"Freedom (And The Secret That It Keeps)"
Sept 28, 2014 14:59:42 GMT -5
Doc Henry, Steve Orbit, and 2 more like this
Post by Deleted on Sept 28, 2014 14:59:42 GMT -5
"I am The Godfather. God is my son. I hold the entire world within my hands, shaping it, guiding it, nurturing it, feeding it, protecting it. My bosom is your nourishment. I stimulate you intellectually, sexually, spiritually. I give you freedom in its purest incarnation, untarnished by propaganda. You owe your liberty to the liberties that I take in your name, on your behalf. You are my child. I am your daddy. I brought you into this world... forsake me and I will take you out." - excerpt from Truer Words Never Spoken: The Bobby Cairo Story... So Far
Poon dampened female hands shook The Godfather to life. Robert H. Cairo had been slumbering in a hammock on a white sand beach, the South Beach in the Port of Miami, where the power brokers and powder pushers came to play. Having recently concluded a political conference in his home nation of Poon Guinea, Cairo flew upon Air Poon-ONE (that refurbished 'missing' Malaysian airliner) to Miami, Florida, USA on another matter of state business, that communist commerce. Here the Poon Guinean leader would endeavor upon an official business transaction with his foremost Cuban contact, a concierge of the great Fidel Castro.
Fidel was no longer officially Cuba's El Presidente, but it was still Fidel who made the moves, smashed the poon, and razed the opposition in 'The Pearl of the Antilles.' You wanted that good, pure, uncut Poon Guinean blow? You went to Fidel; he was your hook-up. And that was precisely why Fidel's proxy had scheduled a get-together with the man of the hour himself, WCF's soon-to-be WAR Thirteen winner, 'The Bionic Godfather' Bobby Cairo. And wouldn't you know it? It was Fidel's bottom bitch, that Vida Guerra poon, who had been sent to summon The Godfather from his slumber. She shook and she shook and she shook, hands flailing and ass cheeks clapping.
"Bitch," Cairo curled and uncurled his sandy toes and rapturous thickness. "You disturb The Godfather while he's at rest? I should feast the hounds of Hades upon you A.K.A. my dick."
"Godfather," Vida beckoned as her caramel skin glistened with sweat under the unyielding Floridian sun. "I cast a thousand apologies at your feet."
"As you better, whore." The Godfather was astutely nonplussed. He had been dreaming about a meeting with Mikhail Gorbachev during which he was mind-fucking the former Soviet premier and assuming himself greater control of the communist dominion. To be disturbed during this process was... it was heresy. Vida was fortunate that she had not yet been beheaded.
"Please, Godfather," Vida implored. "I intended no disrespect. I will suckle your thickness with my supple lips and hips as a token of my sincerity." The Godfather agreed to Vida's proposal, yielding the floor to her. He allowed her to speak with her fine self, ass poon cleavage unabashed, as he prepared for the smashing to ensue. "Boss King would like to meet with you shortly, Godfather. He has just touched down in Miami en flight from Havana and his arrival at this locale is imminent."
The Godfather summoned an eyebrow to the crest of his mountainous forehead. "Oh yes? You wish to awaken me for such things, Vida Guerra? You should've started this conversation with your ass-poon hoisted upon my thickness before you uttered a word."
"But Boss King, Godfather!" Vida was indignant. Cairo had heard enough-- he back-handed the curvaceous Cuban ass model, knocking her money maker onto the sandy broach beneath her feet.
"Enough, woman. Silence. You will suckle my thickness and perform tongue magics on my taint, but for now you will simply... you will disappear. You will not bother me again. I will call for you when I am interested in attempting to tolerate your unnerving persona again. Do you understand? Silly bitch. Such a silly South Beach infesting bitch. This is why I cannot stand America." Cairo lamented his follies to the sun and the sky, that picturesque Miami horizon, whilst Vida huffed and puffed her way back to the cabana, ass jiggling all the way.
Cairo reached into the pocket of his Hawaiian shirt and pulled out a pack of Newport cigarettes. He lit up one of the bogies with his solid gold, Poon Guinean flag emblazoned Zippo and puffed himself into a stupor. He reclined in the hammock, his feet raised toward the royal sapphire skies, head nestled upon something ever softer and more supple than the poon. Bobby's mind raced with possibilities. He knew that he would strike yet another lucrative cocaine deal with Boss King, his premier Cuban contact, undercutting the South Americans in the process, driving their contract upon his head ever higher.
This amused The Godfather. It reminded him of why he had gotten into the drug trafficking business in the first place. It wasn't solely about the money, it was also about the thrill of vanquishing his foes, drawing their ire, and then vanquishing them again in ever more decisive fashion. Wrestling provided a similar boon to The Godfather. As Bobby reveled in making those South American dealers envious and miserable with his success, so too did he revel in the pain he would inflict upon his foes at WAR. Cairo's opponents, men and women of loose moral fiber and questionable fighting ability, would talk big shit heading into WAR, only to find themselves dropped upon their craniums like the worthless piles of jobbing dog shit that they were.
The Godfather told himself all of these things and so much more. Now he wanted to tell someone else-- he wanted to tell his rivals what he thought about them. As the ocean's song nestled Cairo while he slept, now it would provide the soundtrack for his latest WCF promo. He knew that he would have time-- Boss King's arrival would be delayed, as it always was, due to the city traffic between the airport and South Beach-- despite the panicked ramblings of the coked up Vida Guerra poon. The impossibly picturesque scene of white sand, emerald waters and sapphire skies that surrounded Cairo would provide a stark contrast to the words of hatred and violence soon to emanate from The Godfather's mouth.
Cairo reached into the pocket of his Bermuda shorts and pulled out his Droid-- a Droid because that shit don't bend like Apple. You tried to use an iPhone in this Miami humidity and it would dissolve into a puddle of plastic doo-doo within minutes.. doo-doo, Cairo thought, like his opponents' chances of winning WAR. The Cairodaddy laughed before hitting the record button and directing his phone's camera toward his rugged yet ominous mug.
"WCF, my enemies, some of you my former comrades, soon we will be competing against each other inside of that ring in Phoenix, Arizona with twenty-thousand white supremacists, many of them neighbors of Logan, cheering us on. It's funny to me that before I announced my intentions to compete at WAR during last week's episode of Slam, the field of competitors had pretty much lined up behind Jonny Fly. It was assumed that Fly would win WAR, that he would go on to compete against Natural "ICE" Beckman at ONE and attempt to restore the so-called 'pecking order' in WCF, with Pantheon once again reigning supreme over all who dared oppose them. A funny thing happened on the way to that forum in Alabama-- The Godfather said NYET!" Cairo broadly smiled and rolled his neck, producing a voluminous series of snaps, crackles and pops.
"Yes it feels good! It feels good to know that I, in an instant, not only planted Seth Lerch's ugly, virgin kisser face first onto the mat with the most devastating finish in professional wrestling today-- that R-CAIRO-- but I also shifted the balance of power in WCF. The list of WAR entrants has been lining up this week, not to lick Fly's anus per the usual, but to drop to their knees and suckle of The Godfather's thickness. Oh sure, some of you have lobbed half-hearted jabs in my direction: 'You're too old, Cairo!' 'You don't care about winning anymore, you're only entering WAR to stroke your ego!' 'You're jealous of me because I'm Jonny Fly and, uh... you know, that used to mean something around here? #Spoiler: #Fly_Wins_In_The_End? Please? Please, Godfather? I beg of you please let me win I'm so lonely with this Tag Team belt and Corey as my partner! /tears.exe.' Well, you get the picture. Jonny Fly is a sad man these days, as he should be.
"Fly, where did it all go wrong for you? Was it the ego trips? The excessive consumption of Andy Capp's Hot Fries? Was it the sluts? Too many sluts sucking on your half-inch, effeminate Jew pee-pee? I'm a real Jew, Fly-- a half-Jew on my mother's side, from Uzbekistan. I don't play these little boy games. I don't talk the talk and then run half-baked comedy skits when it comes time to walk the walk. I don't care about Hot Fries. I don't care about coffee cakes. I don't care about video games, or hobnobbing with Kate Winslet. If I wanted to smash the Kate Winslet poon? Such poon would be absolutely devastated, like the city of Miami after a series of category five hurricanes. Make no mistake about it, Fly, I'm more capable than you inside of the sack, inside of the poon, and inside of that ass than you, just as I'm more capable inside of the ring than you."
Cairo lifted his head to bathe in the warm glow of the sun. He smiled. The Godfather breathed in the cleanest air that Havana North ever produced and he felt emboldened-- emboldened in his quest to rid WCF of the verminous infestation that had plagued it since Pantheon was founded in 2012. Cairo had been complicit in that crime. He aimed to redeem himself.
"A little Jew-on-Jew violence never hurt anyone, right, Fly? Oh, it will hurt you. You will cry. I already promised you that. You won't spend WAR hiding outside of the ring, eating hot wings with your buddies. Not this year. Not this time. This time, Jonny, you will spend WAR repenting your sins to The Godfather and I will hand down your judgment... and it will not be pleasant. I knew Pantheon was hot trash. I knew it the day I walked out on you, Phantasm and Purse in two-thousand and twelve. What I couldn't count on two years ago was that the rest of the WCF roster would fall down at your feet and play dead, give up the fight." Cairo smirks and shakes his head, feigning disbelief. "Ain't that something about a bitch named Jonny? Heh.
"It shouldn't have surprised me though. Your inane antics and movie star charisma have carried you far in this business, Fly. It's just that you can only be carried, SO FAR, before you meet your Lord God and Maker, that G-Daddy known as Cairo. It's time to pay your penance, boy. Time for us to end this cat-and-mouse game once and for all. And that goes for your boys, too. I didn't forget about you, Corey. I remember you from your days as Creeping Death, back when you still had bass in your voice, back when I defeated you as a WCF rookie to secure myself a World Title shot. The Godfather was the fastest rising champion in WCF history, and in case you didn't get the memo back then-- I am better than you, Black. I was better then, I'm better now, and I will be better until the end of our time on this Earth.
"You're a sad man, Corey. Content to walk around with a Tag Team Championship that I tossed into the trash months ago. Content to walk around with a Cruiserweight Championship that nobody gave a shit about ten years ago-- and even fewer people give a shit about now. Content to play dress-up with Jonny while your balls are dangling from his belt. These are the tactics that the so-called 'King of All Wrestlers' must stoop to in order to secure himself some gold and a fleeting glimpse of his triumphant past? Sad, sad, the saddest... well, almost the saddest. What's sadder? The fact that you're still hiding that video footage of what Team Thickness did to you and the rest of Pantheon at XIII. What's the matter, Corey? Too ashamed of your performance at YOUR event to let the world see the footage?" Cairo flashed that shit-eating grin of his and nodded his head in the affirmative.
Cairo panned the camera to show his audience precisely the exotic locale that he was enjoying before the big match, rubbing it in on some asshole shit. "A glimpse of Heaven before I send you and your kind to Hell, Black. The only thing, the ONLY thing that spared you at XIII was when I fractured my vertebrae hitting you with that R-CAIRO off the top of the cage. All that's in the past though, Corey. Got my shit rebuilt by Doc Remus. I'm bionic now, WHAT!? Check this out." Cairo held the camera at a distance and placed it at the base of a palm tree. Utilizing his left hand, Cairo grabbed his right forearm and ripped off a portion of the flesh, revealing a panel beneath the skin with circuits and buttons and gadgets galore. It looked like something out of The Terminator, but this was some kind of bugged out real life shit, scientists playing God and all that jazz. Terrifying stuff.
Cairo smiled wide for the camera before replacing the skin on his forearm, which grafted itself back into place within an instant. "So there's that for ya to deal with. You guys thought Lex Luger was freaky back in the day with that metal plate in his forearm? The Total Package ain't got shit on The Godfather. When I said that I was stronger than ever before, I wasn't lying. I meant it. Physically, mentally and spiritually I am on top of my game. We cannot say the same for you, Corey. It seems like your heart and your head are barely in the game anymore. And Fly? He's going through the motions in his own right. But the worst offender of all-- Jayson Allen Price." Cairo shook his damn head as if to say 'Now ain't that a cryin' shame 'bout that Jay Price?'
"What are we gonna do about you, Jayson Allen? I half-didn't wanna bag on ya. It's like beating up the handicapped kid in class who gets epileptic seizures from Spongebob cartoons and then stealing his lunch money. Unfortunately, you insist on weaseling your way into matches of relative importance in WCF, and that is not something that The Godfather can abide. It's time to put the Jay Price claptrap to bed. You're even worse than Fly, worse than Black. I can't entirely fault those guys for trying to recreate the past, relive their glory days, because at least they had glory days once upon a time. How about you, Jay? When you're daydreaming about the good old days, what are you even dreaming about? Seriously, is it your twelve-and-a-half (not Thirteen because Thickness owns that shit) minutes as World Champion?
"Is it your illustrious, though didn't quite live up to Cairo, reign as Television Champion that you enjoyed when you first hit the WCF scene? How about your latest shameful excursion as 'King Internet'? What does that even mean, by the way? You're the guy who leaked those Katie Upton nudes? Because that guy is the only one who has the right to call himself 'King Internet.' Oh wait... I get it. You're 'King Internet' because you fell flat on your ass at Ultimate Showdown and got handed a meaningless title belt, another meaningless title belt to add to your collection? Great stuff, 'King Internet.' I've seen some sad, sad charity cases in my day, but you take the cake. You shit the bed in one of the biggest matches of the year and you're--" Cairo uproariously chuckled, nearly dropping his phone.
"You're proud of yourself?! Really? What the fuck happened to you, man? You never really had dignity or self-respect of any kind, but you didn't used to settle for the absolute bare minimum and tout it as achievement. Once upon a time, way way back in the beginning of your WCF career, you had a hunger. You never really satisfied that hunger, never really fulfilled your potential, never truly came close, but at least you were determined to be somebody. What was it, Jay? What killed your career? Was it the booze? The pills? The poon? That Shannan Lerch poon? Shannan Lerch poon will fuck a nigga's career up faster than you can say 'ENDEAVORED,' my man. Damn shame. Damn shame indeed."
Cairo lamented Price's misfortune for the brief moment that he could muster a feeling of empathy. Once that fleeting moment had passed he got down to business-- he picked the sand from between his toes and then slipped his feet into a pair of suede loafers, the classy kind, that Elvis shit.
"I think there was some other guy who Fly recruited to join Pantheon. Not Daniel Bryan. Not Booker T. Some other developmental league talent who couldn't quite cut the muster. Oh well. His name isn't important, if he even had a name to begin with. Another unremarkable career that received that Pantheon kiss of death. What once stood proud, like the Pantheon of Ancient Greek society, is now crumbling before the world's very eyes. The Godfather will provide the final shit-kicking nail in the coffin at WAR when he R-CAIRO's each member of Pantheon and pins them in the middle of the ring. Once I'm finished with that bit of jobber-killing I shall turn my attention to the new kids on the block. Y'all heard about these--" Cairo pulled the camera up to his mouth and fogged it up with his breath as the words escaped his lips. "Vapor Kings?"
Cairo wiped the camera screen with his kerchief to reveal his smiling though thoroughly intimidating beard-face. Somehow the psychosis inside of Bobby's brain makes him look even scarier when he smiles. True story! "The Vapor Kings, WCF's flavor of the summer. However, all good things must come to an end, gentlemen. We've got my fellow Jew Buddy Roman guiding the way, a guy who I could kinda respect if, well, I respected people. Buddy truly has a brilliant managerial mind. He's proven that with the way that he's molded a midcard talent such as Zombie McMorris into a, you know, upper midcard talent. ZMAC is a funny guy. Not the type of funny that you laugh with, the type that you laugh at. This man McMorris walks the world in his dimestore imitation Doc Martens, purporting to be some kind of mad genius poet BBW smashing immortal--whateverthefuck.
"He's Evil Incarnate, he's The Honey Badger, he's The Duke of New York, he's Chitty Chitty Fucking Bang Bang. I don't really care about any of that. What I care about, ZMAC, is that you're another victim that I will destroy on my way to accomplishing the one feat that has previously escaped me in my Hall of Fame WCF career: victory in WAR. I've come close, Zombie. Oh so close. I finished second in two-thousand and seven. I finished third in two-thousand and thirteen in the largest field that WAR has ever seen. I paced myself, I picked my spots, I eliminated Steve Orbit with considerable aplomb-- only to be ambushed by a familiar face. Well, that's not going to happen again, McMorris. You're not gonna get the Cairo rub this year, the Cairo rub that Fly benefited from last year. Much like Jonny Fly, you are a familiar name and face to The Godfather. Hell, we waged war together, a different kind of war in the isle of Papua New Guinea. We smashed that shit in the ass poon and made it straight up Papua Poon Guinea!" Godfather bore his Great White Shark teeth while reminiscing the fun in the sun of the Thickness revolution in 2013.
"You commanded the forces of the Thousand Thick-ni Army, ZMAC. Didn't do too shabby of a job, if I'm overlooking the unnecessary acts of genocide that you committed. I just, I don't think you've thrived the way that a man of your talents should have thrived in WCF. You have the highest pain tolerance of any man that I've encountered. You do not give a damn about human life. You bear allegiance to no one, truly not even your Vapor Kings brethren. You would stab any of them in the back for another bump of coke. You should've been WCF World Champion multiple times over. So why, WHY have you failed to achieve all but a modicum of tangible success inside of the WCF ring? A month as United States Champion? That's your crowning jewel? Putting the Internet Championship on the map? As if such things were worthy of being prided upon?
"Sad shit, ZMAC. And you're the so-called leader of this ragtag bunch of misfits called The Vapor Kings? You, a poor man's Lawnmower Jones, with even less success to your credit than that Scottish lawnmower obsessed freak?" Cairo massaged his forehead with lithe and skillful fingers, as if it pained him to contemplate such tedious and farcical notions. "Natural "ICE" Beckman, my former partner in Team Thickness, you've willingly subjected yourself to the whims of a thieving Jew named Roman and a Coked Up Mad Man? Why? You truly believe yourself to be Buddy's son, ZMAC's brother in arms? That's some damn good brainwashing they got, ICE. Some damn good brainwashing. Almost as good as that Shannan Lerch poon brainwashing.
"If I am to understand the situation correctly, you believed that you needed to join The Vapor Kings to," Cairo could barely contain his chortling. "To secure your place in the upper echelon of the WCF roster? BAHAHAHAHAHA!" Cairo had nearly shit his Bermuda shorts. "Oh lawdy, that's rich. You've truly made it easy pickings for me, Natural. When I win WAR, and I will win WAR, I will secure a date with you at ONE. Of course you will have to defeat Corey Black, and you will defeat Corey Black, to retain the World Championship at Slam Three-Hundred, but such things are mere formalities. My point, Beckman, is that I will face you at ONE and I will give you an education in why I am the greatest superstar in WCF history. The greatest talent, the biggest name, the toughest motherfucker, and the most intimidating man that you will ever stand across the ring from in your entire wrestling career.
"You have, according to The Godfather's Rolex, approximately three months remaining in your championship reign before I R-CAIRO you back to Bumfuck, Wisconsin, where you and your Cheesehead buddies will reminisce about the good old days when you were WCF Champion. The good old days before The Godfather returned to WCF to reclaim his throne." Cairo nodded his head whilst casting a solemn glare into the camera. "This ain't about settling beef, Beckman. This is about you being in the wrong place at the wrong time. This is about you being WCF World Champion when The Godfather decided to return to his house and reclaim his property, that big gold belt that your drunk ass is wearing around your waist. Speaking of wrong place, wrong time--
"That's kind of how I would describe your elimination from WAR last year, Steve Orbit. Do you remember that? Do you remember when I dropped you on your head with that perfectly executed PerfectPlex, that Irresistible Bliss, and pinned your shoulders to the mat for the ONE... wait for it... TWO... waaaait.... THREE? Oh yes, you do. I know you do, Steve. You swore that you would exact your revenge upon my skull at WAR Thirteen. The problem with that, Steven, is that you lack the testicular fortitude to deliver upon such promises. I don't mind being threatened, Steve, so long as the person who threatens me follows through on their pledge. That's all that I ask, because if you don't do what you say that you're going to do... that makes you a liar.
"That makes you like a Jayson Allen Price, lying to us, promising that he's finally going to shake that choke artist label and deliver greatness after teasing us with years of squandered potential. You're better than Jay in theory, Steve, and that's why you beat him last month at Revenge. But truthfully, Steve? Truthfully? You're not going to be any better than Jay when you're lying at The Godfather's feet, disheveled, debased, defeated and discredited once and for all at WAR in Phoenix, Arizona. That's the difference between a guy like Jonny Fly and a guy like Bobby Cairo, Steve. When a guy like Jonny Fly beats you, you're back on the horse the next week. You're living, and you're loving those strip club bitches, and you're snorting that blow, bumping that coke, ooh... that reminds me, I have some business to attend to. But first, Steve, the difference. The difference is that when I beat you, Orbit, you get gone and you don't come back.
"Your career? POOF! Gone in a cloud of vapors, Steve, and that kingdom? Well, that kingdom done be crumbled. And all of Buddy Roman's horses and all of his men, couldn't put that Vapor Kings kingdom together again. HAHAHAHA!" Cairo maniacally cackled as he hit the record button, this time to end the transmission. With a twiddle of his fingers he forwarded the video to the techs at WCF.com, where The Godfather's vitriolic manifesto would go live for the world to see.
A white patio under the hot white sun played host to the business deal gone down. Cash for coke. Coke to fuel a communist empire. Cash to do the same. This was far-left commerce at its finest. Not a single gunshot fired. Not yet anyway. Bobby Cairo, wearing a Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda shorts and blue suede loafers, handed a briefcase containing Godfather only knows how many kilos of cocaine to a Cuban man wearing similarly casual beach attire, and those black Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses. The shades were the tell. Shades make a man look shady, if you follow the metaphor, and this man looked shady indeed. Powerful, though. Shady and powerful to boot. This man was none other than Boss King, Cairo's top Cuban connection and close confidante of Fidel Castro.
Boss King was not a man to be trifled with, and if his English nickname wasn't a dead giveaway in that regard, you might wish to call him "El Patrón." Whatever you called him, you were going to show him respect, just as you showed The Godfather respect. Hell, even The Godfather showed him respect, and the vice versa, and these were two men who did not respect anyone. But one thing they knew was that respect given was respect earned when you traveled in the circles which they did.
"Yes, this is the good shit, my friend," El Patrón commented as he did a bump of that pure, uncut Poon Guinean blow. "Better quality than the finest Colombian."
"The Colombians can't swallow The Godfather's victory jizz, Patrón," Cairo boasted. The two friends and business partners shared a laugh.
El Patrón closed the briefcase and placed it between his thighs, under the table, that old school Cuban necktie waiting to come out and play should the shit ever hit the fan. But it was with Cairo, and Cairo alone, that Boss King allowed himself to relax. Cairo, like Patrón, was not about the bullshit. If the shit did hit the fan it was gonna hit the motherfucks who lobbed it in the first place. That was karma, Cairo style. However, there was a matter that had been unnerving Boss King and he felt compelled to speak on it. So he did.
"As amigos may we speak candidly?" Boss King awaited Cairo's reply, which he received in the form of a nod. Cairo's brow did furrow, but he was not one to question Boss King or Boss King's decorum. "I never mean to second guess you, Senor Cairo, we are friends for many years. But I've heard something and I must speak about it. As you know, word travels quickly on the black market grapevine and, frankly, amigo, I've heard about your dealings with ISIS. El Presidente Castro is concerned. ISIS are... they are mal hombres, mi amigo." Boss King's expression was stony, emotionless, hardened. He did not pass judgment on The Godfather, but his concerns had been cast to The Godfather's ear. Patrón awaited Cairo's reply.
Cairo reflected King's stony, emotionless, hardened expression. He was reading his old friend and business partner. He was looking for clues behind those black sunglasses. King recognized this. He removed his glasses to show there were no tricks, no slight of hand at play. Cairo finally nodded his head in complete understanding of the concerns that Boss King had raised.
"I do sell to bad men, Patrón. I sell to the worst men. I sell to the best men. I sell to every man in between. Do you know why? I am the last libertarian, Patrón. The final free market entrepreneur. You sit and meet with me, and what do you feel? You feel that fleeting feeling of liberty that's quickly lost in a society controlled by scoundrels, heathens, hypocrites, men like Barry Oak and Seth Lerch. Men like Jonny Fly and Buddy Roman. Denialists, revisionists, opportunists. I am God! I am God's father! My hand chooses the victors! My hand chooses the losers!" Cairo rose to his feet and slammed his fists on the glass table, shattering it into a thousand pieces. Boss King did not flinch, but he had received Cairo's message loud and clear.
"You're worried about ISIS? ISIS, Patrón? They got your panties in a bunch, huh?" Cairo sneered at his friend, his colleague, his chum. A chum that Cairo suddenly regarded more like a chump. "ISIS, Patrón? They're just this year's version of The Thickness, a watered down Thousand Thick-ni Army. You think that arming Islamic fascists bothers me? I arm everybody, Patrón. I arm ISIS today, Russia tomorrow, China the next day, Canada the day after that, and finally I arm Barry Oak and his US military forces once they're down to their last hope and they're begging me for it. Do you know why, Patrón? Because I want everybody to kill everybody. I am the kingmaker, me, Bobby Cairo. I give you life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Then I bring death!"
Cairo snickered as he paced back and forth upon the patio. He leered at Boss King before turning his attention to invisible enemies, none who particularly struck his fancy, but he was throwing fists at them all the same. "Treason? Is that what we're worried about? War crimes? The courts? The military juntas? The tribunals? Come arrest me, President Oak! Come arrest me, United Nations! Oh wait... ooh, that's right. I'm not only a head of state and the mayor of America's most populous city, I'm also an ambassador of a United Nations recognized state." Cairo dropped to his feet and smiled like the cat that ate the canary. He closed his eyes and spread his arms in a Jesus Christ pose. "They cannot touch me, Patrón. I have total immunity. Now, am I supposed to feel guilty for doing the things that I've done?"
Cairo opened his eyes and cocked his head to the side, searching Boss King for a reply and finding none. Cairo sighed. "I do not feel guilty, Patrón. You think about America and their position in the world today. What's American culture all about? Consumerism? Consumerism that's more dishonorable than any drug deal or arms deal that I could strike on the black market? Americans bitch about finding a free U2 album in their iTunes folder; meanwhile, half a world away, the American government drops bombs on third world countries, killing innocent civilians. Patrón, I gotta tell ya, I think Americans could stand to be knocked off their high horse, don't you?"
Boss King placed his sunglasses onto his face and finally muttered a reply. "You raise an interesting point, my friend. Interesting indeed."
"Thank you, Patrón. I knew you would see things my way. Do you know what really bothers me, what really-- sticks in my craw? Seth Lerch has gone into business with Gravedigger and his wetback buddies. I would challenge Digger to a match at ONE but he's half-Mexican so he'd be too lazy to show up."
Cairo and Boss King shared a hearty laugh. Cubans don't like Mexicans either. Their mutual bigotry was one of the things that bonded The Godfather and El Patrón.
"He would make a good opponent for you, I think, amigo," Boss King posited.
"That fat Mexican fuck? Really, Patrón?"
"Hey, he's a Hall of Famer just like you. And he's looking pretty ripped these days. You've seen him showing off his new body?"
"Pfft. Please. That ain't nothing but steroids, right there. Typical Mexican juicer. You know what? Whether he's fat or juiced up, that man's heart is gonna give out one of these days. And when it does? The Godfather is gonna whiz on Gravedigger's, well, his grave. Haha. But not before I R-CAIRO his ass at WAR and show those MS-13 goons how a communist takes care of business."
"My friend, I wish you the best. I am sure that you will prevail, as always." Patrón checked his watch and nodded his head in affirmation. "I have to get going. I have business to which I must attend." Boss King tapped on the briefcase and Cairo understood.
"So long, Patrón. Give my regards to Castro."
Boss King rose from his seat and walked away. Cairo looked out to the ocean and smiled. He knew that he would be big; bigger than the sea, bigger than the sky, deeper and heavier, but never bluer. Never blue. Bobby Cairo was not a blue boy. Bobby Cairo would ascend his throne once again as the King of the WCF Mountain. WAR was Step One in his plan.
Feeling festive, an idea entered Cairo's brain. "Goddamn, I just made a lot of money," Cairo mused to himself. "I should call Chad. He's got a house out this way." And he did. The Godfather phoned his former protege Chad Evans, "The Big Dick Superstar." The cocaine cowboys would ride again!
"My maxim is to live life to the fullest," a bleary-eyed Chad Evans asserted while snorting a line of coke off a stripper's ass cheeks in the back of a limousine.
"I concur, Chadwick," Cairo retorted while snorting a line of coke off a different stripper's titties in the back of the same limousine.
"Oh man this is awesome, Bobby. We got strippers, coke... WE BIG DICKS BE STEALIN' THE COKE! Haha!" Chad was living it up, happy to be reconnected with his friend The Godfather for the first time in months. "Where you been, Bobby? I tried DM'ing you on Twitter, but you never replied."
"I've been staying off of social media, keeping a low profile. Wanted to maintain that element of surprise for WAR, ya heard?"
"WAR?" Chad exclaimed as his eyebrows arched. "It's that time of year again? Damn. Did I ever win WAR? No, no, that was Trios Cup. And the World Championship. Oh and the Tag Team Championship. Who's all in WAR this year?"
"Pantheon, Vapor Kings, Chelsea's clique, whatever the fuck they're called. I don't think they even have a name yet. No Twilight or Eric Price this year. Fuck those guys."
Chad stares blankly at Bobby. "I have no idea who any of those people are, Bobby. Oh wait-- I know Twilight. I dropped her on her head to win the Trios Cup."
"Him, Chad, HIM. There was a big exposé about it on TMZ. Anyway, people you might know... oh yeah, Torture's in there."
"Torture? Fuck that guy. Did you know he made me job to him in like my second match in WCF?"
"What do you mean 'made me job,' Chad? WCF ain't a work. This shit is legit. 2 LEGIT 2 QUIT, NIGGA!"
Chad cocks his head to the side and lowers his gaze at Bobby. "Really, Bobby? You're gonna pretend that you don't remember what it was like back then? The backstage politics? The lies and deceptions? Tort promised me that if I laid down for him, I'd get a future pay-per-view headliner against him, for the belt. That big gold belt. Now you wanna know something about a bitch? That shit never happened. I had to earn my spot atop the card the hard way, the Big Dick way. You know what I mean?"
"Uh, yeah, yeah, Chad. Tort is a motherfucker of a motherfucker, but I'm not entirely sure why he decided to return. Things ain't like they used to be for Tort. He lost to CD at ONE last year, then he lost to S-PAC at some... I don't even remember. Some pay-per-view that didn't feature a World Title match because Seth shoehorned Tort into another undeserved main event slot. Well, that part is like old times, at least. But the man has been losing, Chad. He's been losing so badly that it's almost, ALMOST sad. I look at him now and I'm like, 'This is the Torture that we spent all those years bitching about in our little backstage bullshit sessions? Nah, can't be. This man sucks! This man can't win a wrestling match! Are you surrious, yo? How the fuck is this Torture? Are we being Punk'd right now? Is Tort gonna rip off his face and reveal himself to be Ashton Kutcher?' Shit is crazy, Chad."
Chad sat there staring at Bobby with his mouth agape. Even another line of coke from the stripper's ass couldn't revive him. "Furrealz, Bobby? Fuckin furrealz?"
"It's ridiculous, Chad. Then we got these other bums-- jobbers that aren't even worth The Godfather's time or breath to mention, but here's a couple of names from the past: Johnny Reb and Doc Henry."
Chad openly giggled at the mention of The New Confederacy members. "Man, that shit brings me back, Bobby. What are those guys up to these days? I remember when me and Prince Jimmy beat them for the straps."
Bobby creased his forehead and cast a quizzical glance at Chad. "Oh, that's right... Jimmy was your tag partner, wasn't he? Huh. Funny how life works. He went from winning gold with you to getting murked by The Godfather."
"What's that, Bobby? I couldn't hear you. My face was buried in this bitch's titties."
"Oh, don't worry your pretty little head about it, Chad. I was just talking to myself."
"Last time I saw Reb was when we won Trios Cup together, Big Dick Superstars version two-point-oh! Those were the days, man! You know something though? He never visited me in the hospital after I got injured. Fuckin Confederate bastard."
"I wouldn't worry about it, Chad. Karma done bit him in the ass. The New Confederacy are shells of their former selves. Reb went from WAR winner in two-thousand-eleven to complete afterthought headed into this year's match. Ain't nobody givin' that motherfucker the time of day. Shit, I might toss an R-CAIRO his way just to give him some action. And as for Doc... you already know that sad tale."
"Damn? Cracker still ain't changed shit up in the last three years?"
"Not one damn bit. Still scraping the bottom of the barrel."
Chad shook his head and laughed. "The more things change, Bobby. Oh man-- you know something?"
"What's that, Chad?"
Chad reached into the waistband of his sweatpants and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. "I got shit-faced the other night, woke up and found this tucked under my door. I think--Bobby, I don't really understand what it means, but I think it was intended for you."
"What makes you say that, Chad?"
"Well listen," Chad unfolded the paper and read the note aloud to Bobby. "It goes, 'Freedom? They call this Freedom? It's an outrage! The Governor must know about this! Summon him at once!' That's it. Now, you're the only Governor that I know, Bobby. I tried to summon you on Twitter, but as you stated--"
"Self-imposed social media blackout."
"Exactly. So I'm summoning you now. I just hope it's not too late."
Chad handed the note to Bobby, who proceeded to study it intently. "Did you notice how Freedom is capitalized with an uppercase F? 'They call this Freedom?' Do you think that refers to something specific? A person, a place, a landmark of some kind?"
"Freedom... Freedom... you know something, Bobby? There's an old building on Biscayne Boulevard called the Freedom Tower, but I don't know why anyone would want to waste your time with it. It's basically serves as a monument to the Cubans that fled from Castro."
"Really? So there is political relevance to it?"
"Well yeah, but how could it be relevant to you, Bobby? You're not Cuban."
"No, but I deal with Cubans. There's gotta be something about that place. Something more than meets the eye. The US government, they've gone out of their way to demonize Castro and communism. That building's gotta be a front for some kind of capitalist fuckin', I don't even know man. There's something there. I'm going there. Today, Chad. Today. Right now."
"Do you want me to go with you, Bobby?"
"No, no, you rest, my friend. You've been an invaluable asset. If I need back-up I'll call you."
"You shouldn't go there alone, Bobby. The Cubans, they get suspicious if they see white folk there all by their lonesome."
Cairo thought about it for a moment and then replied. "I'll bring a lady friend."
Chad looked at the strippers and then looked at Bobby, a questioning glare on his face. "Really, Bobby?"
"No, no, Chad. Not these lady friends. It's time to put the Vida Guerra ass poon to work."
The white and gold tower glimmered in the sun like a beacon on the mount. It appeared to scale all the way to Heaven. Bobby Cairo and Vida Guerra, each dressed in upscale Miami style clothing, stood at the base of the Freedom Tower, in front of the modest building upon which the tower was mounted.
Cairo turned to Vida and began to question her. "You say that you've heard rumors about this place, baby doll?"
"Yes, Bobby. There have been rumors of human sacrifices, men dressed in cloaks filing in and out of the building at all hours, Satanic masses, even sightings of reptilian shapeshifters. Some real scary shit. None of it has been confirmed but the rumors always persisted because they couldn't be debunked either. No one knows the truth."
Cairo patted the chrome veneer of the Glock that resided under his jacket, within his shoulder holster, and confidently pushed Vida's sumptuous ass toward the entrance of the building. "We're gonna find out the truth, baby doll."
"How can you be sure this isn't a trap, Bobby?"
"I'm half hoping it is a trap, Vida. God-Daddy's got an itchy trigger finger and it's itching me bad right about now."
Vida clinched Bobby's torso and refused to let him go. She found comfort in his heaving slab of man-beef. "We want the basement, Bobby. The tower, from what the rumors say, is a beacon for the Masons from across the city, but their ceremonies are conducted in the basement. It's not going to be easy getting down there. The rest of the building is host to an art museum, which is open to the public, but those elevators don't go down to the basement. If we take the stairs, we'll find that the basement is blocked off that way as well."
"You've tried to get down to that basement before?"
"Of course. Why wouldn't I? I'm as curious as anyone to find out what's really down there."
"Armed resistance, I hope." The Godfather smiled.
The inside of the Freedom Tower building was home to an inconspicuous museum, just as Vida had stated, but what caught The Godfather's attention was the quiet murmuring that lingered in the air. Not the sign of a busy social area with many people conversing, but in some shape or form a... demonic presence that perpetuated the establishment. If The Godfather was primed for action before, he was begging for it by now.
The elevators, Cairo would find, did not go to the basement. Vida was correct about that, as she reminded him. Once The Godfather had confirmed this for himself ("You never know, baby doll. They could've had the basement unlocked if they were performing maintenance down there.") he had Vida lead him to the stairs. They made their way down to the basement level, where of course they found that the door was locked and, in fact, there were armed guards standing on either side of the door. One of the guards, the more hulking of the two, held up his hand in a 'halt!' gesture and scolded Bobby. "You're not allowed down here, sir. Turn around and go upstairs... NOW!"
"Oh, of course," The Godfather replied. "My mistake." In the blink of an eye. The Godfather unholstered his weapon and shot both guards between the eyes, instantly killing them.
The silencer on Bobby's gun had provided some cover, but Vida knew that was only temporary. "Hurry, Bobby! We don't have much time! There's cameras everywhere!"
Bobby heeded Vida's warnings and proceeded to kick the basement door in, a METAL basement door, with a single Yakuza kick. Being bionic certainly had its advantages, Bobby noted. Vida concurred.
As they made their way into the basement, they found that it was lit only by candles, a mass of candles, as if the basement were in fact host to some bizarre underground temple, just as the rumors had stated. "We've hit the motherload, baby doll." Cairo was astounded. Not a man who was easily caught off-guard, even Bobby was taken aback by the eccentricity of the dwelling. This was especially so when he stumbled about what appeared to be human body parts and blood placed inside of a pentagram, apparently as a sacrifice.
Vida's complexion had turned white as a sheet. She stuttered for her words and managed only to lift her hand in an awkward manner, drawing Bobby's attention, pointing with a crooked index finger to an area within the lair, a makeshift altar, but there was something specific that caught Bobby's eye when he turned to look. When he saw the photograph at the top of the altar his jaw dropped. It took him a moment to process the information and gather his thoughts. When he did, he spoke the first words that he could muster: "Diablo Calzone was right all along. The Lerchuminati is real."
A headshot of WCF owner Seth Lerch wearing formal attire had been framed and placed atop the altar for reasons that had been rumored, conjected, speculated upon for months, years even. Cairo knew that he was facing the fight of his life in the war at WAR, in the war against Seth Lerch, against Barry Oak, but the gravity of the situation hit him harder than ever before. He snatched the picture, ripped it from its frame, and without contemplating his actions, he grabbed his Zippo and set the picture ablaze. The smoke alarm sounded within seconds; the sprinkler system was activated. Cairo dropped Seth's picture to the floor. It began to float as a kind of pyre before the flames were extinguished by the water and the photograph had been transformed to blackened ash.
Footsteps could be heard charging down the stairwell; the elevator bell dinged. Reinforcements were on the move from both paths of escape. Tears rolled down Vida's cheeks. She believed that she was going to die. Cairo looked at Vida, his face handsome and stoic. He reassured her. "This is the easy part, baby doll. Fighting Greenfever at WAR... that's gonna be the challenge."
(OOC: Special thanks to Erich "E-Wreck" Hess for providing me with his insight into the city of Miami! I couldn't have done this without you, my friend!)
Poon dampened female hands shook The Godfather to life. Robert H. Cairo had been slumbering in a hammock on a white sand beach, the South Beach in the Port of Miami, where the power brokers and powder pushers came to play. Having recently concluded a political conference in his home nation of Poon Guinea, Cairo flew upon Air Poon-ONE (that refurbished 'missing' Malaysian airliner) to Miami, Florida, USA on another matter of state business, that communist commerce. Here the Poon Guinean leader would endeavor upon an official business transaction with his foremost Cuban contact, a concierge of the great Fidel Castro.
Fidel was no longer officially Cuba's El Presidente, but it was still Fidel who made the moves, smashed the poon, and razed the opposition in 'The Pearl of the Antilles.' You wanted that good, pure, uncut Poon Guinean blow? You went to Fidel; he was your hook-up. And that was precisely why Fidel's proxy had scheduled a get-together with the man of the hour himself, WCF's soon-to-be WAR Thirteen winner, 'The Bionic Godfather' Bobby Cairo. And wouldn't you know it? It was Fidel's bottom bitch, that Vida Guerra poon, who had been sent to summon The Godfather from his slumber. She shook and she shook and she shook, hands flailing and ass cheeks clapping.
"Bitch," Cairo curled and uncurled his sandy toes and rapturous thickness. "You disturb The Godfather while he's at rest? I should feast the hounds of Hades upon you A.K.A. my dick."
"Godfather," Vida beckoned as her caramel skin glistened with sweat under the unyielding Floridian sun. "I cast a thousand apologies at your feet."
"As you better, whore." The Godfather was astutely nonplussed. He had been dreaming about a meeting with Mikhail Gorbachev during which he was mind-fucking the former Soviet premier and assuming himself greater control of the communist dominion. To be disturbed during this process was... it was heresy. Vida was fortunate that she had not yet been beheaded.
"Please, Godfather," Vida implored. "I intended no disrespect. I will suckle your thickness with my supple lips and hips as a token of my sincerity." The Godfather agreed to Vida's proposal, yielding the floor to her. He allowed her to speak with her fine self, ass poon cleavage unabashed, as he prepared for the smashing to ensue. "Boss King would like to meet with you shortly, Godfather. He has just touched down in Miami en flight from Havana and his arrival at this locale is imminent."
The Godfather summoned an eyebrow to the crest of his mountainous forehead. "Oh yes? You wish to awaken me for such things, Vida Guerra? You should've started this conversation with your ass-poon hoisted upon my thickness before you uttered a word."
"But Boss King, Godfather!" Vida was indignant. Cairo had heard enough-- he back-handed the curvaceous Cuban ass model, knocking her money maker onto the sandy broach beneath her feet.
"Enough, woman. Silence. You will suckle my thickness and perform tongue magics on my taint, but for now you will simply... you will disappear. You will not bother me again. I will call for you when I am interested in attempting to tolerate your unnerving persona again. Do you understand? Silly bitch. Such a silly South Beach infesting bitch. This is why I cannot stand America." Cairo lamented his follies to the sun and the sky, that picturesque Miami horizon, whilst Vida huffed and puffed her way back to the cabana, ass jiggling all the way.
Cairo reached into the pocket of his Hawaiian shirt and pulled out a pack of Newport cigarettes. He lit up one of the bogies with his solid gold, Poon Guinean flag emblazoned Zippo and puffed himself into a stupor. He reclined in the hammock, his feet raised toward the royal sapphire skies, head nestled upon something ever softer and more supple than the poon. Bobby's mind raced with possibilities. He knew that he would strike yet another lucrative cocaine deal with Boss King, his premier Cuban contact, undercutting the South Americans in the process, driving their contract upon his head ever higher.
This amused The Godfather. It reminded him of why he had gotten into the drug trafficking business in the first place. It wasn't solely about the money, it was also about the thrill of vanquishing his foes, drawing their ire, and then vanquishing them again in ever more decisive fashion. Wrestling provided a similar boon to The Godfather. As Bobby reveled in making those South American dealers envious and miserable with his success, so too did he revel in the pain he would inflict upon his foes at WAR. Cairo's opponents, men and women of loose moral fiber and questionable fighting ability, would talk big shit heading into WAR, only to find themselves dropped upon their craniums like the worthless piles of jobbing dog shit that they were.
The Godfather told himself all of these things and so much more. Now he wanted to tell someone else-- he wanted to tell his rivals what he thought about them. As the ocean's song nestled Cairo while he slept, now it would provide the soundtrack for his latest WCF promo. He knew that he would have time-- Boss King's arrival would be delayed, as it always was, due to the city traffic between the airport and South Beach-- despite the panicked ramblings of the coked up Vida Guerra poon. The impossibly picturesque scene of white sand, emerald waters and sapphire skies that surrounded Cairo would provide a stark contrast to the words of hatred and violence soon to emanate from The Godfather's mouth.
Cairo reached into the pocket of his Bermuda shorts and pulled out his Droid-- a Droid because that shit don't bend like Apple. You tried to use an iPhone in this Miami humidity and it would dissolve into a puddle of plastic doo-doo within minutes.. doo-doo, Cairo thought, like his opponents' chances of winning WAR. The Cairodaddy laughed before hitting the record button and directing his phone's camera toward his rugged yet ominous mug.
"WCF, my enemies, some of you my former comrades, soon we will be competing against each other inside of that ring in Phoenix, Arizona with twenty-thousand white supremacists, many of them neighbors of Logan, cheering us on. It's funny to me that before I announced my intentions to compete at WAR during last week's episode of Slam, the field of competitors had pretty much lined up behind Jonny Fly. It was assumed that Fly would win WAR, that he would go on to compete against Natural "ICE" Beckman at ONE and attempt to restore the so-called 'pecking order' in WCF, with Pantheon once again reigning supreme over all who dared oppose them. A funny thing happened on the way to that forum in Alabama-- The Godfather said NYET!" Cairo broadly smiled and rolled his neck, producing a voluminous series of snaps, crackles and pops.
"Yes it feels good! It feels good to know that I, in an instant, not only planted Seth Lerch's ugly, virgin kisser face first onto the mat with the most devastating finish in professional wrestling today-- that R-CAIRO-- but I also shifted the balance of power in WCF. The list of WAR entrants has been lining up this week, not to lick Fly's anus per the usual, but to drop to their knees and suckle of The Godfather's thickness. Oh sure, some of you have lobbed half-hearted jabs in my direction: 'You're too old, Cairo!' 'You don't care about winning anymore, you're only entering WAR to stroke your ego!' 'You're jealous of me because I'm Jonny Fly and, uh... you know, that used to mean something around here? #Spoiler: #Fly_Wins_In_The_End? Please? Please, Godfather? I beg of you please let me win I'm so lonely with this Tag Team belt and Corey as my partner! /tears.exe.' Well, you get the picture. Jonny Fly is a sad man these days, as he should be.
"Fly, where did it all go wrong for you? Was it the ego trips? The excessive consumption of Andy Capp's Hot Fries? Was it the sluts? Too many sluts sucking on your half-inch, effeminate Jew pee-pee? I'm a real Jew, Fly-- a half-Jew on my mother's side, from Uzbekistan. I don't play these little boy games. I don't talk the talk and then run half-baked comedy skits when it comes time to walk the walk. I don't care about Hot Fries. I don't care about coffee cakes. I don't care about video games, or hobnobbing with Kate Winslet. If I wanted to smash the Kate Winslet poon? Such poon would be absolutely devastated, like the city of Miami after a series of category five hurricanes. Make no mistake about it, Fly, I'm more capable than you inside of the sack, inside of the poon, and inside of that ass than you, just as I'm more capable inside of the ring than you."
Cairo lifted his head to bathe in the warm glow of the sun. He smiled. The Godfather breathed in the cleanest air that Havana North ever produced and he felt emboldened-- emboldened in his quest to rid WCF of the verminous infestation that had plagued it since Pantheon was founded in 2012. Cairo had been complicit in that crime. He aimed to redeem himself.
"A little Jew-on-Jew violence never hurt anyone, right, Fly? Oh, it will hurt you. You will cry. I already promised you that. You won't spend WAR hiding outside of the ring, eating hot wings with your buddies. Not this year. Not this time. This time, Jonny, you will spend WAR repenting your sins to The Godfather and I will hand down your judgment... and it will not be pleasant. I knew Pantheon was hot trash. I knew it the day I walked out on you, Phantasm and Purse in two-thousand and twelve. What I couldn't count on two years ago was that the rest of the WCF roster would fall down at your feet and play dead, give up the fight." Cairo smirks and shakes his head, feigning disbelief. "Ain't that something about a bitch named Jonny? Heh.
"It shouldn't have surprised me though. Your inane antics and movie star charisma have carried you far in this business, Fly. It's just that you can only be carried, SO FAR, before you meet your Lord God and Maker, that G-Daddy known as Cairo. It's time to pay your penance, boy. Time for us to end this cat-and-mouse game once and for all. And that goes for your boys, too. I didn't forget about you, Corey. I remember you from your days as Creeping Death, back when you still had bass in your voice, back when I defeated you as a WCF rookie to secure myself a World Title shot. The Godfather was the fastest rising champion in WCF history, and in case you didn't get the memo back then-- I am better than you, Black. I was better then, I'm better now, and I will be better until the end of our time on this Earth.
"You're a sad man, Corey. Content to walk around with a Tag Team Championship that I tossed into the trash months ago. Content to walk around with a Cruiserweight Championship that nobody gave a shit about ten years ago-- and even fewer people give a shit about now. Content to play dress-up with Jonny while your balls are dangling from his belt. These are the tactics that the so-called 'King of All Wrestlers' must stoop to in order to secure himself some gold and a fleeting glimpse of his triumphant past? Sad, sad, the saddest... well, almost the saddest. What's sadder? The fact that you're still hiding that video footage of what Team Thickness did to you and the rest of Pantheon at XIII. What's the matter, Corey? Too ashamed of your performance at YOUR event to let the world see the footage?" Cairo flashed that shit-eating grin of his and nodded his head in the affirmative.
Cairo panned the camera to show his audience precisely the exotic locale that he was enjoying before the big match, rubbing it in on some asshole shit. "A glimpse of Heaven before I send you and your kind to Hell, Black. The only thing, the ONLY thing that spared you at XIII was when I fractured my vertebrae hitting you with that R-CAIRO off the top of the cage. All that's in the past though, Corey. Got my shit rebuilt by Doc Remus. I'm bionic now, WHAT!? Check this out." Cairo held the camera at a distance and placed it at the base of a palm tree. Utilizing his left hand, Cairo grabbed his right forearm and ripped off a portion of the flesh, revealing a panel beneath the skin with circuits and buttons and gadgets galore. It looked like something out of The Terminator, but this was some kind of bugged out real life shit, scientists playing God and all that jazz. Terrifying stuff.
Cairo smiled wide for the camera before replacing the skin on his forearm, which grafted itself back into place within an instant. "So there's that for ya to deal with. You guys thought Lex Luger was freaky back in the day with that metal plate in his forearm? The Total Package ain't got shit on The Godfather. When I said that I was stronger than ever before, I wasn't lying. I meant it. Physically, mentally and spiritually I am on top of my game. We cannot say the same for you, Corey. It seems like your heart and your head are barely in the game anymore. And Fly? He's going through the motions in his own right. But the worst offender of all-- Jayson Allen Price." Cairo shook his damn head as if to say 'Now ain't that a cryin' shame 'bout that Jay Price?'
"What are we gonna do about you, Jayson Allen? I half-didn't wanna bag on ya. It's like beating up the handicapped kid in class who gets epileptic seizures from Spongebob cartoons and then stealing his lunch money. Unfortunately, you insist on weaseling your way into matches of relative importance in WCF, and that is not something that The Godfather can abide. It's time to put the Jay Price claptrap to bed. You're even worse than Fly, worse than Black. I can't entirely fault those guys for trying to recreate the past, relive their glory days, because at least they had glory days once upon a time. How about you, Jay? When you're daydreaming about the good old days, what are you even dreaming about? Seriously, is it your twelve-and-a-half (not Thirteen because Thickness owns that shit) minutes as World Champion?
"Is it your illustrious, though didn't quite live up to Cairo, reign as Television Champion that you enjoyed when you first hit the WCF scene? How about your latest shameful excursion as 'King Internet'? What does that even mean, by the way? You're the guy who leaked those Katie Upton nudes? Because that guy is the only one who has the right to call himself 'King Internet.' Oh wait... I get it. You're 'King Internet' because you fell flat on your ass at Ultimate Showdown and got handed a meaningless title belt, another meaningless title belt to add to your collection? Great stuff, 'King Internet.' I've seen some sad, sad charity cases in my day, but you take the cake. You shit the bed in one of the biggest matches of the year and you're--" Cairo uproariously chuckled, nearly dropping his phone.
"You're proud of yourself?! Really? What the fuck happened to you, man? You never really had dignity or self-respect of any kind, but you didn't used to settle for the absolute bare minimum and tout it as achievement. Once upon a time, way way back in the beginning of your WCF career, you had a hunger. You never really satisfied that hunger, never really fulfilled your potential, never truly came close, but at least you were determined to be somebody. What was it, Jay? What killed your career? Was it the booze? The pills? The poon? That Shannan Lerch poon? Shannan Lerch poon will fuck a nigga's career up faster than you can say 'ENDEAVORED,' my man. Damn shame. Damn shame indeed."
Cairo lamented Price's misfortune for the brief moment that he could muster a feeling of empathy. Once that fleeting moment had passed he got down to business-- he picked the sand from between his toes and then slipped his feet into a pair of suede loafers, the classy kind, that Elvis shit.
"I think there was some other guy who Fly recruited to join Pantheon. Not Daniel Bryan. Not Booker T. Some other developmental league talent who couldn't quite cut the muster. Oh well. His name isn't important, if he even had a name to begin with. Another unremarkable career that received that Pantheon kiss of death. What once stood proud, like the Pantheon of Ancient Greek society, is now crumbling before the world's very eyes. The Godfather will provide the final shit-kicking nail in the coffin at WAR when he R-CAIRO's each member of Pantheon and pins them in the middle of the ring. Once I'm finished with that bit of jobber-killing I shall turn my attention to the new kids on the block. Y'all heard about these--" Cairo pulled the camera up to his mouth and fogged it up with his breath as the words escaped his lips. "Vapor Kings?"
Cairo wiped the camera screen with his kerchief to reveal his smiling though thoroughly intimidating beard-face. Somehow the psychosis inside of Bobby's brain makes him look even scarier when he smiles. True story! "The Vapor Kings, WCF's flavor of the summer. However, all good things must come to an end, gentlemen. We've got my fellow Jew Buddy Roman guiding the way, a guy who I could kinda respect if, well, I respected people. Buddy truly has a brilliant managerial mind. He's proven that with the way that he's molded a midcard talent such as Zombie McMorris into a, you know, upper midcard talent. ZMAC is a funny guy. Not the type of funny that you laugh with, the type that you laugh at. This man McMorris walks the world in his dimestore imitation Doc Martens, purporting to be some kind of mad genius poet BBW smashing immortal--whateverthefuck.
"He's Evil Incarnate, he's The Honey Badger, he's The Duke of New York, he's Chitty Chitty Fucking Bang Bang. I don't really care about any of that. What I care about, ZMAC, is that you're another victim that I will destroy on my way to accomplishing the one feat that has previously escaped me in my Hall of Fame WCF career: victory in WAR. I've come close, Zombie. Oh so close. I finished second in two-thousand and seven. I finished third in two-thousand and thirteen in the largest field that WAR has ever seen. I paced myself, I picked my spots, I eliminated Steve Orbit with considerable aplomb-- only to be ambushed by a familiar face. Well, that's not going to happen again, McMorris. You're not gonna get the Cairo rub this year, the Cairo rub that Fly benefited from last year. Much like Jonny Fly, you are a familiar name and face to The Godfather. Hell, we waged war together, a different kind of war in the isle of Papua New Guinea. We smashed that shit in the ass poon and made it straight up Papua Poon Guinea!" Godfather bore his Great White Shark teeth while reminiscing the fun in the sun of the Thickness revolution in 2013.
"You commanded the forces of the Thousand Thick-ni Army, ZMAC. Didn't do too shabby of a job, if I'm overlooking the unnecessary acts of genocide that you committed. I just, I don't think you've thrived the way that a man of your talents should have thrived in WCF. You have the highest pain tolerance of any man that I've encountered. You do not give a damn about human life. You bear allegiance to no one, truly not even your Vapor Kings brethren. You would stab any of them in the back for another bump of coke. You should've been WCF World Champion multiple times over. So why, WHY have you failed to achieve all but a modicum of tangible success inside of the WCF ring? A month as United States Champion? That's your crowning jewel? Putting the Internet Championship on the map? As if such things were worthy of being prided upon?
"Sad shit, ZMAC. And you're the so-called leader of this ragtag bunch of misfits called The Vapor Kings? You, a poor man's Lawnmower Jones, with even less success to your credit than that Scottish lawnmower obsessed freak?" Cairo massaged his forehead with lithe and skillful fingers, as if it pained him to contemplate such tedious and farcical notions. "Natural "ICE" Beckman, my former partner in Team Thickness, you've willingly subjected yourself to the whims of a thieving Jew named Roman and a Coked Up Mad Man? Why? You truly believe yourself to be Buddy's son, ZMAC's brother in arms? That's some damn good brainwashing they got, ICE. Some damn good brainwashing. Almost as good as that Shannan Lerch poon brainwashing.
"If I am to understand the situation correctly, you believed that you needed to join The Vapor Kings to," Cairo could barely contain his chortling. "To secure your place in the upper echelon of the WCF roster? BAHAHAHAHAHA!" Cairo had nearly shit his Bermuda shorts. "Oh lawdy, that's rich. You've truly made it easy pickings for me, Natural. When I win WAR, and I will win WAR, I will secure a date with you at ONE. Of course you will have to defeat Corey Black, and you will defeat Corey Black, to retain the World Championship at Slam Three-Hundred, but such things are mere formalities. My point, Beckman, is that I will face you at ONE and I will give you an education in why I am the greatest superstar in WCF history. The greatest talent, the biggest name, the toughest motherfucker, and the most intimidating man that you will ever stand across the ring from in your entire wrestling career.
"You have, according to The Godfather's Rolex, approximately three months remaining in your championship reign before I R-CAIRO you back to Bumfuck, Wisconsin, where you and your Cheesehead buddies will reminisce about the good old days when you were WCF Champion. The good old days before The Godfather returned to WCF to reclaim his throne." Cairo nodded his head whilst casting a solemn glare into the camera. "This ain't about settling beef, Beckman. This is about you being in the wrong place at the wrong time. This is about you being WCF World Champion when The Godfather decided to return to his house and reclaim his property, that big gold belt that your drunk ass is wearing around your waist. Speaking of wrong place, wrong time--
"That's kind of how I would describe your elimination from WAR last year, Steve Orbit. Do you remember that? Do you remember when I dropped you on your head with that perfectly executed PerfectPlex, that Irresistible Bliss, and pinned your shoulders to the mat for the ONE... wait for it... TWO... waaaait.... THREE? Oh yes, you do. I know you do, Steve. You swore that you would exact your revenge upon my skull at WAR Thirteen. The problem with that, Steven, is that you lack the testicular fortitude to deliver upon such promises. I don't mind being threatened, Steve, so long as the person who threatens me follows through on their pledge. That's all that I ask, because if you don't do what you say that you're going to do... that makes you a liar.
"That makes you like a Jayson Allen Price, lying to us, promising that he's finally going to shake that choke artist label and deliver greatness after teasing us with years of squandered potential. You're better than Jay in theory, Steve, and that's why you beat him last month at Revenge. But truthfully, Steve? Truthfully? You're not going to be any better than Jay when you're lying at The Godfather's feet, disheveled, debased, defeated and discredited once and for all at WAR in Phoenix, Arizona. That's the difference between a guy like Jonny Fly and a guy like Bobby Cairo, Steve. When a guy like Jonny Fly beats you, you're back on the horse the next week. You're living, and you're loving those strip club bitches, and you're snorting that blow, bumping that coke, ooh... that reminds me, I have some business to attend to. But first, Steve, the difference. The difference is that when I beat you, Orbit, you get gone and you don't come back.
"Your career? POOF! Gone in a cloud of vapors, Steve, and that kingdom? Well, that kingdom done be crumbled. And all of Buddy Roman's horses and all of his men, couldn't put that Vapor Kings kingdom together again. HAHAHAHA!" Cairo maniacally cackled as he hit the record button, this time to end the transmission. With a twiddle of his fingers he forwarded the video to the techs at WCF.com, where The Godfather's vitriolic manifesto would go live for the world to see.
A white patio under the hot white sun played host to the business deal gone down. Cash for coke. Coke to fuel a communist empire. Cash to do the same. This was far-left commerce at its finest. Not a single gunshot fired. Not yet anyway. Bobby Cairo, wearing a Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda shorts and blue suede loafers, handed a briefcase containing Godfather only knows how many kilos of cocaine to a Cuban man wearing similarly casual beach attire, and those black Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses. The shades were the tell. Shades make a man look shady, if you follow the metaphor, and this man looked shady indeed. Powerful, though. Shady and powerful to boot. This man was none other than Boss King, Cairo's top Cuban connection and close confidante of Fidel Castro.
Boss King was not a man to be trifled with, and if his English nickname wasn't a dead giveaway in that regard, you might wish to call him "El Patrón." Whatever you called him, you were going to show him respect, just as you showed The Godfather respect. Hell, even The Godfather showed him respect, and the vice versa, and these were two men who did not respect anyone. But one thing they knew was that respect given was respect earned when you traveled in the circles which they did.
"Yes, this is the good shit, my friend," El Patrón commented as he did a bump of that pure, uncut Poon Guinean blow. "Better quality than the finest Colombian."
"The Colombians can't swallow The Godfather's victory jizz, Patrón," Cairo boasted. The two friends and business partners shared a laugh.
El Patrón closed the briefcase and placed it between his thighs, under the table, that old school Cuban necktie waiting to come out and play should the shit ever hit the fan. But it was with Cairo, and Cairo alone, that Boss King allowed himself to relax. Cairo, like Patrón, was not about the bullshit. If the shit did hit the fan it was gonna hit the motherfucks who lobbed it in the first place. That was karma, Cairo style. However, there was a matter that had been unnerving Boss King and he felt compelled to speak on it. So he did.
"As amigos may we speak candidly?" Boss King awaited Cairo's reply, which he received in the form of a nod. Cairo's brow did furrow, but he was not one to question Boss King or Boss King's decorum. "I never mean to second guess you, Senor Cairo, we are friends for many years. But I've heard something and I must speak about it. As you know, word travels quickly on the black market grapevine and, frankly, amigo, I've heard about your dealings with ISIS. El Presidente Castro is concerned. ISIS are... they are mal hombres, mi amigo." Boss King's expression was stony, emotionless, hardened. He did not pass judgment on The Godfather, but his concerns had been cast to The Godfather's ear. Patrón awaited Cairo's reply.
Cairo reflected King's stony, emotionless, hardened expression. He was reading his old friend and business partner. He was looking for clues behind those black sunglasses. King recognized this. He removed his glasses to show there were no tricks, no slight of hand at play. Cairo finally nodded his head in complete understanding of the concerns that Boss King had raised.
"I do sell to bad men, Patrón. I sell to the worst men. I sell to the best men. I sell to every man in between. Do you know why? I am the last libertarian, Patrón. The final free market entrepreneur. You sit and meet with me, and what do you feel? You feel that fleeting feeling of liberty that's quickly lost in a society controlled by scoundrels, heathens, hypocrites, men like Barry Oak and Seth Lerch. Men like Jonny Fly and Buddy Roman. Denialists, revisionists, opportunists. I am God! I am God's father! My hand chooses the victors! My hand chooses the losers!" Cairo rose to his feet and slammed his fists on the glass table, shattering it into a thousand pieces. Boss King did not flinch, but he had received Cairo's message loud and clear.
"You're worried about ISIS? ISIS, Patrón? They got your panties in a bunch, huh?" Cairo sneered at his friend, his colleague, his chum. A chum that Cairo suddenly regarded more like a chump. "ISIS, Patrón? They're just this year's version of The Thickness, a watered down Thousand Thick-ni Army. You think that arming Islamic fascists bothers me? I arm everybody, Patrón. I arm ISIS today, Russia tomorrow, China the next day, Canada the day after that, and finally I arm Barry Oak and his US military forces once they're down to their last hope and they're begging me for it. Do you know why, Patrón? Because I want everybody to kill everybody. I am the kingmaker, me, Bobby Cairo. I give you life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Then I bring death!"
Cairo snickered as he paced back and forth upon the patio. He leered at Boss King before turning his attention to invisible enemies, none who particularly struck his fancy, but he was throwing fists at them all the same. "Treason? Is that what we're worried about? War crimes? The courts? The military juntas? The tribunals? Come arrest me, President Oak! Come arrest me, United Nations! Oh wait... ooh, that's right. I'm not only a head of state and the mayor of America's most populous city, I'm also an ambassador of a United Nations recognized state." Cairo dropped to his feet and smiled like the cat that ate the canary. He closed his eyes and spread his arms in a Jesus Christ pose. "They cannot touch me, Patrón. I have total immunity. Now, am I supposed to feel guilty for doing the things that I've done?"
Cairo opened his eyes and cocked his head to the side, searching Boss King for a reply and finding none. Cairo sighed. "I do not feel guilty, Patrón. You think about America and their position in the world today. What's American culture all about? Consumerism? Consumerism that's more dishonorable than any drug deal or arms deal that I could strike on the black market? Americans bitch about finding a free U2 album in their iTunes folder; meanwhile, half a world away, the American government drops bombs on third world countries, killing innocent civilians. Patrón, I gotta tell ya, I think Americans could stand to be knocked off their high horse, don't you?"
Boss King placed his sunglasses onto his face and finally muttered a reply. "You raise an interesting point, my friend. Interesting indeed."
"Thank you, Patrón. I knew you would see things my way. Do you know what really bothers me, what really-- sticks in my craw? Seth Lerch has gone into business with Gravedigger and his wetback buddies. I would challenge Digger to a match at ONE but he's half-Mexican so he'd be too lazy to show up."
Cairo and Boss King shared a hearty laugh. Cubans don't like Mexicans either. Their mutual bigotry was one of the things that bonded The Godfather and El Patrón.
"He would make a good opponent for you, I think, amigo," Boss King posited.
"That fat Mexican fuck? Really, Patrón?"
"Hey, he's a Hall of Famer just like you. And he's looking pretty ripped these days. You've seen him showing off his new body?"
"Pfft. Please. That ain't nothing but steroids, right there. Typical Mexican juicer. You know what? Whether he's fat or juiced up, that man's heart is gonna give out one of these days. And when it does? The Godfather is gonna whiz on Gravedigger's, well, his grave. Haha. But not before I R-CAIRO his ass at WAR and show those MS-13 goons how a communist takes care of business."
"My friend, I wish you the best. I am sure that you will prevail, as always." Patrón checked his watch and nodded his head in affirmation. "I have to get going. I have business to which I must attend." Boss King tapped on the briefcase and Cairo understood.
"So long, Patrón. Give my regards to Castro."
Boss King rose from his seat and walked away. Cairo looked out to the ocean and smiled. He knew that he would be big; bigger than the sea, bigger than the sky, deeper and heavier, but never bluer. Never blue. Bobby Cairo was not a blue boy. Bobby Cairo would ascend his throne once again as the King of the WCF Mountain. WAR was Step One in his plan.
Feeling festive, an idea entered Cairo's brain. "Goddamn, I just made a lot of money," Cairo mused to himself. "I should call Chad. He's got a house out this way." And he did. The Godfather phoned his former protege Chad Evans, "The Big Dick Superstar." The cocaine cowboys would ride again!
"My maxim is to live life to the fullest," a bleary-eyed Chad Evans asserted while snorting a line of coke off a stripper's ass cheeks in the back of a limousine.
"I concur, Chadwick," Cairo retorted while snorting a line of coke off a different stripper's titties in the back of the same limousine.
"Oh man this is awesome, Bobby. We got strippers, coke... WE BIG DICKS BE STEALIN' THE COKE! Haha!" Chad was living it up, happy to be reconnected with his friend The Godfather for the first time in months. "Where you been, Bobby? I tried DM'ing you on Twitter, but you never replied."
"I've been staying off of social media, keeping a low profile. Wanted to maintain that element of surprise for WAR, ya heard?"
"WAR?" Chad exclaimed as his eyebrows arched. "It's that time of year again? Damn. Did I ever win WAR? No, no, that was Trios Cup. And the World Championship. Oh and the Tag Team Championship. Who's all in WAR this year?"
"Pantheon, Vapor Kings, Chelsea's clique, whatever the fuck they're called. I don't think they even have a name yet. No Twilight or Eric Price this year. Fuck those guys."
Chad stares blankly at Bobby. "I have no idea who any of those people are, Bobby. Oh wait-- I know Twilight. I dropped her on her head to win the Trios Cup."
"Him, Chad, HIM. There was a big exposé about it on TMZ. Anyway, people you might know... oh yeah, Torture's in there."
"Torture? Fuck that guy. Did you know he made me job to him in like my second match in WCF?"
"What do you mean 'made me job,' Chad? WCF ain't a work. This shit is legit. 2 LEGIT 2 QUIT, NIGGA!"
Chad cocks his head to the side and lowers his gaze at Bobby. "Really, Bobby? You're gonna pretend that you don't remember what it was like back then? The backstage politics? The lies and deceptions? Tort promised me that if I laid down for him, I'd get a future pay-per-view headliner against him, for the belt. That big gold belt. Now you wanna know something about a bitch? That shit never happened. I had to earn my spot atop the card the hard way, the Big Dick way. You know what I mean?"
"Uh, yeah, yeah, Chad. Tort is a motherfucker of a motherfucker, but I'm not entirely sure why he decided to return. Things ain't like they used to be for Tort. He lost to CD at ONE last year, then he lost to S-PAC at some... I don't even remember. Some pay-per-view that didn't feature a World Title match because Seth shoehorned Tort into another undeserved main event slot. Well, that part is like old times, at least. But the man has been losing, Chad. He's been losing so badly that it's almost, ALMOST sad. I look at him now and I'm like, 'This is the Torture that we spent all those years bitching about in our little backstage bullshit sessions? Nah, can't be. This man sucks! This man can't win a wrestling match! Are you surrious, yo? How the fuck is this Torture? Are we being Punk'd right now? Is Tort gonna rip off his face and reveal himself to be Ashton Kutcher?' Shit is crazy, Chad."
Chad sat there staring at Bobby with his mouth agape. Even another line of coke from the stripper's ass couldn't revive him. "Furrealz, Bobby? Fuckin furrealz?"
"It's ridiculous, Chad. Then we got these other bums-- jobbers that aren't even worth The Godfather's time or breath to mention, but here's a couple of names from the past: Johnny Reb and Doc Henry."
Chad openly giggled at the mention of The New Confederacy members. "Man, that shit brings me back, Bobby. What are those guys up to these days? I remember when me and Prince Jimmy beat them for the straps."
Bobby creased his forehead and cast a quizzical glance at Chad. "Oh, that's right... Jimmy was your tag partner, wasn't he? Huh. Funny how life works. He went from winning gold with you to getting murked by The Godfather."
"What's that, Bobby? I couldn't hear you. My face was buried in this bitch's titties."
"Oh, don't worry your pretty little head about it, Chad. I was just talking to myself."
"Last time I saw Reb was when we won Trios Cup together, Big Dick Superstars version two-point-oh! Those were the days, man! You know something though? He never visited me in the hospital after I got injured. Fuckin Confederate bastard."
"I wouldn't worry about it, Chad. Karma done bit him in the ass. The New Confederacy are shells of their former selves. Reb went from WAR winner in two-thousand-eleven to complete afterthought headed into this year's match. Ain't nobody givin' that motherfucker the time of day. Shit, I might toss an R-CAIRO his way just to give him some action. And as for Doc... you already know that sad tale."
"Damn? Cracker still ain't changed shit up in the last three years?"
"Not one damn bit. Still scraping the bottom of the barrel."
Chad shook his head and laughed. "The more things change, Bobby. Oh man-- you know something?"
"What's that, Chad?"
Chad reached into the waistband of his sweatpants and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. "I got shit-faced the other night, woke up and found this tucked under my door. I think--Bobby, I don't really understand what it means, but I think it was intended for you."
"What makes you say that, Chad?"
"Well listen," Chad unfolded the paper and read the note aloud to Bobby. "It goes, 'Freedom? They call this Freedom? It's an outrage! The Governor must know about this! Summon him at once!' That's it. Now, you're the only Governor that I know, Bobby. I tried to summon you on Twitter, but as you stated--"
"Self-imposed social media blackout."
"Exactly. So I'm summoning you now. I just hope it's not too late."
Chad handed the note to Bobby, who proceeded to study it intently. "Did you notice how Freedom is capitalized with an uppercase F? 'They call this Freedom?' Do you think that refers to something specific? A person, a place, a landmark of some kind?"
"Freedom... Freedom... you know something, Bobby? There's an old building on Biscayne Boulevard called the Freedom Tower, but I don't know why anyone would want to waste your time with it. It's basically serves as a monument to the Cubans that fled from Castro."
"Really? So there is political relevance to it?"
"Well yeah, but how could it be relevant to you, Bobby? You're not Cuban."
"No, but I deal with Cubans. There's gotta be something about that place. Something more than meets the eye. The US government, they've gone out of their way to demonize Castro and communism. That building's gotta be a front for some kind of capitalist fuckin', I don't even know man. There's something there. I'm going there. Today, Chad. Today. Right now."
"Do you want me to go with you, Bobby?"
"No, no, you rest, my friend. You've been an invaluable asset. If I need back-up I'll call you."
"You shouldn't go there alone, Bobby. The Cubans, they get suspicious if they see white folk there all by their lonesome."
Cairo thought about it for a moment and then replied. "I'll bring a lady friend."
Chad looked at the strippers and then looked at Bobby, a questioning glare on his face. "Really, Bobby?"
"No, no, Chad. Not these lady friends. It's time to put the Vida Guerra ass poon to work."
The white and gold tower glimmered in the sun like a beacon on the mount. It appeared to scale all the way to Heaven. Bobby Cairo and Vida Guerra, each dressed in upscale Miami style clothing, stood at the base of the Freedom Tower, in front of the modest building upon which the tower was mounted.
Cairo turned to Vida and began to question her. "You say that you've heard rumors about this place, baby doll?"
"Yes, Bobby. There have been rumors of human sacrifices, men dressed in cloaks filing in and out of the building at all hours, Satanic masses, even sightings of reptilian shapeshifters. Some real scary shit. None of it has been confirmed but the rumors always persisted because they couldn't be debunked either. No one knows the truth."
Cairo patted the chrome veneer of the Glock that resided under his jacket, within his shoulder holster, and confidently pushed Vida's sumptuous ass toward the entrance of the building. "We're gonna find out the truth, baby doll."
"How can you be sure this isn't a trap, Bobby?"
"I'm half hoping it is a trap, Vida. God-Daddy's got an itchy trigger finger and it's itching me bad right about now."
Vida clinched Bobby's torso and refused to let him go. She found comfort in his heaving slab of man-beef. "We want the basement, Bobby. The tower, from what the rumors say, is a beacon for the Masons from across the city, but their ceremonies are conducted in the basement. It's not going to be easy getting down there. The rest of the building is host to an art museum, which is open to the public, but those elevators don't go down to the basement. If we take the stairs, we'll find that the basement is blocked off that way as well."
"You've tried to get down to that basement before?"
"Of course. Why wouldn't I? I'm as curious as anyone to find out what's really down there."
"Armed resistance, I hope." The Godfather smiled.
The inside of the Freedom Tower building was home to an inconspicuous museum, just as Vida had stated, but what caught The Godfather's attention was the quiet murmuring that lingered in the air. Not the sign of a busy social area with many people conversing, but in some shape or form a... demonic presence that perpetuated the establishment. If The Godfather was primed for action before, he was begging for it by now.
The elevators, Cairo would find, did not go to the basement. Vida was correct about that, as she reminded him. Once The Godfather had confirmed this for himself ("You never know, baby doll. They could've had the basement unlocked if they were performing maintenance down there.") he had Vida lead him to the stairs. They made their way down to the basement level, where of course they found that the door was locked and, in fact, there were armed guards standing on either side of the door. One of the guards, the more hulking of the two, held up his hand in a 'halt!' gesture and scolded Bobby. "You're not allowed down here, sir. Turn around and go upstairs... NOW!"
"Oh, of course," The Godfather replied. "My mistake." In the blink of an eye. The Godfather unholstered his weapon and shot both guards between the eyes, instantly killing them.
The silencer on Bobby's gun had provided some cover, but Vida knew that was only temporary. "Hurry, Bobby! We don't have much time! There's cameras everywhere!"
Bobby heeded Vida's warnings and proceeded to kick the basement door in, a METAL basement door, with a single Yakuza kick. Being bionic certainly had its advantages, Bobby noted. Vida concurred.
As they made their way into the basement, they found that it was lit only by candles, a mass of candles, as if the basement were in fact host to some bizarre underground temple, just as the rumors had stated. "We've hit the motherload, baby doll." Cairo was astounded. Not a man who was easily caught off-guard, even Bobby was taken aback by the eccentricity of the dwelling. This was especially so when he stumbled about what appeared to be human body parts and blood placed inside of a pentagram, apparently as a sacrifice.
Vida's complexion had turned white as a sheet. She stuttered for her words and managed only to lift her hand in an awkward manner, drawing Bobby's attention, pointing with a crooked index finger to an area within the lair, a makeshift altar, but there was something specific that caught Bobby's eye when he turned to look. When he saw the photograph at the top of the altar his jaw dropped. It took him a moment to process the information and gather his thoughts. When he did, he spoke the first words that he could muster: "Diablo Calzone was right all along. The Lerchuminati is real."
A headshot of WCF owner Seth Lerch wearing formal attire had been framed and placed atop the altar for reasons that had been rumored, conjected, speculated upon for months, years even. Cairo knew that he was facing the fight of his life in the war at WAR, in the war against Seth Lerch, against Barry Oak, but the gravity of the situation hit him harder than ever before. He snatched the picture, ripped it from its frame, and without contemplating his actions, he grabbed his Zippo and set the picture ablaze. The smoke alarm sounded within seconds; the sprinkler system was activated. Cairo dropped Seth's picture to the floor. It began to float as a kind of pyre before the flames were extinguished by the water and the photograph had been transformed to blackened ash.
Footsteps could be heard charging down the stairwell; the elevator bell dinged. Reinforcements were on the move from both paths of escape. Tears rolled down Vida's cheeks. She believed that she was going to die. Cairo looked at Vida, his face handsome and stoic. He reassured her. "This is the easy part, baby doll. Fighting Greenfever at WAR... that's gonna be the challenge."
(OOC: Special thanks to Erich "E-Wreck" Hess for providing me with his insight into the city of Miami! I couldn't have done this without you, my friend!)
