ｔｅｌｅｎｉｇｈｔｓ (TV Title RP)
Sept 23, 2015 16:17:49 GMT -5
God King Dune, Gemini Battle, and 3 more like this
Post by 6ix God on Sept 23, 2015 16:17:49 GMT -5
Every good meal begins with an appetizer
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“The Art of Burying a Belt”
It was the upset of the night. It was the moment which sent small children crying into their mother’s arms. It was the antithesis of a hard earned win, and the whole situation oozed a certain scummy quality. Truly, it was the upset of the night when Jared “Los Tiburones” Holmes walked from the steel cage and onto the floor, winning that SeaV Title and defeating perennial fan favorite Teo del Sol. Before he could even exit through the curtain, a massive presence swept behind him and hoisted him up, the shoulders of Wade Moor holding Jared high and triumphant as the #BeachKrew gathered around and paraded their newest champion through the halls of the Garret Coliseum. As the faces of friends and allies crowded Jared, the twin Honolulu blue flags of the Anchor and the Pentagram raised above him, a sense that almost felt like pride swelled within Jared, quickly tossed to the wind as the energy of the group filled him.
#BeachKrew: Jared! Jared! Jared!
The procession moved through the back towards the parking lot, the sneering faces of other superstars eying them contemptuously as the Krew stood tall. The gumpy figure of Hank Brown (his face an identical mask of disgust) begrudgingly ran alongside them, microphone thrust into the air to capture fragments of words from Jared amongst the cacophony.
Hank Brown: Los Tiburones, you have just captured your first championship here in the WCF. After a trying series of three matches against Teo del Sol, how does it feel to steal this victory?
Jared thrust the belt into the air, the smug grin on his face widening to a Cheshire grin his mentor Thuggin would be proud of.
Los Tiburones: Is anyone surprised by this outcome?! Did people actually think I wouldn’t smear Theodore of the Sun the moment I decided I wanted to?! You fucking idiots, I told you that #BeachKrew doesn’t lose unless it wants to! And every time the nay-sayers want to drive down the odds in Vegas, we make a fucking killing by betting on ourselves! It’s the perfect scam! I’m the greatest wrestler in this federation!
Hank Brown: The greatest?
Los Tiburones: The fucking greatest! #BeachKrew is the greatest stable in this piece of shit! This level of dominance hasn’t been seen since Imperium was formed. Since the DhyphenRhyphenG got their push. #BeachKrew is about to roll into WAR and body bag the entire company like it’s a Sunday drive! In fact, it is a Sunday drive! And the laughable part is there will be many people who think Rico and Sandy losing a match to Beaver is somehow indicative that we’re all hype. News flash, fuccbois: we got three titles in this bitch! We’ve got the entry-level market completely cornered! After WAR, I get myself a new contract and start the #BeachKrew era in the WCF!
Hank Brown: Not the “Los Tiburones Era”?
Los Tiburones: What part of “#BeachKrew is an indivisible team” do you people not get? One member of #BeachKrew holding a belt is everyone in #BeachKrew holding a belt. Right now, Sandy Coconutz is SeaV, Intertubez, and Senpai Champion because #BeachKrew is SeaV,Intertubez, and Senpai Champion! If fukken Andre were to win WAR, he’d be saying the same thing! It’s truly “All for ONE, and ONE for all”.
Hunter Updegraff: AHHHHHHHHHHHH! This nilla with the puns! HASHTAG JARED IS PUN-NY!
Hank Brown: A lot of people feel you sto-
“Hacksaw” Jim Thuggin: Incorrect. Not “a lot of people”. You are using a euphemism to disguise your personal opinions, Mister Brown-who-is-actually-Caucasian.
Hank stopped and glared at Thuggin, a brief and hateful look dripping with arsenic and disgust. He was hardly able to focus on the look before he had to resume his jog to keep up with the parade, which shoved through the arena doors and into the parking lot.
Hank Brown: Anyway, Los Tiburones, I know I’m not the only one to feel like you cheated your way to this win tonight. You employed underhanded tactics, as usual of you, to walk away despite being unable to cleanly put away your opponent. What do you have to say to those who still doubt you for this very reason?
Los Tiburones: It’s a fukken No-Disqualification match! I can do whatever I want! If you didn’t want to see Teo get kicked in the bell end, don’t open the rules so I can!
Hank Brown: But you’ve cheated your way to other victories here in the WCF. Your first win against Pantheon was the product of what some would call an unsavory victory.
Wade Moor: If Seth Lerch is so concerned about “the integrity of the sport”, maybe he should get some new refs.
Los Tiburones: Or he could retroactively disqualify us! Or he could restart the match! Are you fukken kidding me, Hank? You think that because we “cheated” our way to victory, it’s somehow not a victory? I’m sorry, there’s a fukken Double-Yoo in my column and an El in Pantheon’s, neither of which have been scrubbed clean officially. Get the fuck over it; it’s wrestling. People fukken eat it up when we cheat: they love when we cheat.
“Hacksaw” Jim Thuggin: Truly my Earth Children are resourceful. Even Andre, if not as much.
Hank Brown: So what then if you are forced to defeat Teo using unsavory methods, such as interference?
Los Tiburones: I’ve already beaten Teo! What the fuck do people not get? See this belt? I just beat him tonight. If you want a “clean win” go watch UFC!
Hank Brown shook his head, his mouth turned into a frown.
Hank Brown: And what do you say to those who think a #BeachKrew team up at WAR would be unfair?
Kyle Kemp shoved his way to the front of the pack, pulling Hank’s arm down so the mic was in his face.
Kyle Kemp: The hypocrisy of the plebeians who watch this show is incredible. A few months ago, everyone was hard-dicked over the so-called “Stable Wars”. Now when we actually act like a stable everyone has a problem? Would folks be calling bullshit if Pantheon or the DRG stuck together in this match? Fuck no.
Rico Rojas: Ay carbon, Panteeyahn fear #BeachKrew! Dem pendejoes talk shit cuz dey don’t want dere own bois seein’ dey ain’t got dem! Panteeyahn a buncha fuccbois wit no sensa loyalty!
Hunter Updegraff: Hashtag champagne for my real friends and real pain for my sham friends! I ain’t even gonna be in this shit an’ still gonna be comin’ in like fourth place!
As the group reached the WINO-bago, Wade lowered Los Tiburones from his shoulders. The mic back in his face, Jared smiled at the camera as he patted the belt draped over his shoulder.
Los Tiburones: Don’t worry WSeaF, I’ll take real good care of this.
He burst into sick peals of laughter as the door to the WINO-bago was thrown open by Thuggin. Dragging the belt behind him, one of the side plates undoubtedly becoming scuffed and scratched against the concrete parking lot, Jared climbed aboard the rolling trap house, eager to try out his shiny new coke mirror.
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Kill Your Heroes
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There’s a point when this isn’t fun anymore. Maybe it started out sort of amusing: good and evil, tall and short, sun (sky) versus water. Ha ha ha, what a great little block of booking for the kids, yeah? It’s like Neville versus Stardust; quick, someone throw a celebrity in our matches.
Sure, I got this shiny new toy. Sure, I did exactly what I said I was going to: beat you in our third match. I predicted that motherfukken Habanero High Dive, and I predicted my win. I’m a goddamn psychic. Don’t get me wrong, all of this sort of stuff was fun. I enjoyed forcing you into that cage. I enjoyed kicking you square in the Mexican jumping beans, simultaneously guaranteeing my win and that you won’t be polluting the gene pool. I enjoyed the boos of the crowd when you lost, and I enjoyed the look on your stupid face when you smugly thought unmasking me would get you the win. I enjoyed nailing you with the Dolphin Driver, and I thought tearing you from the jaws of victory by a handful of fabric was the funniest shit I’ve seen in years. All things considered, last week was one of the highlights of my month.
But this week isn’t fun. This week isn’t amusing. See, this week was supposed to be something big: Los Tiburones charges cock first into WAR, #BeachKrew dominates in a resounding fashion. It was a simple, easy formula: a team of like –I dunno, five? – could easily exert its will. So while we’re standing there all sexy-like at the end, Thuggin would come down with a microphone in hand and name the winners. Favorite Earth Child, Los Tiburones: winner of WAR. What a nice tableau for my old man to see if he gave a shit.
But you had to fuck that up, didn’t you? You just had to have your little rematch this week. So while I’m trying to save myself for the bigger picture – that brawl for a chance at the biggest prize in the company and solidifying of #BeachKrew’s legacy – I have to get back in the ring with Whitey the Suicidal People-Pleaser. Yeah the obsequious little runt who’d be totally okay with snapping his own neck if it meant a good pop from the crowd. So I have to go back into the ring – with you – and then go to WAR. If you want to get a gauge on how much Seth fears #BeachKrew, just look at the WAR card: I face you for the Sea-V Title, and Wade faces Z-Mac for the Intertubez Title. Seth is so afraid of us clean-sweeping WAR that he has intentionally given us a heavier load. He’s trying to screw us. That’s the threat we are.
By contrast, Theodore, you were never in the contender picture for WAR. You have as good a chance at winning this as Riddlebox does. You are a spoiler. Ralph fukken Nader. Ross Perot. The third party candidate who is siphoning votes off the more deserving candidate. Think about it, Teo: you’re going to get George W. Bush elected. If Tom Bates or Doug Murdock wins WAR, I am putting the blame solely on you. Teo del Sol just had to have his match against Los Tiburones.
But you know what? Fine. Let’s fucking dance, Teddy Blaze. Because this whole “best two out of four” shit has grown to be the epitome of stale for me. I should be focusing on new opponents. I should have killed you when I had the chance last week. I should have put you in the same hole as Scarecrow. The same vegetable ward as Mitch Morales. Instead I simply won. And you know what? That’s on me. But I did you favor, Teddy, because I let you off for hook on something career ending. I could have beaten you within an inch of your life if I felt so inclined – did you see the glazed look on Derek Moreno’s face when he wrestled his (probably) last match in the WSeaF? Now that’s going to be you, Teddy: a broken man.
After pulling Moreno’s wings off, he’s come crashing down to Earth quicker than Icarus a million miles up. He, too, was arrogant enough to think he could force me into a match I didn’t want. He, too, thought this was some big game; some vendetta or some battle between good and evil. Like you, he went into our match at Revenge the perennial fan favorite; unlike you, he was on a massive win streak. Derek Moreno looked white-hot and ready to crush anyone who stood in his way, as he rocketed up the card. When I rendered Mitch Morales crippled for life, I did Derek Moreno his biggest favor: suddenly the world looked like his oyster as he was proclaimed “always the more talented one in Mejor Redemption”. Fans could only wonder why he’d be set free if not to dominate alone.
Then I broke him.
Did you see that match, Teo? Yeah, you’re so quick to point out how I brought in Kemp. Good job, Teo. Have a fucking cookie, Sherlock. You can bitch and complain about “fair” or not, but after that match, Derek Moreno took a week-long break. When Derek Moreno came back – his big shot at asserting himself in this company by proving that Revenge was a fluke – he looked like garbage. He was a broken man. A defeated boy. The beautiful boy that mother loved had the glow torn from his eyes. And now? Derek Moreno isn’t even with the WseaF anymore. That’s another head for my pile, even if I didn’t get to physically end his ability to wrestle. Yet, in some ways it was more satisfying; I’d never broken a spirit before.
So, now we’re forced back into the ring, Teo, and I wonder how often you think of poor little Derek Moreno. How often do you think of poor Corvus Cane, buried in the rose garden behind the Roman estate? There are many pits on this Beach, Teo, and a Beach burial is the easiest:
1) Wait for low tide.
2) Dig a deep hole within the tide zone. Six feet deep, or until you hit the water table.
3) Place the body, wrapped in a tarp and weighed down, in the hole.
4) Let the hole sit until the tide begins to rise again, pushing water and sediment into the hole. When high tide has returned, the grave is indistinguishable.
To be living is to be dying, Teo. And professional wrestling? It’s hitting the pedal to the floor on the inevitable.
People don’t want to take me seriously. People think I’m a joke.
Good. I want them to.
Then I did. And I will again.
Rejoice, Theodore; the end is nigh. You can’t beat me. You never could beat me. As I said against Moreno, I will echo for you: this was never a close match. I have the world on a string. I have everything you wish you could have. Anything I want, I take with relative ease. Some dumpy little muppet luchadore never stood a chance against me. But if you’d be so kind as to roll over; I have WAR to win. And as I said last week, I’ll reiterate:
“Los Tiburones walks out of Slam as Sea-Vee Champion, wins WAR, and dumps your little trinket overboard for the Whirlpool Championship. Dune drowns at ONE while Teo drowns in the lower card, victim of being pushed too hard, too fast. #Ryback”
{This Week's Results}
Good-bye Teo
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ｔｅｌｅｎｉｇｈｔｓ
Were I to believe in metaphysical trite like “magic” or “divinity”, I could be persuaded that some sense of sacred rests in the Witching Hour. It’s an odd time, that period between two-thirty and four am when the world has ceased to exist and function as we commonly know it. For those who have never had the true sublime pleasure of experiencing a proper Witching Hour, I recommend taking a weekday evening to visit San Francisco to stay up past the closing of the bars at two am. You find yourself in one of the busiest cities in the world which has suddenly emptied; a veritable wasteland of tasteful neo-Victorian homes and littered streets with dark, lifeless bodegas advertising fashionable microbrews.
My position as a member of #BeachKrew tends to make my evenings – how do you say – busy, but on the occasional free evening, perhaps when the party escalated too quickly and has prematurely crashed down or never found flight in the first place (it does happen), I find these evenings perfect for a ｔｅｌｅｎｉｇｈｔ.
It all begins with my funny valentine: Blue Velvet. What exactly Blue Velvet is, I am not completely confident, but I first discovered it through Hunter. To his knowledge, Blue Velvet was quietly the next designer drug, a substance somewhat like K-2 which had been synthesized in the Netherlands. Jim later suggested that perhaps it had been related to the experiments of MK-ULTRA tested out by the CIA, attempting to weaponized LSD or other psychedelics. The more I consider it, the more I realize my own ambivalence to the origin of Blue Velvet. What matters is the effects.
To simply consider Blue Velvet a psychedelic is inaccurate, yet it is not quite a narcotic, either. In fact, the best description I could offer it being is that it is exactly what marijuana is described as in 1950’s exploitation films and rock and roll cartoons: hazy, molasses, and dream-like. Somewhat like a limited dose of DMT with a strong dose of opium. On a ｔｅｌｅｎｉｇｈｔ, Blue Velvet is exactly what I desire to get myself into the proper state of mind.
My ritual is simple: I wait until the world begins to quiet, sometime around two-thirty am after the bars have closed and most patrons have stumbled drunkenly to the cars, content to drive home in the fog of inebriation. I turn off the lights in whatever hotel room I’m staying (I never have a ｔｅｌｅｎｉｇｈｔ in the WINO-bago). I roll a blunt of Blue Velvet, always using a Wild Cat White Grape blunt wrapper, and I smoke it in front of the mirror, enjoying the perfume of the dissociative smoke and the reflection of my face when lit by the glow of the blunt ember. When my skin begins to resemble marble and the mirror begins to feel like a portal to some sort of cosmic landscape, I know I am ready. I walk to my bed and turn on the television.
The world is an odd place in the glow of late night television. Nothing “good” is ever on during the Witching Hour, but I’m never interested in watching anything good. Television is largely hollow: plastic and narcotic. I love plastic and narcotic, but primetime television disguises its true intentions. During the Witching Hour, you find yourself lost amongst infomercials, HBO porn, and re-runs of Miami Vice. It’s the timeslot of television where all of the cultural wastewater of the last thirty years has settled and collected, fermenting together in its own wasteland of advertising and kitsch. This television makes no effort to disguise its plastic and narcotic quality: the paint has peeled off and our senses have refined. At one time, we may have considered these programs the height of modernity, a new bible for the turn-of-the-century consumer congregant. A pop art graveyard. The rotting corpse of the 20th Century.
Under the effects of Blue Velvet, the television becomes a shimmering surface like water which I can submerge myself. As I break through, I find myself strolling the halls of an empty grocery store: the shelves lined with technicolor bottles of chemical compounds, pharmaceutical or otherwise. Something plays over the intercom, a watery, chopped, and screwed rendition of “Wicked Game” by Chris Isaak. Just beyond the sliding glass doors which mark the entrance of this dead temple to consumption, I can see a fantastic alien scape both below the waves and beyond space, non-Euclidian and kaleidoscopic. Three dimensionally rendered fish swim through the air past me.
As I leave the supermarket, I find myself in submerged wreckage of what I imagine is the Gimnasio del Sol. The time is not then, now, nor the future.
The gym has seen better days, as any could imagine would be the fate of any spic boneyard. The heavy bags rot and molt. The ring which sat as the centerpiece to the building has fallen into disrepair. In the center of this ring sits a remarkable statue: Teo del Sol flayed, alive and carrying his skin draped around his form like St. Bartholomew. His face was concealed, the mask and wrestling pants he wore the only covering of the muscle and ligaments which clung to his bone. Even with no skin, Teo could not bear to show his face.
Consider this statue, the noble vision which Blue Velvet, on this most fantastic of ｔｅｌｅｎｉｇｈｔｓ, had given me: see Teo’s hand raised as though beckoning on the both the challenging opponent and the roar of the audience he so desperately needs. Notice the sadness in his eyes that the sculptor was careful to instill: the gentle purse of the lips which suggest a sense of anxiety. What is it you fear, Theodore? Is it the challenger you seem to greet? Are you considering the feelings of your audience? Perhaps a memory of your debut as Teddy Blaze has touched a synapse and drifted down into your irises. Perhaps that pursed lip is of a man moments from emotional break.
Consider the skinless nature of the statue and the religious parallels. Is Theodore a martyr by virtue of his flayed skin? Who stripped you of your skin,Theodore; was it me when I tore your belt from your hand? Do your muscles ache with exposure to the harsh elements? St. Bartholomew, apostle of Christ, martyr of Armenia, patron of bookbinders and butchers. Are you a bookbinder or a butcher, Theodore? Should the child reach a hand to you, you’d offer them yours. You’d offer them comfort and knowledge: blessed be knowledge. Blessed be the books and the bookbinders. But what of the butchers? Is it because you guide their hand? Or is it because you have slaked our thirst for the slaughter?
Before I can contemplate further, I find myself tumbling through space and wave, simultaneously traveling deeper under the sea while further up through the galaxy. A gray man smiles at me, his skull large and his eyes black. He has no nose. He talks like Jim. As a spidery hand with long fingers touches the side of my face, I can feel him imparting secrets and wisdom into my cheek, up through the bone of my skull and into my head. Somewhere in the distance, I hear an advertisement for Shamwow.
Favorite Earth Child, you have done us proud. In your exploration of these peaks and valleys, we have given you a gift of power and prestige. You earned this gift through your merit and virtue. You have proven cunning and resourceful. You have proven yourself more competent than your adversary. This is why you deserve the prize of Television.
Television is an odd thing to your Earth Creatures. The evolution of the radio, a means of communication repurposed for entertainment and leisure. Leisure is common amongst your kind. Leisure is escape from more troubling realities which Earth Creatures fear, such as death. For the comfort of life after death, Earth Creatures cling to the idea of God. In the years of dying which is simultaneously known as living, Earth Creatures find comfort in Television. In this regard, God and Television are synonymous. God is the caregiver of the dead. Television is the caregiver of the living.
You ingest chemical substances, such as the one of which you are presently under the influence, to escape reality. Television also provides a means of falsified imagination. You are the perfect champion of the Television because you understand this duality. Theodore of the Sun was never a proper Television Champion. He understood the role of the hero. He understood the importance of escape and catharsis. He realized that he acted as a proxy for an audience. But Theodore of the Sun could never grasp the central point that Television was a hollow experience. A narcotic. Theodore of the Sun romanticized his role as champion of the Television. Theodore of the Sun attempted to create meaning in his role. He tried to fill an empty space, believing it to be a hole with a bottom. There is no bottom to this emptiness.
You, Favorite Earth Child, are this emptiness. You accept it and embrace you. You revel and cultivate the absurdity. Even now as you float, both resting upon the summit of Everest and amongst the drowned halls of the Titanic, you rest before the Television. You have given Television – and thus the Void – an offering which it accepts. For this, your victory over Theodore of the Sun is all but guaranteed.
You have done much. Trouble yourself little with the match for your championship belt. You care little about it. Prepare for WAR. You shall be victorious.
As the cosmos around me began to curve back into itself, I found myself upon a stage in blackface.
LAUGH FOR MR. SHARKS
I bow for the audience, my face twisted up as a comical dandy coon. The world is black and white. They love to hate me.
Then I am back in the hotel room. The time is four am. The television displays a crazed televangelist decrying homosexuality in America. He wants money to save my soul. In the morning I will call him, offer him one hundred dollars to continue his crusade against the moral abomination of faggotry in this country I don’t believe, and politely decline his request for salvation. The world does not need more salvation; it needs less.
Within the Television, you can find God. Upon this ｔｅｌｅｎｉｇｈｔ, I have found the answer:
Null.
