Post by Zombie DankMorris on Sept 27, 2014 20:59:22 GMT -5
The sky was clear. Devoid of clouds, haze, airplanes and contrails. There were no birds, no rainbows; there were no hopes or dreams. The only thing in the sky this day, the sun and its cosmic rays. Below Father Sky was Mother Earth, sustained by patriarchal bread winnings of radiation trapped in a web of atmospheric matrimony.
Marriage is a trap, foo'! Don't chu be list-nin to that Thickness preach? Nah son, ain't nobody listen to that Thickness before it be too damn late. Shee-itt.
The Sun hangs alone in that large blue sky, looking down upon the Earth, reflecting on reasons why. “Why do I stay and why do I try?” It ponders. It warms the fields and helps devices charge iPods and iPads so that Roy Speede and Catsy can fap to cat pics on the U-Tubez. The Sun starts to sob with solar flares, looking back upon its former greatness like a beaten defeated man, lamenting on four touchdowns in one game, now resigned to selling women's shoes.
“People down there, they used to fear me, revere me! REVERE ME DAMN IT! Now the only one that fears me is that Odin Balfore guy. I know it's you!” shouts the Sun, monologuing to itself. Nobody can hear its depressed and suicidal thoughts in space, finger on that super nova button, right next to that Denmark destroy button. “I know it's you in that dress! You ain't foolin' me! You're the only seven foot tall Nordic chick with a drunken tattoo of a Chinese dragon on your arm!”
The Sun reaches for that self-destruct button but it's broken. IKEA ain't good for shit. The Sun will just have to do this Bud Dwyer, Hardcore! Pistol's in the mouth, that finger's on the trigger. A once proud being has looked upon all of its years of success and sees the culmination of its toil and labor. NO, this won't do. The Sun was a Bad Motha Fucka back in the day. Back when Pluto and ICE Beckman were not yet twinkles in its eye. Back when Torture was a relevant name and Gravedigger was Champion. Back before when if you fucked with Bobby Cairo you got, GOT. There is a lot, a lot of 'befores,' far too many to count.
The Sun knew this, it sensed this so it's been trying to reinvent itself. With that reinvention it has seen three of the absolute worst title defenses in its history and nothing to show for its longevity. It was those, “good ol' days.” Now all the Sun has to show for its effort are two shitty pastors, two Jews, the latter of which effeminate, and Jayson Fucking Price. It's really enough to commit justifiable suicide. The gun's in the mouth and the hammer is cocked. However, as the Sun looks down, to take a final look at its intermingling of shame and pride, it notices a redeemer in the field. It spies a soul amongst the unborn and a Honey Badger amongst the BB-dubs.
Cue that title sequence, Tarantino.
The Evil Incarnate strolls leisurely through an expanse of grapevines. This vineyard ran for acres. It ran for miles and it just didn't stop. He walked in and out of the vines effortlessly and it gave the Sun hope that finally there was a man who gets it. Dressed in that classic grunge attire, hair matted with grease, dirt and disease. Those grapes were ripe for the pickin'. Waitin to be plucked. They be waitin to be pulled from the stem, to be washed, pampered, crushed and fermented. They were waiting to be turned into something better than what they were. The Evil Incarnate held them softly in his hands, admiring each globe as if each was a world unto its own. Only the best will do.
Only the best.
Upon seeing this, the Sun removes the gun from its celestial mouth and returns the hammer to its resting position. There might be help after all. Down in the vineyard, The Evil Incarnate continues to walk and inspect grapes suitable for processing.
ZMAC: So many. So many clamor for a chance, a chance to be warmed by the Sun. To be kissed and blessed. To be called upon. There are many grapes in WCF, many men who want to be on top- many who need it. They covet it with prejudice and greedy hands and lying eyes. There are hundreds of thousands of grapes each with a million wishes. If only that were true.
The Evil Incarnate stirs up quite a chuckle.
ZMAC: If only that were true. You see, the greatest battle in the life of the grape is to see who is among who, the jam to the wine? The jam to the wine? Or-who will roast in the sun- a raisin, an afterthought. There are many raisins in WCF. There are many afterthoughts, but only a select few make it off the vine and into jam- into that moderate success, and fewer still become the wine. WAR happens to be one of those many battles where everyone gets to stand up and say “I- oh yes, I!” But those damn white grapes, without color, passion, drive or originality, don't know that struggle that the red grape must endure. It must be the correct shape. It must be the correct size. It must please the ever watchful eye of the sun, and its sheen must shine and glint and glimmer as rose colored gold. Only a handful become wine. Only a handful become Merlot.
There must be some of you out there who are saying “that ZMAC has lost his damn mind. Talking about raisins like that man ever ate fruit a day in his life.” These are incomplex thoughts of the masses, of the grapes that are not destined to be wine, and they knew it the day they saw the Sun shinin'. Let us peek a glimpse at those who are to wither on the vine, to be pecked at by the crows and eaten by the insects. Names like Gonzo, Kaz, Al-Reb, BioWalker and Randall Kash. Unsuspecting suspects, victims of their own ignorant claims. They know what they said and I dare not repeat the ramblings of those who shall never make it. The White to the Red, the struggle be not known.
The Evil Incarnate throws out his arms and looks to the sky.
ZMAC: But Oh! Preacher man! Preacher man! Send me a sign! Shall I be joyous or shall I be damned!? There are few things in life, worse than the ignorant ramblings of the unwashed masses, begging for a handout and THAT is of men who pass judgement unto others and unto themselves without due cause or process. Men like Steel Toe, Jayson Omega, Johnathon Fly and Livewire. Holier than thou. “Better than you and better than me.”
The Evil Incarnate looks back, straight ahead, cocking his head with a sickening POP of his vertebrae.
ZMAC: These men all exist BECAUSE of the very person you see before you. Tell me something, Joe, tell us all something. What do you plan to do with that World Title when you win it? Because you sure as hell cannot defend it. You can't even defend yourself against the balding and the portly on the keyboard. And you, of all people, wish to become World Champion? Is there not a circle of Hell just for people like that? The liars, the cheats, the con men and the despots? I would imagine so- Joseph.
The eyes of The Evil Incarnate grow wide, wild and fiery as he continues to speak.
ZMAC: And what of you, Omega? How many easy rides do you think you'll get on top? After all, you could barely walk out of your match with me, this coked up street urchin that every one seems to believe me to be. How many WAR matches do you think you can win with an inflated self image that had to be carried in a six-man tag team match by VK? That US belt don't make you a power player in WCF- sittin on your island smoking up your disillusioned utopian views, will not make you a power player and yet you'll relish that moderate success. A concord grape among concord grapes.
Then there is Johnathon Fly, a man only to be named in this group and not those that follow because, once in a while, bad grapes get their day and Johnathon has had many “Days.” Many spoon fed events that try and call upon his greatness as a figure above the rest. Look into these eyes, Johnathon. This is a man unimpressed. This is a man who will not back down, submit or cower because your name carries weight to others. While you have that experience to come with a heavy fist, you ultimately lack: You lack the freedom. You live inside that cage, Johnathon. You live inside four walls and a roof. A hyper inflated circle of trust where no bad can happen.
The Evil Incarnate begins to laugh again.
ZMAC: Well it just did. You see, you are a man who cares. You are a man who needs, wants and desires. Your finger is on the pulse because it needs to be there.
The Evil Incarnate puts two fingers on his wrist to check the pulse that isn't there from the heart that stopped beating ages ago.
ZMAC: You need to feel that pulse. You need everybody buzzing over you and if you don't get your way, as children do, you throw your soft handed tantrums, wrapped up in your “No fucks to give.” Yet men like you- I know men like you. I've seen men like you over the ages and men like you, Johnathon, never change. Johnathon is nothing without a prop to hold him up because he cannot stand on his own. You are the outermost grape who rests knowing the others hold him up, thus bettering his chances of being plucked and picked for harvest. That is where you fall into the other group. The Gravediggers, the Tortures- the Robert Cairos of WCF who just can't let go.
It's a mortal flaw and I understand that. No longer do I empathize with it, yet I understand it. Everybody wants! Wants! Wants! Wants! They need to take, take, take! Men with four walls like mansions need to build ever higher and higher. Hall of Fame, they need -
The Evil Incarnate holds his hand up high, fingers spread wide.
- five more minutes of fame but what is fame when there is no passion to drive it? Your times have all come and past and yet let's plug the nostalgic because one day, long ago somebody meant something. Dirt is a feast for worms, yet men trample it when they look for the grapes. The grapes suck dry the dirt as they try and shine up to win that prize. They swell and grow fat off the blood, sweat and tears of the fallen. So why do the fallen return? Is this meant to be a triumph of gargantuan proportions? Is Torture going to make the faithful return? Is Gravedigger going to strike down foes with vengeance? Or- or is Robert Cairo going to get off his crippled ass and put in an honest day's work for once in his life? Oh yes, Robert, I cultivate the madness. At one time, you and I, but now there is no more. And before you declare with all the fiber in your being these fantastic stories and adventures just take a look at where the better of our angels sit. Where are you compared to I?
A knife in the back, Robert, is better than a band-aid to the front. I will not sugar coat it, I will not seal it with cryptic language or puns. I am not here to play these games with you or anyone else in WCF. The Evil Incarnate has risen by merit from lowest of low and freest of the free to commander, founder, leader of the most influential organization in recent history. I am in a unique position that nobody thought I would be in and yet here I am. Here I stand because I am- FREE. I see the golden ring that you all try to grasp and I spit on it because gold will lose its luster and no good deed goes unpunished. I am not a used up grape, ready to be milked and squandered to be made into wine. The Vapor Kings are the Merlot of the Merlot. We are the Champions of the Champions. It is this Sunday Night at WAR when the Vapor Kings do that they do best and it is in this WAR match, WAR Thirteen where Zombie McMorris, the one man no one thought would ever be where he is today- goes one step beyond and gains that shot at ICE Beckman's title.
Vincent has a good eye, I will give him that. A loving soul- well, that is subjective. What is not subjective- what is beyond question is that I stand a free man sentient in my being walking among the grapes. All of you have to grow and struggle and try and push your way. While I just walk on by and pluck you away from that very greatness you try and achieve. The Vapor King Movement has washed over the WCF, like pesticide. WCF- WCF, enjoy it while you have it, your moments in the Sun, because Sunday Night when dreamers wake up from their nightmares and legends fall into fantasy as giants try and reclaim what they need to survive, Zombie McMorris will be there. The Vapor Kings will be there. To shit can, cinderblock each and every guy who crosses those ropes. To murder with the axe wound, everyone who's attempted to put me in the very same box they force themselves to live in. War Thirteen is when things change and the mold gets broken because the one thing that hasn't been counted on is the same thing that's been counted out: When it comes down to me and whoever- I versus they, they versus forever- eternity- a curb stomp takes care of all who dare to stand up and get in my way. Zombie McMorris- WAR winner.
The Evil Incarnate reaches over and plucks off a handful of grapes from a nearby vine and pops them into his mouth, one by one.
Conquer. The. Hate.
Marriage is a trap, foo'! Don't chu be list-nin to that Thickness preach? Nah son, ain't nobody listen to that Thickness before it be too damn late. Shee-itt.
The Sun hangs alone in that large blue sky, looking down upon the Earth, reflecting on reasons why. “Why do I stay and why do I try?” It ponders. It warms the fields and helps devices charge iPods and iPads so that Roy Speede and Catsy can fap to cat pics on the U-Tubez. The Sun starts to sob with solar flares, looking back upon its former greatness like a beaten defeated man, lamenting on four touchdowns in one game, now resigned to selling women's shoes.
“People down there, they used to fear me, revere me! REVERE ME DAMN IT! Now the only one that fears me is that Odin Balfore guy. I know it's you!” shouts the Sun, monologuing to itself. Nobody can hear its depressed and suicidal thoughts in space, finger on that super nova button, right next to that Denmark destroy button. “I know it's you in that dress! You ain't foolin' me! You're the only seven foot tall Nordic chick with a drunken tattoo of a Chinese dragon on your arm!”
The Sun reaches for that self-destruct button but it's broken. IKEA ain't good for shit. The Sun will just have to do this Bud Dwyer, Hardcore! Pistol's in the mouth, that finger's on the trigger. A once proud being has looked upon all of its years of success and sees the culmination of its toil and labor. NO, this won't do. The Sun was a Bad Motha Fucka back in the day. Back when Pluto and ICE Beckman were not yet twinkles in its eye. Back when Torture was a relevant name and Gravedigger was Champion. Back before when if you fucked with Bobby Cairo you got, GOT. There is a lot, a lot of 'befores,' far too many to count.
The Sun knew this, it sensed this so it's been trying to reinvent itself. With that reinvention it has seen three of the absolute worst title defenses in its history and nothing to show for its longevity. It was those, “good ol' days.” Now all the Sun has to show for its effort are two shitty pastors, two Jews, the latter of which effeminate, and Jayson Fucking Price. It's really enough to commit justifiable suicide. The gun's in the mouth and the hammer is cocked. However, as the Sun looks down, to take a final look at its intermingling of shame and pride, it notices a redeemer in the field. It spies a soul amongst the unborn and a Honey Badger amongst the BB-dubs.
Cue that title sequence, Tarantino.
The Evil Incarnate strolls leisurely through an expanse of grapevines. This vineyard ran for acres. It ran for miles and it just didn't stop. He walked in and out of the vines effortlessly and it gave the Sun hope that finally there was a man who gets it. Dressed in that classic grunge attire, hair matted with grease, dirt and disease. Those grapes were ripe for the pickin'. Waitin to be plucked. They be waitin to be pulled from the stem, to be washed, pampered, crushed and fermented. They were waiting to be turned into something better than what they were. The Evil Incarnate held them softly in his hands, admiring each globe as if each was a world unto its own. Only the best will do.
Only the best.
Upon seeing this, the Sun removes the gun from its celestial mouth and returns the hammer to its resting position. There might be help after all. Down in the vineyard, The Evil Incarnate continues to walk and inspect grapes suitable for processing.
ZMAC: So many. So many clamor for a chance, a chance to be warmed by the Sun. To be kissed and blessed. To be called upon. There are many grapes in WCF, many men who want to be on top- many who need it. They covet it with prejudice and greedy hands and lying eyes. There are hundreds of thousands of grapes each with a million wishes. If only that were true.
The Evil Incarnate stirs up quite a chuckle.
ZMAC: If only that were true. You see, the greatest battle in the life of the grape is to see who is among who, the jam to the wine? The jam to the wine? Or-who will roast in the sun- a raisin, an afterthought. There are many raisins in WCF. There are many afterthoughts, but only a select few make it off the vine and into jam- into that moderate success, and fewer still become the wine. WAR happens to be one of those many battles where everyone gets to stand up and say “I- oh yes, I!” But those damn white grapes, without color, passion, drive or originality, don't know that struggle that the red grape must endure. It must be the correct shape. It must be the correct size. It must please the ever watchful eye of the sun, and its sheen must shine and glint and glimmer as rose colored gold. Only a handful become wine. Only a handful become Merlot.
There must be some of you out there who are saying “that ZMAC has lost his damn mind. Talking about raisins like that man ever ate fruit a day in his life.” These are incomplex thoughts of the masses, of the grapes that are not destined to be wine, and they knew it the day they saw the Sun shinin'. Let us peek a glimpse at those who are to wither on the vine, to be pecked at by the crows and eaten by the insects. Names like Gonzo, Kaz, Al-Reb, BioWalker and Randall Kash. Unsuspecting suspects, victims of their own ignorant claims. They know what they said and I dare not repeat the ramblings of those who shall never make it. The White to the Red, the struggle be not known.
The Evil Incarnate throws out his arms and looks to the sky.
ZMAC: But Oh! Preacher man! Preacher man! Send me a sign! Shall I be joyous or shall I be damned!? There are few things in life, worse than the ignorant ramblings of the unwashed masses, begging for a handout and THAT is of men who pass judgement unto others and unto themselves without due cause or process. Men like Steel Toe, Jayson Omega, Johnathon Fly and Livewire. Holier than thou. “Better than you and better than me.”
The Evil Incarnate looks back, straight ahead, cocking his head with a sickening POP of his vertebrae.
ZMAC: These men all exist BECAUSE of the very person you see before you. Tell me something, Joe, tell us all something. What do you plan to do with that World Title when you win it? Because you sure as hell cannot defend it. You can't even defend yourself against the balding and the portly on the keyboard. And you, of all people, wish to become World Champion? Is there not a circle of Hell just for people like that? The liars, the cheats, the con men and the despots? I would imagine so- Joseph.
The eyes of The Evil Incarnate grow wide, wild and fiery as he continues to speak.
ZMAC: And what of you, Omega? How many easy rides do you think you'll get on top? After all, you could barely walk out of your match with me, this coked up street urchin that every one seems to believe me to be. How many WAR matches do you think you can win with an inflated self image that had to be carried in a six-man tag team match by VK? That US belt don't make you a power player in WCF- sittin on your island smoking up your disillusioned utopian views, will not make you a power player and yet you'll relish that moderate success. A concord grape among concord grapes.
Then there is Johnathon Fly, a man only to be named in this group and not those that follow because, once in a while, bad grapes get their day and Johnathon has had many “Days.” Many spoon fed events that try and call upon his greatness as a figure above the rest. Look into these eyes, Johnathon. This is a man unimpressed. This is a man who will not back down, submit or cower because your name carries weight to others. While you have that experience to come with a heavy fist, you ultimately lack: You lack the freedom. You live inside that cage, Johnathon. You live inside four walls and a roof. A hyper inflated circle of trust where no bad can happen.
The Evil Incarnate begins to laugh again.
ZMAC: Well it just did. You see, you are a man who cares. You are a man who needs, wants and desires. Your finger is on the pulse because it needs to be there.
The Evil Incarnate puts two fingers on his wrist to check the pulse that isn't there from the heart that stopped beating ages ago.
ZMAC: You need to feel that pulse. You need everybody buzzing over you and if you don't get your way, as children do, you throw your soft handed tantrums, wrapped up in your “No fucks to give.” Yet men like you- I know men like you. I've seen men like you over the ages and men like you, Johnathon, never change. Johnathon is nothing without a prop to hold him up because he cannot stand on his own. You are the outermost grape who rests knowing the others hold him up, thus bettering his chances of being plucked and picked for harvest. That is where you fall into the other group. The Gravediggers, the Tortures- the Robert Cairos of WCF who just can't let go.
It's a mortal flaw and I understand that. No longer do I empathize with it, yet I understand it. Everybody wants! Wants! Wants! Wants! They need to take, take, take! Men with four walls like mansions need to build ever higher and higher. Hall of Fame, they need -
The Evil Incarnate holds his hand up high, fingers spread wide.
- five more minutes of fame but what is fame when there is no passion to drive it? Your times have all come and past and yet let's plug the nostalgic because one day, long ago somebody meant something. Dirt is a feast for worms, yet men trample it when they look for the grapes. The grapes suck dry the dirt as they try and shine up to win that prize. They swell and grow fat off the blood, sweat and tears of the fallen. So why do the fallen return? Is this meant to be a triumph of gargantuan proportions? Is Torture going to make the faithful return? Is Gravedigger going to strike down foes with vengeance? Or- or is Robert Cairo going to get off his crippled ass and put in an honest day's work for once in his life? Oh yes, Robert, I cultivate the madness. At one time, you and I, but now there is no more. And before you declare with all the fiber in your being these fantastic stories and adventures just take a look at where the better of our angels sit. Where are you compared to I?
A knife in the back, Robert, is better than a band-aid to the front. I will not sugar coat it, I will not seal it with cryptic language or puns. I am not here to play these games with you or anyone else in WCF. The Evil Incarnate has risen by merit from lowest of low and freest of the free to commander, founder, leader of the most influential organization in recent history. I am in a unique position that nobody thought I would be in and yet here I am. Here I stand because I am- FREE. I see the golden ring that you all try to grasp and I spit on it because gold will lose its luster and no good deed goes unpunished. I am not a used up grape, ready to be milked and squandered to be made into wine. The Vapor Kings are the Merlot of the Merlot. We are the Champions of the Champions. It is this Sunday Night at WAR when the Vapor Kings do that they do best and it is in this WAR match, WAR Thirteen where Zombie McMorris, the one man no one thought would ever be where he is today- goes one step beyond and gains that shot at ICE Beckman's title.
Vincent has a good eye, I will give him that. A loving soul- well, that is subjective. What is not subjective- what is beyond question is that I stand a free man sentient in my being walking among the grapes. All of you have to grow and struggle and try and push your way. While I just walk on by and pluck you away from that very greatness you try and achieve. The Vapor King Movement has washed over the WCF, like pesticide. WCF- WCF, enjoy it while you have it, your moments in the Sun, because Sunday Night when dreamers wake up from their nightmares and legends fall into fantasy as giants try and reclaim what they need to survive, Zombie McMorris will be there. The Vapor Kings will be there. To shit can, cinderblock each and every guy who crosses those ropes. To murder with the axe wound, everyone who's attempted to put me in the very same box they force themselves to live in. War Thirteen is when things change and the mold gets broken because the one thing that hasn't been counted on is the same thing that's been counted out: When it comes down to me and whoever- I versus they, they versus forever- eternity- a curb stomp takes care of all who dare to stand up and get in my way. Zombie McMorris- WAR winner.
The Evil Incarnate reaches over and plucks off a handful of grapes from a nearby vine and pops them into his mouth, one by one.
Conquer. The. Hate.
