that made this world of malice in which we live keep on spinning. It was those feelings, the hate, the regret, the guilt, disassociation from reality that drove men-- not Cairo, per se, but weaker men. Cairo was amused by it all. He feasted upon the frailness, the vulnerability, but such flaws did not become him.
No, Cairo was a man of reasoned intellect and diabolical scheme, a man who wasted little time lamenting circumstance. Such is not the way of a man of action. Cairo attacked Seth Lerch at Slam because it was justice served for a malfeasance committed. Hitler was served his comeuppance in much the same manner. Cairo used these men to advance his own agenda-- Seth would grant Cairo formal permission to enter WAR; reanimated Hitler would dish dirt that would prepare Cairo's psyche to once again enter battle at WAR. These acts aided the means to Cairo's end, though they represented mere stepping stones in the plan that he had enacted.
Within his hands, strong, meaty Poon Guinean hands, Cairo held a large manila envelope marked with the words Magnum Opus: Liberation in black ink with a bold font. The envelope contained documents that outlined Cairo's scheme for global domination. Conquering Poon Guinea one year ago was merely the first step in Cairo's master plan. He had established a home base of operations. Now the time had come to expand upon his sphere of dominion. He patted the folder, hugged it, tucked it into his suit jacket and nodded his head in affirmation of the misdeeds to be committed and the damage to be inflicted.
Cairo's eyes scanned the room. He observed the surveillance cameras that he had set up in his quarters to monitor a litany of activities: thievery, betrayal, sexual intercourse. The cameras perpetually observed all who entered the scope of their ever watchful eyes, their red glow reminiscent of HAL in 2001: A Space Odyssey. The cameras served an additional purpose: They recorded The Godfather when he had shit to spit regarding any topic that should enter his brain; budget proposals, speeches to be aired to the Poon Guinea populace, taunts directed at his opponents inside of the wrestling ring, even love messages for his First Lady Rihanna.
There would be no love messages today. Cairo was in the mindset of a competitor. He was in the mindset of a conqueror, a destroyer, a liberator-- if only to liberate the weak from the burden of their existence. Cairo flashed a smirk into the camera that was positioned directly in front of his throne. His demeanor oozed arrogant superiority. He held his foes in lower regard than a booger that he should pick from his nose and flick onto an oft tread upon city sidewalk. Still, he craved amusement, craved entertainment. He enjoyed scaring people. He enjoyed playing the bully, the intimidator. It was hardly a gimmick; for The Godfather it was a lifestyle.
"Cowardice, cowardice everywhere, as far as the eye can see," Cairo exclaimed while staring into the camera lens. "Why does WCF disappoint me so? Why is it that I can't get my dick hard from any match outside of these specialty concepts that we run? I did XIII. Got my rocks off. Now it's on to WAR. The week to week grind does not entertain me. Does not amuse me. Does not hold my attention. So many dipshits in this company today. Even the men that I thought could be competitive have fallen into the squalor of mediocrity. Brent Alpine-- please." Cairo scoffs.
"What a joke that man has become. I thought Alpine would accomplish great things in WCF, if only during my absence from the company. I had him tabbed as a true superstar of the future. As it turns out he's just another confused and butthurt chump spinning his wheels, throwing dung at the wall, trying to see what sticks. This is what happens when you play the role of soft man. That dick that you should be popping pussies with turns into a vagina. Brent Alpine, I will devour your soul at WAR. You will not be seen again in WCF, I can promise you that. When you stoke the fires of The Godfather, when you make things personal, you live and die to regret it. Twiddle your thumbs, Brenty Wenty. Twiddle your thumbs and shove them up your ass because that will serve as a mere prelude of the ass poon smashing that you have coming your way in Phoenix, Arizona."
Cairo stroked the head of the pig that he had groomed to replace Percy Micro, dubbed Percy Micro II. Cairo smiled, knowing that he was cradling a future pork chop dinner in his arms. Yes, the King of All Jews eats pork. That is hardly the only rule that Cairo defies.
"The city of Phoenix. Such a beautiful, beautiful town. Home to the wealthy, the elite, the primed and primmed power players, all of them, the best of them, the best that the state of Arizona has to offer. Beautiful women wearing hardly a stitch of clothing, tantalizing The Godfather's thickness. Oh yes, I do love thee, Phoenix. This is not The Godfather's first jaunt to your mecca. It's not even the first time that I've competed at WAR in Phoenix. One year ago," The Godfather held up a single finger. "One year ago I competed in WAR in your beautiful city and do you know what happened?"
Cairo exhaled in a depressive sigh, though his deflated demeanor quickly gave way to the largest, most deranged looking smile that The Godfather had mustered in days. "I fell a little bit short of victory. Damn you, Jonny Fly! Haha! The truth is though-- things worked out better for me that way. See, I would've become World Champion if I won WAR last year, but I would've been deprived of the opportunity of conquering and dominating the tag team division as one half of the greatest tag team in WCF history, The Thickness. When you are The Godfather, every disappointment, every shortcoming, every failure is met with a stronger, more powerful, more resilient, and entirely cataclysmic triumph. I don't suffer the consequences when I lose... my opponents do.
"That's why I don't look at last year's defeat at WAR as a reason to be ashamed. I became stronger as a result of that match. Stronger than I had ever been before. And now? I'm stronger than I was then. Jonny Fly, you are weaker than you were last year. You are weaker than you were when you won WAR. You are weaker than you were when you reigned as World Champion following your victory at WAR. You're a shell of your former self, Jonny. You've been a shell since you dropped that WCF World Championship to Steve Orbit at Timebomb. You didn't even have the guts to compete against me and my Team Thickness at XIII, Jonny. A thumb injury? That's what kept you out of XIII? Well, I hope you don't sprain your vagina between now and Sunday night, Mr. Fly. I wouldn't want to be deprived of my opportunity to officially end your reign as the WAR winner."
Cairo cast snide diversions of humor, smiles, comedic rhetoric with his lips, his jaw, the jaw gaping and then uplifted. Cairo was not a man who took kindly to the Jonny Fly's of the world, men that he viewed as being defined by an inflated sense of ego who could not live up to their own hype.
"I want you to understand something, Jonny. I want you to understand that I'm not going to beat you as revenge for being eliminated by you at WAR last year. I'm not going to beat you because of your name, your reputation, petty reasons of jealousy. I'm going to beat you because I'm a better wrestler, a better man and a more tireless and indefatigable competitor. When I hurt you, you're going to cry. You're going to drop to your knees and you're going to beg, Jonny. When you do, I'll warn you. I'll tell you, 'Don't suck that thickness. Don't suck it unless you're ready to part from this mortal world and meet Jam Willy Hey-Zeus.' Will you suck it, Jonny? Will you suck it when you realize that I'm your God and maker? I control your life within my hands, Jonny. I control your career. You've got some hard, HARD decisions to make between now and Sunday night, boy."
Cairo hugged Percy Micro II. He lifted the micro pig to his lips and placed a kiss upon the pig's noggin. Cairo's black heart coursed with emotions, none of them sentimental, driven by rage, fueled by knowledge of the grievous acts that he would soon commit.
“Life is beautiful, my friends. I sit here upon my throne as the king of the world, the god of all that I survey. I smile, I laugh. I know that I cannot lose. I hear foolish chatter from fat idiots, retards of this world, jealous and debunked ramblings from members of the former power group Pantheon, power plays by Chelsea Armstrong and her fledgling group of do-gooders. Chelsea Armstrong, didn’t you know that murder is a man’s game, baby doll? Didn’t you know that girls, girls like you have pussies, pussies for fucking and sucking and goading and coaxing all of this hot warm sperm from the thickness? Ohhhh--” The Godfather halted his assail, clinched his jaw and nodded his head.
“Oh, but I understand now, Chelsea. You do not want to hear a man speaking these words, correct? You wish to be taken seriously. You wish to be honored and observed and cherished and respected. Respected? HA! I scoff at this puerile notion, Chelsea. I scoff and I gag and I wean on my own tongue because I cannot cease the laughter any other way. You are the People’s Champion for one reason and one reason alone: Vagina.” The Godfather scolded the camera lens with his glare as if staring directly into the eyes of Chelsea Armstrong. “You want respect? Stop dressing like a street-walking whore. Stop slobbing the people’s knob so that you can win popularity contests and retain that meaningless tin-plated belt that you carry around.
“Once upon a time you had promise, Chelsea. You had potential. You had planted yourself some seedlings of credibility. You defeated a tough customer in John Barber to capture the WCF Television Championship, a championship that is near and dear to The Godfather’s heart, as I am a former Television Champion of the Year in my own right. I was proud of ya back then. Your problem, Chelsea, was that you abandoned your principles by joining S-PAC, the weakest band of anti-thickness heathens to ever walk this earth. You aligned yourself with Scott Savage, a Satan worshiping goon who believed that his merry band of midcard talent would somehow carry the day and become the most dominant group in wrestling history.
“Needless to say, Scott Savage was a fucking moron and you were his willing slave and pawn for lo those many months. Life hasn’t been quite the same since you subjected yourself to that humiliation, has it, Chelsea? You lost your marriage. You lost the respect that you had engendered from fans and colleagues alike. You lost face. You lost your sense of self, your sense of purpose. Now you’re hanging around with the lowest of the low, Jay Omega, Alexander Richards, Cormack MacNeill and Chase Michaels. Do you want to know how good Cormack MacNeill and Chase Michaels are? When The Thickness were scheduled to defend their Tag Team Championships at ONE last year, a battle royal was held to determine our opponents. Cormack and Chase competed in that battle royal. They lost to Jayden Thunder and Dez Angel.” Cairo shrugged his shoulders and furrowed his brow.
“Who and who? Exactly. By the way, the reason why we were scheduled to defend against those jobber battle royal winners was because your buddies in S-PAC, Waylon Cash, Benjamin Atreyu and John Gable ducked us. They ducked the rematch that they were entitled to after we defeated them to capture the Tag Team Titles. That’s the caliber of man and competitor that you’ve aligned yourself with, Chelsea. But you go ahead, girl. You keep telling yourself that you’re a bad bitch because you’ve banded together with the Four Horsejobbers and ambushed some washed up former World Champions on Slam. Fly, CD, Logan and Reb? Great names... if this weren’t WCF in two-thousand-fourteen.
"The past is the past, Chelsea. Let it die. Only Bobby Cairo is eternal. Only death is real. You want to see a murderer? Step into my world, Chelsea. Bring your goons if it'll make you strong, but understand that once you enter there is no exit, just a bottomless pit of despair and grief. I will drag you down." Cairo circled the perimeter of Percy's skull with the tip of his index finger. Cairo's lips were pursed, his demeanor nonplussed. He obviously was not in a good mood. Any sense of humor and appeasement about his person had been replaced with the wrath of a liar, genius, madman possessed. His eyes diverted from the camera lens, stared at the floor. "This is why you don't play the game, Chelsea. This is why you shuffle your feet and your body to the side. Make way for the man who don't care about cha. Part ways for The Godfather, little girl!"
Cairo screamed into the camera. His eyes balled with abject hatred. "That goes for you too, Omega! And you, Richards! Cormack! Chase! Attack me! Bring it on! Bring the WAR to Bobby Cairo's door!" Cairo sneered with disdain. "But you cannot, so you will not. You possess neither the skill nor the fortitude to challenge Bobby Cairo head-on. Ya dart, ya duck, ya hide. When Bobby Cairo enters the forum, you scatter like the sneaky little rats that you are. Omega, United States Champion, United States joke. Garbage title for a garbage wrestler. 'Oh, look at me, I'm Jay Omega, I have a hard head, I won't tap out, I bought an island so I could smoke pot without being harassed by The Man!' Oh, wow. Such a big boy, Omega. Such a defiant, young lad. You want a cookie? A pot laced cookie? A pot laced brownie?
"You want a pat on the back? Ya want some poon for the smashing? Nah, ya wouldn't know what to do with it. You bought an island to smoke pot? I staged a military coup and conquered an island because the leader of the country owed me money. Rest in peace, King Jimmy Dean. Will I be saying rest in peace to you after WAR, Omega? No, I will not. See, I hold you in even lower regard than Jimmy Dean. I didn't like ya when ya walked into the door and I won't like ya when I kick your ass to the curb. Oh, but pardon my southpaw grammar, Jay. I'm just a slack-jawed yokel. I'm not a refined gentleman of the world such as yourself. You came into WCF with quite a pedigree, former champion in American Championship Wrestling, among other accolades.
"I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt by assuming that you're the baddest motherfucker that American Championship Wrestling ever produced. I don't say that out of respect for your abilities. On the contrary, I say that because it spares me the burden of having to research your shitty career beyond the five seconds that it took me to skim your Wikipedia page. Do you know how I know that you suck? It's in the company that you keep, Jay. It's in the people that you associate yourself with. Men of talent, honor, refinement do not mingle with swine. You think that what you and Chelsea have is a power group, a power play, a bid for WCF domination?" Cairo shook his head in the negatory before leaning down to nuzzle Percy's ears with kissy-kissy lips.
After a few moments, Cairo turned his attention back to the camera. "What you have, Jay, is S-PAC lite. The Thickness destroyed S-PAC, and guess what? I won't even need Odin's help to destroy you and your crew. This is my light work, my fall cleaning. As the leaves turn orange, red and yellow and drop from the trees, only to be bagged and tossed to the curb, so too do the jobbers hit the mat at WAR. What do you say, Jay? Shall I bag you up?" Cairo smiled. The sense of giddiness had returned to his person. The megalomaniacal persona of the Poon Guinean leader was on full display. "As for the rest of your group, I have little to say, except for this: Still England's bitch after three hundred and seven years, eh, Cormack? Good for you. You won't have any problem assuming the position for The Godfather on Sunday night."
A bell could be heard ringing, a dinner bell. It diverted Cairo's attention from the camera. A transmission came in through an intercom speaker. "Your dinner is ready, Godfather!" It was the Barbadian-tinged voice of Bobby Cairo's First Lady, the pop superstar Rihanna.
Cairo nodded his head and smiled. "Excellent," he exclaimed. Cairo pursed his lips and kissed Percy II on the micro pig's head. "Looks like you've been spared by the First Lady once again, Percy. My opponents at WAR will not be so fortunate." The carnivorous Cairo rose to his feet, his future dinner still cradled in his arms, as he walked toward the door of his study and set off toward the dining hall.
A stiletto heel dangled from a negro goddess's pedicured foot beneath a long, oaken dining table. The mellifluous sound of plentiful banter filled the hall, constructing murderous plots and strategizing the demise of all who opposed the new world assassins. These assassins, world leaders among them, consisted of power brokers, the true power brokers that make the world turn: Vladdy Daddy Putin, the Russian Czar; Robert Ford, newly elected Canadian Prime Minister; Maurice Zangles, the King of Denmark; and the hosts of the momentous dinner at the Poon Guinea Governor's Mansion, that Cairo Compound, none other than Robert H. Cairo and his First Lady Rihanna.
Rihanna stretched her sultry legs and popped her heels back onto her feet before rising from her throne. She ever so sweetly asked the lads if they would care for dessert following their hearty meal. Putin declined; he had to watch that Herculean figure of his. Zangles, the fishstick kingpin, also declined, insisting that he didn't want to trouble the First Lady with such trivial matters. Robert Ford, Toronto Pimp and Maple Leaf Icon, eagerly accepted the First Lady's offer of dessert.
"I knew you would want dessert, Robert Ford," Rihanna playfully teased.
Ford blushed, his cheeks reddened. The Prime Minister sheepishly nodded his head. "You know me well, Madam First Lady. Also if there's any leftovers from those lobsterback ribs that we just ate, I'll take those too."
Rihanna collected the dinner plates from the Algonquin roundtable and placed them onto a silver cart. She shuttled the cart from the massive dining hall, which was decorated in ebony and ivory fixtures, crushed red velvet drapes and carpets, and the finest oaks and mahoganies that Poon Guinea's endangered rainforests had to offer. After the First Lady departed, the remaining dignitaries continued their discourse. Ford attempted to light a crackpipe, but he was dissuaded by Vladdy Daddy Putin, who swatted the crackpipe from Ford's blubberous mitt and coldcocked the Canadian in his jaw.
The sound thrashing that Ford received from Putin appeared to stimulate his heart and pulse. "Thank you, Vladdy," Ford appreciatively murmured.
"It is nothing, my fat friend," Putin replied.
Cairo mused at the antics of his comrades, but did not shift his focus from the business at hand. "Gentlemen, our coalition is righteous, unbreakable, devastating. Canada--" Cairo gestured toward Ford. "Russia--" Toward Putin. "Denmark--" Toward Zangles.
"Yes, my niggas, Misters Cairo!" The grammatically awkward Zangles clapped his hands excitedly, as the excessive quantity of alcohol that he had earlier consumed, that Poonglourious Whiskey, navigated through his bloodstream.
"We contain, within the circumference of our respective fingers and palms, the opportunity to stage a military coup that the world has never before witnessed-- but has long feared. Think about it, friends: Look at what is happening today, right now, at this very moment, in the Middle East and Northern Africa. Our friends ISIS are terrorizing the international community. Little does the international community know that we are the ones who are arming ISIS and that we have been for months? Hahaha!" Cairo cackled with glee as his cohorts joined in.
"Do you know what we say in Russia, Premier Cairo? We say, 'You never know what dark secrets someone is hiding. Not until you look them in their cold, dead eyes and tell them, 'I can see the devil inside ya, motherfucker.' That's when they give up the ghost.' Have you heard that saying before, Premier Cairo?"
Cairo stroked his massive beard with his butter coated digits and pondered Putin's query. "I have not, Senor Putin. I suspect that such words serve as foreshadowing, a warning to those are untrue to their scruples?"
"Indeed, Premier Cairo. Us Russians, we are-- how do you say? Ah yes. We are not about the bullshit. We are like the Poon Guineans, the Canadians, the Danes. We are a proud people, strong people, principled people, Premier Cairo. This menace, this Barry Oak menace in America, this Seth Lerch menace in Wrestling Championship Federation... it is horrible shit." Putin frowned as the words of dismay poured from his lips like gunshots to the skull of a Soviet traitor.
Cairo nodded his head in agreement. "I concur, Senor Putin. These are troubling times, yet I am encouraged by what I see among the bigger picture. Our might is in our strength. Our strength is in our moral aptitude. Our moral aptitude-- do you know where we find that, Senor Putin? We find it right here." Cairo slapped his right hand onto his heart and lifted his head to proudly set his sights upon the Poon Guinean flag that watched over the dining hall like a hawk, that Old Glory Hammer & Sickle with the Fifty Stars & Thirteen Bars. Oh what a proud sight it was to behold for the respective leaders of the mightiest coalition ever formulated in human history.
These grown men, grown men with big dicks, big dicks that commanded nations and armed forces, these grown men found themselves humbled by that Old Glory Poon Guinean flag, humbled in its wake, humbled by its majesty and aplomb. Robert Ford, Canadian Prime Minister, openly wept like a small child and that small child's doting and overly emotional mother. Ford would not be consoled, not even by the loving warmth of King Zangles' drunken embrace. "Hey, Robbies," Zangles offered, with his muscular arm wrapped around Ford's sternum. "It be OK, my friends! Don't worries-- we kick the Seth Lerches ass!"
"I know, I know, I know," Ford blubbered like the blubberous and blubbering buffoon that he was. "It's just so damn beautiful! I've seen--all due respect to you, Godfather, I've seen Rihanna's nigress poon and I thought it was the most beautiful sight that I had ever beheld. Thought it was the most beautiful sight that I had ever spanked this feisty slab of Canadian bacon that I call my 'Vanilla Godzilla' to," Ford noted as he patted the general vicinity of his cavernous groin. "But now Rihanna's negro goddess poon has been supplanted by that Old Glory Poon Guinean Flag, the banner of true communist freedom and liberty."
The four humbled world leaders swooned. They agreed that the war that was to be fought at WAR against Seth Lerch's forces, and around the world against Barry Oak's forces, must be won, could not be lost, for the fate of the free world depended upon its outcome. "We have brokered an understanding, gentlemen," Cairo declared. "We mustn't quibble over the minor details. What's mine is yours and what's yours is mine and the such and the like. The world is our oyster, and under our collective wisdom and guidance we will lead it to flourish for generations to come. We are a coalition of nations and ideologies. We represent communism, socialism, Scandinavian monarchism and Islamic fundamentalism. What do we share? A hunger for truth, liberty and justice, united under a single banner... that Old Glory Poon Guinean Flag."
Putin, Ford and Zangles eagerly nodded their heads in agreement with Cairo. The Poon Guinean Godfather had them precisely where he wanted them, snagged them hook, line and sinker, and they did not even know it. This was the fruit of Cairo's labor, the culmination of many months of work, the rationale behind the true reason for his decision to vacate his share of the WCF Tag Team Championship months earlier. Bobby Cairo had created his power group, a group that resonated far beyond the domain of Wrestling Championship Federation, yet a power group that could not exist without it.
WAR in Phoenix, Arizona would serve as the showcase for Robert Cairo's most prominent battle to date, and indeed his most prestigious victory. It would serve as the historical tipping point when the worldwide balance of power shifted away from the trappings of weakness, frailty and vulnerability, all the jobberisms that epitomized the WCF roster and Barry Oak's doomed military conquests, away from the meek and disavowed and toward the one global power that stood above all others: The thickness between Robert Cairo's legs as it smashed that poon spread bungalow called Earth.
"Histler! State your case! Why should you be spared The Godfather's wrath?"
Bobby Cairo's voice boomed like an air raid siren-- it was not chopping, nor halting, but rather STOUT, ELECTRIC and ZEALOUS. He directed his tone toward the reanimated Adolf Hitler, former German Chancellor, Fuhrer and all-around fucked-in-the-head shit-bag dictator of Nazi-era Germany.
"Mien Godfather, please! I-I-I--"
"Shut up, Histler! SHUT UP!"
Cairo slammed his demonically-guided fists upon the table as he barked his orders. He scowled. "Heathens! Heathens all of them! Think about it!" Cairo assailed his noggin with the point of his index finger before rising to his feet and circuiting the perimeter of the conference room.
Some might ask the question: Why reanimate the leader of the Third Reich? Just to browbeat him? There was more to it than that. Cairo reasoned that to prepare for WAR, or more precisely, to prepare for victory under such pretenses he must place himself into the mindset of a man who guided evil, ferocious, diabolical forces during the greatest war ever sold: WW2.
Cairo reasoned that he must pick Hitler's brain. He must, in no uncertain terms, become Hitler. That was... not an easy task for a half-Jew Uzbek-born firebrand such as Bobby Cairo. Cairo regarded himself as more than just the Governor of Poon Guinea. More than the Mayor of New York City. More than a WCF Hall of Famer. Cairo believed that he wielded indomitable power in his hands as the King of All Jews.
Cairo got right in Hitler's face. He scowled at Hitler. He relished these moments, savored making Das Fuhrer cower before him. Cairo taunted Hitler. "Not so powerful now, are ya," Cairo said. "Dog shit breath? Oh I'm sorry. That must be the smell of Eva Braun's pussy after seventy years of rotting in Hell."
Cairo smirked sardonically at Hitler. He wore a shit-eating grin. He dared Hitler to make a move. He feinted toward Hitler with his fist and Hitler flinched. "Pussy," Cairo said. "Straight up fascist pussy. I heard you only had one testicle, dog shit breath. I guess you lost that when Franklin Delano Rosenblatt and Joseph Stalinberger made you their bitch, eh, mien chapped ass?"
Who could've fathomed that a conference room at the Robert Backlund Memorial Howard Johnson Resort and Casino in downtown Poon Town, Poon Guinea would play host to such a spectacle? Why had Cairo chosen this locale to scold Hitler? Had he wanted Hitler to witness the newfangled power of communist commerce under Jew leadership?
The mind games never ended for a man such as Cairo. He taunted Hitler as he would taunt his rivals in Phoenix, Arizona before vanquishing them under the guise of WAR. He told himself this. Swore himself this. Jonny Fly? Cairo smirked. Cairo inhaled deeply, the smoky oxygen in the conference room rejuvenated his lungs, his veins, his entire facade.
"Jonny Fly," Cairo spoke the words to Hitler's ears, whispering them like mother to darling newborn. "Jonny Fly amuses me, Histler. Does he amuse you?"
Cairo retracted his cranium and locked eyes with the mass-murdering German. Hitler's glance was quizzical, pleading. Hitler was free to move about the room, unimpeded by shackles or bindings of any kind. Yet he was frozen to his seat. He never wanted to leave that seat. Hitler never wanted to rise to his feet and march that march of death that he had forced so many others to march. Cairo knew this. It was his greatest power play, his final solution.
Cairo outstretched his arms, reached into the pocket of his suit pants and pulled out a pack of Newport cigarettes. "We play games, Histler. We... we, uh, we--" Cairo wove his hand in a spiral pattern toward the ceiling, searching for his words. Above his outstretched hand, dust settled upon a florescent lighting tube, a tube which proved to be one among many. The fluorescent tubes hummed as they illuminated the room beneath them, hummed like Negro women picking cotton in the sweltering plantation fields of Mississippi.
A billowing cloud of smoke pooled from a Newport cigarette, settled into the room. Vapor coiled like a noose from the tip of the fag. Cairo clasped his hands. His face lit up as he puffed the rejuvenating menthol elixir from his cigarette.
"Ah yes," Cairo exclaimed. "We play games. We cast not so subtle rhetoric in the other man's direction, the opponent's direction. We--" Cairo pulled a chair from the conference table and placed it next to where Hitler was seated, spinning the chair so that the back faced Hitler. He sat down on the chair and gazed directly into Hitler's eyes, taking another drag from his Newport.
"We try to gain that advantage, Histler. I do not truly have to play such games any longer, Das Fuhrerkind. Men, as you can relate to, fear me. They fear me because I am not a man. I am not a monster. I am humankind's moral barometer. I am your... conscience, Histler. I am the things that you wish you could do when no one is looking."
Cairo stared blankly at the art deco paneling on the walls while delivering his monologue to the petrified dictator. He should've been more interested if ordering a sandwich, could've been, but Cairo did not have to look at Hitler to feel the fear that consumed the Kraut's very essence.
"I no longer need to speak a single word, Histler. I--" Cairo clicked his tongue inside of his mouth. He rolled his neck from side to side and took another puff on his Newport, exhaling the smoke slower than molasses crawls down a tree.
"I hurl accusatory tones because it brings me pleasure," The Godfather exclaimed. "I can pummel my foes with fists and feet, but surely any brute can accomplish such a task? It takes a wordsmith to crush a man's psyche with vocabulary, Histler. You attempted such things with your-- what was his name? Gerbils? Hahaha. Always the fool, Histler. You tried to strike that Godfather posture, but ya don't come close."
Cairo rose to his feet, pushed his chair under the table and patted Hitler on his shoulder. The Godfather's massive sideburns protruded from his cranium, framed like windmills at either side of his face. 'The Lord God of Justice and Gubbernator Thickness' Bobby Cairo was sowing his oats today. He felt the power that Hitler had felt seven decades earlier, but he felt so much more than that. Hitler had believed that he would conquer the world, believed that he held such incomparable glory within the prism of his hands. He was wrong.
Cairo understood greater things. He understood what it meant to savor the taste of another man's dead spirit and shattered dreams. When the man broke, when the man wept, Cairo should delight in the sweet nectar of that man's fear, his desperation, his hopelessness. Cairo dropped to his knees with a single, calamitous thud upon the carpeted floor. He was smiling from ear to ear, arms outreached, shoulders breaching the scope of his earlobes. Hitler was terrified.
Hitler lamented. He held within the scope of his mind a crisis of conscience. Had he made a mistake when he assailed the Jews, the gypsies, the handicapped, the homosexual, and all others that he deemed flawed perversions of the proper human reflection? "Why, oh, why," Hitler gushed, the tears welling in his eyes. "Why did I go against my value system? I killed so many. I broke the pact. Stalin--oh, Stalin, I am sorry, my friend."
Hitler, by now, had slumped into his seat. Cairo peered at the defeated Nazi. He observed the Fuhrer's bereaved frown and sullen eyes. Hitler reached for a kerchief in the breast pocket of his formal garb. Adolf blew snots and sniffles and curds and whey into the silk cloth and dabbed his tears. This was perhaps the strongest outpouring of emotion that anyone had witnessed from Hitler. Brave men, strong men, triumphant men... they are not so brave, strong and triumphant when placed in The Godfather's crosshairs.
Hitler babbled, cooing like a child, screaming like a madman, begging like the coward that he always was. He pleaded with Cairo for leniency while offering no particular reason as to why The Godfather should agree to such a proposal. Finally, Hitler stumbled upon a revelation that he believed could spare him from Cairo's wrath. "I can explain it all," Hitler desperately assured Cairo. "I've reconciled my present with my past, don't you see? I've learned from my mistakes!"
The Godfather was skeptical. "Oh? You have, have you? Tell me, Histler, what have you learned? Why shan't I murder you in the coldest of cold blood as you murdered my ancestors, you glutinous cretin?"
Hitler contemplated bounding to his feet but he quickly dismissed the notion, realizing that such furtive movement would result in his being promptly thrashed by Cairo. "I've learned that we are stronger together, mien Godfather! I've heard all about you, Mr. Bobby. I know your plans. I know that you aim to conquer the world. I know... I know of your dealings."
Cairo openly chuckled. He was amused by Hitler's attempts to negotiate, to strike a compromise. He viewed this as being akin to a condemned man attempting to bargain with his executioner. Nonetheless Cairo was interested in hearing what Hitler had to say. "By all means, Histler-- indulge me. Don't keep me waiting here with bated breath, my lad. I only hold your life in my hands, haha! If I get bored and my hands should slip--"
Cairo feigned strangling Hitler with his bare hands. Hitler was startled. Cairo was laughing, biding his time before making the final kill. Recognizing that his audience with The Godfather was drawing ever nearer to a close, Hitler opted to spill his guts in a last ditch ploy to save himself. "Don't you see, mien Godfather? Poon Guinea and Germany are the two most enlightened societies in the world, just as the Soviet Union and Germany were during my era! I should've never waged war between the two great cultures. Bobby, my friend, please, please, I beg of you..."
"Do not get on your knees, Adolf. It will be the last mistake you ever make. You cannot handle this thickness, not at your age."
"We can work together, consolidate our forces," Hitler murmured, his face expressionless and pale as a ghost. He realized that his pleas had fallen upon deaf ears. It was hopeless. If he had been unable to persuade The Godfather by now then it wasn't likely to happen. They had been here for hours, days perhaps. Hitler was uncertain of the time but he knew that the proverbial noose around his neck drew tighter with each passing moment.
Hitler's fear was palpable. He feared Bobby Cairo. He feared the half-Jewish son of a Jewish mother. He instantly regretted his power play in Third Reich Germany. Regretted all of the innocent lives that he had stolen and snuffed out. He realized what a fool he had been to think that he held the world in his hands. Only one man could accomplish such a feat: Robert H. Cairo. Hitler understood this truly and completely. He accepted it as fact, just as he accepted the fate to which he had been condemned.
The Godfather no longer appeared amused. Now he appeared annoyed, ill-tempered, frowning. Hitler's gambit had failed. Cairo's was merely beginning. The world would know malice. The world would become well acquainted with the mosquito that sucked it dry.
Cairo mused while placing his loafer clad feet onto the conference table inches away from Hitler's slumped noggin. "You compromised your ethics, Adolf. Much like Seth Lerch when he decided to suspend honorable and productive members of the WCF roster for policing the locker room against deplorable scoundrels." Cairo scowled. Those memories never faded. The degradation. The insult. The conniving. The stink of impropriety.
Cairo cracked his knuckles, his frown protruding so high upon his face that it nearly shuttered his eyelids. "Boo."
Hitler's head violently convulsed as if the construct of the universe had imploded upon itself. The Godfather had delivered an R-CAIRO through the conference table, the furniture promptly collapsing under the weight of their two bodies. Hitler was down and out, forehead bloodied, arms and legs strewn akimbo. His body would remain in this awkward, lurching form of stasis for untold hours, days perhaps. Hitler would never be certain of the time again. His soul had returned to Hades, condemned for eternity once more.
Cairo chuckled uproariously, delightedly, deliriously. He rose to his feet and brushed the dirt off his shoulder like a pimp. His plan was in motion. WAR would commence in mere days. More work was to be done, but this was a fine start. Killing Hitler is always a fine start, in The Godfather's book.
The bombastic post-punk sounds of David Byrne and his Talking Heads filled the room, a room with an opulent though tasteful decor. Crushed red velvet carpets with gold trim lined the floor. Massive, oaken bookcases sprawled as far as the eye could see, displaying a vast collection of literature from names as varied as Joyce, Homer, Marx, Shakespeare, Twain and Orwell. A crystal chandelier dangled in a not-so-precarious manner from the ceiling, a ceiling made of marble, ivory, ebony, gold and silver. This was a thinking man's room, a study for a very important man, a man who conspired to control the world. This was Robert H. Cairo's study at his home, the Governor's Mansion in Poon Guinea, known as the Cairo Compound.
The Godfather sat upon his blood red throne of death, posed, prim, proper, inhaling and exhaling with a delighted air about his person. He looked magnificent in his tailored suit, with his nails manicured, his long black hair slicked back into a proper mane, beard styled with exotic berries and oils. Cairo appeared giddy. He had abandoned his hydraulic wheelchair on the most recent episode of WCF Slam while planting WCF owner Seth Lerch in the middle of the ring with an R-CAIRO. He no longer had need for such a device. He was once again among the walking, among the conventionally able bodied-- only he was much more than that. The Godfather had embraced the bionic way of life, his body now constructed from combination of human flesh and bone and the cybernetic organic materials and circuitry that one might associate with Hollywood feature films such as The Terminator.
The Godfather, in no uncertain terms, was more human than human. He owed this envious position to a man of science, one of his Team Thickness teammates at XIII, Doctor Remus Micayle. Micayle, brilliant scientist that he is, operated on Cairo after the team's heinous and grueling bout at XIII against Pantheon, whence Cairo's body became crippled through the sheer physical punishment of the conflict. By now, Cairo had recovered from the surgery. He was stronger, stronger than ever before. Stronger than the bodies of the men whose skulls formed the base of his blood red throne of death. Stronger than all who walked the earth today. Stronger than his foes at WAR.
In due time those foes would succumb to Bobby, much like the crushed red velvet that cushioned The Godfather's ass cheeks, yielded to his manner. Cairo had a dream last night. He dreamed that he was competing in WAR against Jonny Fly, Jayson Price, Logan, Brent Alpine, Jay Omega, all the names, all the egos, all the stakes, all the claims. Cairo dreamed of the sweat, the blood, broken bones, vitriol, defeat and victory. He dreamed of agony, torment, deceit, all the things that made this world of malice in which we live keep on spinning. It was those feelings, the hate, the regret, the guilt, disassociation from reality that drove men-- not Cairo, per se, but weaker men. Cairo was amused by it all. He feasted upon the frailness, the vulnerability, but such flaws did not become him.
No, Cairo was a man of reasoned intellect and diabolical scheme, a man who wasted little time lamenting circumstance. Such is not the way of a man of action. Cairo attacked Seth Lerch at Slam because it was justice served for a malfeasance committed. Hitler was served his comeuppance in much the same manner. Cairo used these men to advance his own agenda-- Seth would grant Cairo formal permission to enter WAR; reanimated Hitler would dish dirt that would prepare Cairo's psyche to once again enter battle at WAR. These acts aided the means to Cairo's end, though they represented mere stepping stones in the plan that he had enacted.
Within his hands, strong, meaty Poon Guinean hands, Cairo held a large manila envelope marked with the words Magnum Opus: Liberation in black ink with a bold font. The envelope contained documents that outlined Cairo's scheme for global domination. Conquering Poon Guinea one year ago was merely the first step in Cairo's master plan. He had established a home base of operations. Now the time had come to expand upon his sphere of dominion. He patted the folder, hugged it, tucked it into his suit jacket and nodded his head in affirmation of the misdeeds to be committed and the damage to be inflicted.
Cairo's eyes scanned the room. He observed the surveillance cameras that he had set up in his quarters to monitor a litany of activities: thievery, betrayal, sexual intercourse. The cameras perpetually observed all who entered the scope of their ever watchful eyes, their red glow reminiscent of HAL in 2001: A Space Odyssey. The cameras served an additional purpose: They recorded The Godfather when he had shit to spit regarding any topic that should enter his brain; budget proposals, speeches to be aired to the Poon Guinea populace, taunts directed at his opponents inside of the wrestling ring, even love messages for his First Lady Rihanna.
There would be no love messages today. Cairo was in the mindset of a competitor. He was in the mindset of a conqueror, a destroyer, a liberator-- if only to liberate the weak from the burden of their existence. Cairo flashed a smirk into the camera that was positioned directly in front of his throne. His demeanor oozed arrogant superiority. He held his foes in lower regard than a booger that he should pick from his nose and flick onto an oft tread upon city sidewalk. Still, he craved amusement, craved entertainment. He enjoyed scaring people. He enjoyed playing the bully, the intimidator. It was hardly a gimmick; for The Godfather it was a lifestyle.
"Cowardice, cowardice everywhere, as far as the eye can see," Cairo exclaimed while staring into the camera lens. "Why does WCF disappoint me so? Why is it that I can't get my dick hard from any match outside of these specialty concepts that we run? I did XIII. Got my rocks off. Now it's on to WAR. The week to week grind does not entertain me. Does not amuse me. Does not hold my attention. So many dipshits in this company today. Even the men that I thought could be competitive have fallen into the squalor of mediocrity. Brent Alpine-- please." Cairo scoffs.
"What a joke that man has become. I thought Alpine would accomplish great things in WCF, if only during my absence from the company. I had him tabbed as a true superstar of the future. As it turns out he's just another confused and butthurt chump spinning his wheels, throwing dung at the wall, trying to see what sticks. This is what happens when you play the role of soft man. That dick that you should be popping pussies with turns into a vagina. Brent Alpine, I will devour your soul at WAR. You will not be seen again in WCF, I can promise you that. When you stoke the fires of The Godfather, when you make things personal, you live and die to regret it. Twiddle your thumbs, Brenty Wenty. Twiddle your thumbs and shove them up your ass because that will serve as a mere prelude of the ass poon smashing that you have coming your way in Phoenix, Arizona."
Cairo stroked the head of the pig that he had groomed to replace Percy Micro, dubbed Percy Micro II. Cairo smiled, knowing that he was cradling a future pork chop dinner in his arms. Yes, the King of All Jews eats pork. That is hardly the only rule that Cairo defies.
"The city of Phoenix. Such a beautiful, beautiful town. Home to the wealthy, the elite, the primed and primmed power players, all of them, the best of them, the best that the state of Arizona has to offer. Beautiful women wearing hardly a stitch of clothing, tantalizing The Godfather's thickness. Oh yes, I do love thee, Phoenix. This is not The Godfather's first jaunt to your mecca. It's not even the first time that I've competed at WAR in Phoenix. One year ago," The Godfather held up a single finger. "One year ago I competed in WAR in your beautiful city and do you know what happened?"
Cairo exhaled in a depressive sigh, though his deflated demeanor quickly gave way to the largest, most deranged looking smile that The Godfather had mustered in days. "I fell a little bit short of victory. Damn you, Jonny Fly! Haha! The truth is though-- things worked out better for me that way. See, I would've become World Champion if I won WAR last year, but I would've been deprived of the opportunity of conquering and dominating the tag team division as one half of the greatest tag team in WCF history, The Thickness. When you are The Godfather, every disappointment, every shortcoming, every failure is met with a stronger, more powerful, more resilient, and entirely cataclysmic triumph. I don't suffer the consequences when I lose... my opponents do.
"That's why I don't look at last year's defeat at WAR as a reason to be ashamed. I became stronger as a result of that match. Stronger than I had ever been before. And now? I'm stronger than I was then. Jonny Fly, you are weaker than you were last year. You are weaker than you were when you won WAR. You are weaker than you were when you reigned as World Champion following your victory at WAR. You're a shell of your former self, Jonny. You've been a shell since you dropped that WCF World Championship to Steve Orbit at Timebomb. You didn't even have the guts to compete against me and my Team Thickness at XIII, Jonny. A thumb injury? That's what kept you out of XIII? Well, I hope you don't sprain your vagina between now and Sunday night, Mr. Fly. I wouldn't want to be deprived of my opportunity to officially end your reign as the WAR winner."
Cairo cast snide diversions of humor, smiles, comedic rhetoric with his lips, his jaw, the jaw gaping and then uplifted. Cairo was not a man who took kindly to the Jonny Fly's of the world, men that he viewed as being defined by an inflated sense of ego who could not live up to their own hype.
"I want you to understand something, Jonny. I want you to understand that I'm not going to beat you as revenge for being eliminated by you at WAR last year. I'm not going to beat you because of your name, your reputation, petty reasons of jealousy. I'm going to beat you because I'm a better wrestler, a better man and a more tireless and indefatigable competitor. When I hurt you, you're going to cry. You're going to drop to your knees and you're going to beg, Jonny. When you do, I'll warn you. I'll tell you, 'Don't suck that thickness. Don't suck it unless you're ready to part from this mortal world and meet Jam Willy Hey-Zeus.' Will you suck it, Jonny? Will you suck it when you realize that I'm your God and maker? I control your life within my hands, Jonny. I control your career. You've got some hard, HARD decisions to make between now and Sunday night, boy."
Cairo hugged Percy Micro II. He lifted the micro pig to his lips and placed a kiss upon the pig's noggin. Cairo's black heart coursed with emotions, none of them sentimental, driven by rage, fueled by knowledge of the grievous acts that he would soon commit.
“Life is beautiful, my friends. I sit here upon my throne as the king of the world, the god of all that I survey. I smile, I laugh. I know that I cannot lose. I hear foolish chatter from fat idiots, retards of this world, jealous and debunked ramblings from members of the former power group Pantheon, power plays by Chelsea Armstrong and her fledgling group of do-gooders. Chelsea Armstrong, didn’t you know that murder is a man’s game, baby doll? Didn’t you know that girls, girls like you have pussies, pussies for fucking and sucking and goading and coaxing all of this hot warm sperm from the thickness? Ohhhh--” The Godfather halted his assail, clinched his jaw and nodded his head.
“Oh, but I understand now, Chelsea. You do not want to hear a man speaking these words, correct? You wish to be taken seriously. You wish to be honored and observed and cherished and respected. Respected? HA! I scoff at this puerile notion, Chelsea. I scoff and I gag and I wean on my own tongue because I cannot cease the laughter any other way. You are the People’s Champion for one reason and one reason alone: Vagina.” The Godfather scolded the camera lens with his glare as if staring directly into the eyes of Chelsea Armstrong. “You want respect? Stop dressing like a street-walking whore. Stop slobbing the people’s knob so that you can win popularity contests and retain that meaningless tin-plated belt that you carry around.
“Once upon a time you had promise, Chelsea. You had potential. You had planted yourself some seedlings of credibility. You defeated a tough customer in John Barber to capture the WCF Television Championship, a championship that is near and dear to The Godfather’s heart, as I am a former Television Champion of the Year in my own right. I was proud of ya back then. Your problem, Chelsea, was that you abandoned your principles by joining S-PAC, the weakest band of anti-thickness heathens to ever walk this earth. You aligned yourself with Scott Savage, a Satan worshiping goon who believed that his merry band of midcard talent would somehow carry the day and become the most dominant group in wrestling history.
“Needless to say, Scott Savage was a fucking moron and you were his willing slave and pawn for lo those many months. Life hasn’t been quite the same since you subjected yourself to that humiliation, has it, Chelsea? You lost your marriage. You lost the respect that you had engendered from fans and colleagues alike. You lost face. You lost your sense of self, your sense of purpose. Now you’re hanging around with the lowest of the low, Jay Omega, Alexander Richards, Cormack MacNeill and Chase Michaels. Do you want to know how good Cormack MacNeill and Chase Michaels are? When The Thickness were scheduled to defend their Tag Team Championships at ONE last year, a battle royal was held to determine our opponents. Cormack and Chase competed in that battle royal. They lost to Jayden Thunder and Dez Angel.” Cairo shrugged his shoulders and furrowed his brow.
“Who and who? Exactly. By the way, the reason why we were scheduled to defend against those jobber battle royal winners was because your buddies in S-PAC, Waylon Cash, Benjamin Atreyu and John Gable ducked us. They ducked the rematch that they were entitled to after we defeated them to capture the Tag Team Titles. That’s the caliber of man and competitor that you’ve aligned yourself with, Chelsea. But you go ahead, girl. You keep telling yourself that you’re a bad bitch because you’ve banded together with the Four Horsejobbers and ambushed some washed up former World Champions on Slam. Fly, CD, Logan and Reb? Great names... if this weren’t WCF in two-thousand-fourteen.
"The past is the past, Chelsea. Let it die. Only Bobby Cairo is eternal. Only death is real. You want to see a murderer? Step into my world, Chelsea. Bring your goons if it'll make you strong, but understand that once you enter there is no exit, just a bottomless pit of despair and grief. I will drag you down." Cairo circled the perimeter of Percy's skull with the tip of his index finger. Cairo's lips were pursed, his demeanor nonplussed. He obviously was not in a good mood. Any sense of humor and appeasement about his person had been replaced with the wrath of a liar, genius, madman possessed. His eyes diverted from the camera lens, stared at the floor. "This is why you don't play the game, Chelsea. This is why you shuffle your feet and your body to the side. Make way for the man who don't care about cha. Part ways for The Godfather, little girl!"
Cairo screamed into the camera. His eyes balled with abject hatred. "That goes for you too, Omega! And you, Richards! Cormack! Chase! Attack me! Bring it on! Bring the WAR to Bobby Cairo's door!" Cairo sneered with disdain. "But you cannot, so you will not. You possess neither the skill nor the fortitude to challenge Bobby Cairo head-on. Ya dart, ya duck, ya hide. When Bobby Cairo enters the forum, you scatter like the sneaky little rats that you are. Omega, United States Champion, United States joke. Garbage title for a garbage wrestler. 'Oh, look at me, I'm Jay Omega, I have a hard head, I won't tap out, I bought an island so I could smoke pot without being harassed by The Man!' Oh, wow. Such a big boy, Omega. Such a defiant, young lad. You want a cookie? A pot laced cookie? A pot laced brownie?
"You want a pat on the back? Ya want some poon for the smashing? Nah, ya wouldn't know what to do with it. You bought an island to smoke pot? I staged a military coup and conquered an island because the leader of the country owed me money. Rest in peace, King Jimmy Dean. Will I be saying rest in peace to you after WAR, Omega? No, I will not. See, I hold you in even lower regard than Jimmy Dean. I didn't like ya when ya walked into the door and I won't like ya when I kick your ass to the curb. Oh, but pardon my southpaw grammar, Jay. I'm just a slack-jawed yokel. I'm not a refined gentleman of the world such as yourself. You came into WCF with quite a pedigree, former champion in American Championship Wrestling, among other accolades.
"I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt by assuming that you're the baddest motherfucker that American Championship Wrestling ever produced. I don't say that out of respect for your abilities. On the contrary, I say that because it spares me the burden of having to research your shitty career beyond the five seconds that it took me to skim your Wikipedia page. Do you know how I know that you suck? It's in the company that you keep, Jay. It's in the people that you associate yourself with. Men of talent, honor, refinement do not mingle with swine. You think that what you and Chelsea have is a power group, a power play, a bid for WCF domination?" Cairo shook his head in the negatory before leaning down to nuzzle Percy's ears with kissy-kissy lips.
After a few moments, Cairo turned his attention back to the camera. "What you have, Jay, is S-PAC lite. The Thickness destroyed S-PAC, and guess what? I won't even need Odin's help to destroy you and your crew. This is my light work, my fall cleaning. As the leaves turn orange, red and yellow and drop from the trees, only to be bagged and tossed to the curb, so too do the jobbers hit the mat at WAR. What do you say, Jay? Shall I bag you up?" Cairo smiled. The sense of giddiness had returned to his person. The megalomaniacal persona of the Poon Guinean leader was on full display. "As for the rest of your group, I have little to say, except for this: Still England's bitch after three hundred and seven years, eh, Cormack? Good for you. You won't have any problem assuming the position for The Godfather on Sunday night."
A bell could be heard ringing, a dinner bell. It diverted Cairo's attention from the camera. A transmission came in through an intercom speaker. "Your dinner is ready, Godfather!" It was the Barbadian-tinged voice of Bobby Cairo's First Lady, the pop superstar Rihanna.
Cairo nodded his head and smiled. "Excellent," he exclaimed. Cairo pursed his lips and kissed Percy II on the micro pig's head. "Looks like you've been spared by the First Lady once again, Percy. My opponents at WAR will not be so fortunate." The carnivorous Cairo rose to his feet, his future dinner still cradled in his arms, as he walked toward the door of his study and set off toward the dining hall.
A stiletto heel dangled from a negro goddess's pedicured foot beneath a long, oaken dining table. The mellifluous sound of plentiful banter filled the hall, constructing murderous plots and strategizing the demise of all who opposed the new world assassins. These assassins, world leaders among them, consisted of power brokers, the true power brokers that make the world turn: Vladdy Daddy Putin, the Russian Czar; Robert Ford, newly elected Canadian Prime Minister; Maurice Zangles, the King of Denmark; and the hosts of the momentous dinner at the Poon Guinea Governor's Mansion, that Cairo Compound, none other than Robert H. Cairo and his First Lady Rihanna.
Rihanna stretched her sultry legs and popped her heels back onto her feet before rising from her throne. She ever so sweetly asked the lads if they would care for dessert following their hearty meal. Putin declined; he had to watch that Herculean figure of his. Zangles, the fishstick kingpin, also declined, insisting that he didn't want to trouble the First Lady with such trivial matters. Robert Ford, Toronto Pimp and Maple Leaf Icon, eagerly accepted the First Lady's offer of dessert.
"I knew you would want dessert, Robert Ford," Rihanna playfully teased.
Ford blushed, his cheeks reddened. The Prime Minister sheepishly nodded his head. "You know me well, Madam First Lady. Also if there's any leftovers from those lobsterback ribs that we just ate, I'll take those too."
Rihanna collected the dinner plates from the Algonquin roundtable and placed them onto a silver cart. She shuttled the cart from the massive dining hall, which was decorated in ebony and ivory fixtures, crushed red velvet drapes and carpets, and the finest oaks and mahoganies that Poon Guinea's endangered rainforests had to offer. After the First Lady departed, the remaining dignitaries continued their discourse. Ford attempted to light a crackpipe, but he was dissuaded by Vladdy Daddy Putin, who swatted the crackpipe from Ford's blubberous mitt and coldcocked the Canadian in his jaw.
The sound thrashing that Ford received from Putin appeared to stimulate his heart and pulse. "Thank you, Vladdy," Ford appreciatively murmured.
"It is nothing, my fat friend," Putin replied.
Cairo mused at the antics of his comrades, but did not shift his focus from the business at hand. "Gentlemen, our coalition is righteous, unbreakable, devastating. Canada--" Cairo gestured toward Ford. "Russia--" Toward Putin. "Denmark--" Toward Zangles.
"Yes, my niggas, Misters Cairo!" The grammatically awkward Zangles clapped his hands excitedly, as the excessive quantity of alcohol that he had earlier consumed, that Poonglourious Whiskey, navigated through his bloodstream.
"We contain, within the circumference of our respective fingers and palms, the opportunity to stage a military coup that the world has never before witnessed-- but has long feared. Think about it, friends: Look at what is happening today, right now, at this very moment, in the Middle East and Northern Africa. Our friends ISIS are terrorizing the international community. Little does the international community know that we are the ones who are arming ISIS and that we have been for months? Hahaha!" Cairo cackled with glee as his cohorts joined in.
"Do you know what we say in Russia, Premier Cairo? We say, 'You never know what dark secrets someone is hiding. Not until you look them in their cold, dead eyes and tell them, 'I can see the devil inside ya, motherfucker.' That's when they give up the ghost.' Have you heard that saying before, Premier Cairo?"
Cairo stroked his massive beard with his butter coated digits and pondered Putin's query. "I have not, Senor Putin. I suspect that such words serve as foreshadowing, a warning to those are untrue to their scruples?"
"Indeed, Premier Cairo. Us Russians, we are-- how do you say? Ah yes. We are not about the bullshit. We are like the Poon Guineans, the Canadians, the Danes. We are a proud people, strong people, principled people, Premier Cairo. This menace, this Barry Oak menace in America, this Seth Lerch menace in Wrestling Championship Federation... it is horrible shit." Putin frowned as the words of dismay poured from his lips like gunshots to the skull of a Soviet traitor.
Cairo nodded his head in agreement. "I concur, Senor Putin. These are troubling times, yet I am encouraged by what I see among the bigger picture. Our might is in our strength. Our strength is in our moral aptitude. Our moral aptitude-- do you know where we find that, Senor Putin? We find it right here." Cairo slapped his right hand onto his heart and lifted his head to proudly set his sights upon the Poon Guinean flag that watched over the dining hall like a hawk, that Old Glory Hammer & Sickle with the Fifty Stars & Thirteen Bars. Oh what a proud sight it was to behold for the respective leaders of the mightiest coalition ever formulated in human history.
These grown men, grown men with big dicks, big dicks that commanded nations and armed forces, these grown men found themselves humbled by that Old Glory Poon Guinean flag, humbled in its wake, humbled by its majesty and aplomb. Robert Ford, Canadian Prime Minister, openly wept like a small child and that small child's doting and overly emotional mother. Ford would not be consoled, not even by the loving warmth of King Zangles' drunken embrace. "Hey, Robbies," Zangles offered, with his muscular arm wrapped around Ford's sternum. "It be OK, my friends! Don't worries-- we kick the Seth Lerches ass!"
"I know, I know, I know," Ford blubbered like the blubberous and blubbering buffoon that he was. "It's just so damn beautiful! I've seen--all due respect to you, Godfather, I've seen Rihanna's nigress poon and I thought it was the most beautiful sight that I had ever beheld. Thought it was the most beautiful sight that I had ever spanked this feisty slab of Canadian bacon that I call my 'Vanilla Godzilla' to," Ford noted as he patted the general vicinity of his cavernous groin. "But now Rihanna's negro goddess poon has been supplanted by that Old Glory Poon Guinean Flag, the banner of true communist freedom and liberty."
The four humbled world leaders swooned. They agreed that the war that was to be fought at WAR against Seth Lerch's forces, and around the world against Barry Oak's forces, must be won, could not be lost, for the fate of the free world depended upon its outcome. "We have brokered an understanding, gentlemen," Cairo declared. "We mustn't quibble over the minor details. What's mine is yours and what's yours is mine and the such and the like. The world is our oyster, and under our collective wisdom and guidance we will lead it to flourish for generations to come. We are a coalition of nations and ideologies. We represent communism, socialism, Scandinavian monarchism and Islamic fundamentalism. What do we share? A hunger for truth, liberty and justice, united under a single banner... that Old Glory Poon Guinean Flag."
Putin, Ford and Zangles eagerly nodded their heads in agreement with Cairo. The Poon Guinean Godfather had them precisely where he wanted them, snagged them hook, line and sinker, and they did not even know it. This was the fruit of Cairo's labor, the culmination of many months of work, the rationale behind the true reason for his decision to vacate his share of the WCF Tag Team Championship months earlier. Bobby Cairo had created his power group, a group that resonated far beyond the domain of Wrestling Championship Federation, yet a power group that could not exist without it.
WAR in Phoenix, Arizona would serve as the showcase for Robert Cairo's most prominent battle to date, and indeed his most prestigious victory. It would serve as the historical tipping point when the worldwide balance of power shifted away from the trappings of weakness, frailty and vulnerability, all the jobberisms that epitomized the WCF roster and Barry Oak's doomed military conquests, away from the meek and disavowed and toward the one global power that stood above all others: The thickness between Robert Cairo's legs as it smashed that poon spread bungalow called Earth.
