#ApproachThePodium #WarInTwoParts
Sept 26, 2015 17:43:10 GMT -5
Joey Flash, God King Dune, and 2 more like this
Post by Wade Moor on Sept 26, 2015 17:43:10 GMT -5
“Our eyes met and you knew I'd be
the one to bring you down.
Nightmares can't warn you of the evil
winds that are blowing your way” - Approach The Podium (Winds of Plague)
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“Regret.
“The pain of defeat.
“That notion of a wasted opportunity that can never be realized again.
“You'll ask yourself: Where did it go wrong? Could I have done something different? What could I have done better?
“These are the thoughts that will run through your mind as #BeachKrew #beachbodies each and every single one of you come TEN-FOUR-FIFTEEN. Do you think any of you stand a chance come War time? Do you think it's your destiny to win War? Do you think it's a life long dream of yours?
“#BeachKrew doesn't give a fuck about your destiny. #BeachKrew doesn't give a fuck about your dreams. We're death come to swing a hard left, fuck your destiny in it's ass, and cut it's throat open when we're finished. We're nightmares come to plague these pathetic dreams that have been helping you sleep at night. Hashtag BEE KAY is a pestilence, an epidemic...and it's growing every day. There's nigh on five from #BeachKrew heading into this War match.
“And you think you all stand a fucking chance? Don't make me laugh. I like a good joke but that one's a barn burner. #BeachBodybags on deck. We'll bury you in the sand quicker than Flash does Dune. Wait for the tide to roll in and you drown against those waves we've created.
“I play with you fools like puppets, man. I have you dancing around on this battlefield believing your think for yourself! You crave this fight! You worship this War!!!...but the War you're fighting? It was created by Death itself. You want to have your name carved in stone and be immortalized as a winner? Rise to the top like cream?
“You hear that, don't you Seth? This one goes out specifically to you boss. You think you have a plan for War? You think you have a plan for War, man? You're going to stick your hand into that hat, pull our names out, and seal this companies fate. I know you're sitting there wishing – to Hell and creation, making a deal with the Devil – that your old favorites would make their surprise return. Shoot you a call the night prior to War.
“Bobby Cairo? Yeah man, I know you're feeling that. Money in the coffers. Hashtag THICK SPEAK.
“Skyler Striker? Want that epic return on deck?
“Maybe your boy Logan?
“Jonny Fly? Crowd pops?! That would give you a raging fucking hard on, wouldn't it?
“You want your Hall of Famers to show up at the last minute and make this main event mean something? Well, Wade Moor is here to tell you to go fuck yourself. This year isn't going to be one of your 'feel good' moments. It's not going to be an amazing tale told by one of your 'up-and-coming faces' of the company. It's not going to be a hokey struggle, a story of heart and triumph in the face of a great adversity.
“It's going to be The Leviathan absolutely #shipwrekN every single measure of 'talent' that you've booked in this match. Fuccboi's usually sign their own death certificates, but you selfishly signed their lives away when you put their name in that hat. It's going to be cerebral turmoil slash heart and gut wrenching genocide. It's going to be me wrapping my hands around each one of their throats and choking the absolute life out of them. It's going to be a fuccboi fatality.
“And I'm going to finish them.”
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A bare human chest exposed. A needle dug in, exposing blood as ink sinks in to it. The tattoo artist works tirelessly on the piece as Wade Moor sits back calmly against the leather chair, a smile draped across his face. He continues to check his phone as his Twitter notifications buzz off the hook due to that Internet Championship thread. Double duty. A few people are locked in to it courtesy of Seth Lerch but nobody will be able to pull it off quite like The Leviathan or Los Tiburones.
These are the kind of multitasks that #BeachKrew was built for. While Zombie McMorris and Jackson White put most of their time and effort into the Internet Championship match, Wade Moor was busy preparing to pull off two upset victories in one night. That was a day in the life of #BeachKrew. It all started during their Slam debut when they cleverly outwitted and embarassed Pantheon, Earth's Mightiest Wrestling Stable. They think that fighting with honor and impunity will win them matches...yet #BeachKrew came out the decisive victors.
It didn't matter that they had won by devious means. That victory served its purpose, to show the cracks in Pantheon's armor. They weren't as Mighty as they claimed to believe. They exposed themselves that night, #BeachKrew's very first night on the scene, and have been scrambling to recover ever since. They brought in the reigns a little when they were collectively able to put away the Dark Riders Gang and seize the Trios Championships last week at Slam. An impressive victory overshadowed by the fact that they were still the human excrement they were, The Earth's Whiniest Wrestling Stable. Wade chuckled at his own joke a little before speaking.
“Pantheon...The Earth's Mightiest Wrestling Stable. The fact that this stable is still standing on it's own two feet is both amazing and confusing. It's like a sick joke that has gone on for far too long, like one of ZMAC's memes. One you wish would die and bury itself under the shit it once was. It used to be one of the greatest stables in WCF history, home to men like Jonny Fly, Steve Orbit, Jayson Price, Polar Phantasm...fuck, even Bobby Cairo was in Pantheon for a hot cup of coffee. That's an impressive resume, one that could carry the team name into the future and beyond.
#OH
(space space)
#WAIT
“Yet here we are in Twenty Fifteen with a brand new Pantheon...and what a dismal line up you have, and your future projection are even more barren. You barely managed to cling on to the relevancy you have from name sake alone by capturing the Trio's Championships. Congratulations are in order for the three of you, Jeff Purse, Alex Richards, and Jay Omega. You managed to beat a DRG on the skids and bring yourself forth from the back of The Pack. (LOL) Brought yourself from like eighteen to nine. What an ascension!
“Man, Purse...what the hell happened to you? You were World Champion for a hot minute weren't you? Killing Eric Price in a War Match three years ago to accomplish said feat? Now here you are, leading this rag tag band of fuccbois to a Trio's Championship victory. In fantasy land, where Pantheon likes to stake their claim, you could say that all three of you were responsible for that victory. In reality, where the rest of us like to live, Jeff Purse was solely responsible. You were the one who came crashing down on Thomas Bates, hitting him with that frog splash to make the pinfall?
“Something tells me that you wouldn't have it any other way. That championship belt around your waist wouldn't have meant as much if Jay Omega or Alex Richards were the one to make that one two three, would it? I mean, now that I've said it out loud, you're going to come up with a line to save face...but we all know how you are. Obsessive. Compulsive. You desire control at all times, and having two men under your thumb, succumbing to your will under the guise of 'friendship' gives you the control you need.
“And now, here you are competing with them in this War match. It's going to be nice to have someone to watch your back...but the minute they aren't looking, you're going to hit them with that Spoke and drop down on them for the one two three. You're going to wait for the most opportune moment to get back what you truly desire...a shot at the World Championship is a beautifully enticing incentive. It's one that you wouldn't be able to pass up.
“That's why there aren't any 'Good Lucks!' or 'Go Get Ems!' coming from that side of the fence. It's 'Sorry Omega! Sorry Richards! But Jeff Purse is winning War this year!' You don't care about their success. You only care that the World Heavyweight Championship is wrapped around your waist once again. It's OK to be selfish, Purse...but don't pretend like you're any better than the rest of us going out there clapping it up with your 'friends' in Pantheon.
“You don't care about these men. Quit lying to us. Quit lying to them. Quit lying to yourself. It's unbecoming. Wear that Obsessive Compulsive Demon on your sleeve, Jeff. Take control of it, otherwise it's going to control you. As for the War match? I'm going to control you, Jeff. I'm going to pull your strings like the puppet you still are. You remember that, don't you? Like two months coming out to the ring with discount demon Abaddon? Had a puppet doing all your talking for you? Is it because you don't have anything interesting to say yourself anymore?
“You have a hand up your ass and your thumb over your partners...but I have my boot over this entire federation. Whether they accept that or not is entirely up to them...but they're going to learn the fact of the matter come War. I may not have as much experience in 'the ring' as you do. I may not be a 'better wrestler' than you...but I own it. I climb in to that ring and close week after week. That War ring you run out to when your music hits and the crowd POPS?! I already own that shit. I've got you beat before we even step through those ropes.
“Trust me that when I say the things I say, they're going to come true. Wade Moor is going to become Internet Champion? I have ZMAC reeling right now because he's playing my game. No more gifs and memes bullshit. I had to bring him up to my level to get #beachbodied. Check that shit. I told you all that #BeachKrew was going to commit fuccboi genocide. Scarecrow's dead. Check that shit. Wade Moor is going to win War. Check that shit.
“But you all have your 'big plans' and 'dreams' that are of no consequence to me. Jay Oemga is going on and on about how he is the best thing to ever happen to this federation. He's talking about how he's arrived like this is a twenty four hour Subway. Jay Omega thinks he's made it here in the WCF...but if you look back on the history books, you can see that the only thing Jay Omega is good at is leaving.
“United States Champion. Beat good old Zombie McMorris to capture that esteemed championship. A handful of title defenses later and where do we find you? On the business end of Deuce Murdock's fake leg, eating a fucking kick, getting laid waste to on the arena floor. Deuce Murdock breaks your leg and cripples The Pack. You lick your wounds and head home, protected by the fact that you were 'injured' on your way out the door.
“Fast forward a few months. Hardcore Champion. You win one of the most brutal fatal five way matches in Slam history. The show had to be confiscated by the FCC because it was so fucking brutal. DVS, Thomas Bates, good old Zombie McMorris again, and Big Train. You came out victorious in that match, pinned the former champion, and created some controversy on the side. Welcome to #BeachKrew's first two months.
“But then go ahead another month or so. Same shit, different day. You're getting attacked by Marc Mayhem, crippled on your way out the door yet again. It's funny, for someone who is so protected...man, you sure get the shit kicked out of you an awful lot. But you get your crutch to lean on...and no, I'm not talking about the one that Marc Mayhem forced you to use for the next few months rehabbing that leg again. I'm talking about the one you'll carry for the rest of your life.
“I never 'lost' those championships.
“Except you did, Omega. You lost them because you let your guard down. You should know by now, that at any minute in this business, somebody is looking to take what you have. They don't care if it's in a sanctioned match or if you're tired from the previous match...they're going to exact that pound of flesh one way or another. They're going to sneak up on you with that knife, carve their name in your back, and walk the fuck away. You'll always be remembered as the person who allowed that to happen, hoping to Hell that everyone will forget.
“And you think you're going to win War? You think you're going to become Hardcore Champion? Well, when the opportunity arises, yeah? Fact of the matter is, you're the person who's been given chance after chance and you repeatedly drop the ball. Well, now I'm going to drop you on your fucking back. Hit you with that Broseidon Punch and eliminate you from War. I'm going to carve my name on you too. The man who eliminated that braggart Jay Omega from the War match...and there wasn't a damn thing he could do to stop me.”
The tattoo artist continues, forever etching that mysterious art into Wade Moor's skin.
“Then we have Alex Richards...the runt of the litter. Confusing, considering you're the biggest BOI I've ever seen in my days. But that's what you reign on, correct? Confusion? That's a pretty solid mantra you have going Alex. You want to know what about you confuses me? How one could have little to no talent and still have won as many championships as you have. How you're still standing in this company.
“I see you, Alex. I know everything about you. Your little promos you like to run. About two hours of contrived crap where the comedy is about as watered down as the Zim-Quila you're always sipping on. Drinking out of a boot and expecting that shit to carry you farther than it has? You're lucky to be where you are right now. Trio's Champion with a few solid mid-card title reigns slipped underneath that.
“But don't think for a second you're going to win War with C-level comedy, D-level talent, and T-level shoot. I didn't even know it could go that low. You'll probably say something like:
“Wade Moor's a fat jerk and an alcoholic!”
“And then you'll turn around and realize that you just #beachbodied your fucking self. That's just one of my many layers...but once you start to peel them back, you realize even more that you don't like what you see. It scares you, terrifies you...and if it doesn't?
“Well, just ask your friend Scarecrow how that turned out. Ooops, did I press a button? You see, he decided that laughing me off, making jokes was a great idea. Just ignore him until he goes away...but I don't go away. I don't pull those Jay Omegas. I'm up in your face, laughing that salty sea breath into your nostrils...giving you the 'push' you so desperately desire.”
Wade chuckles.
“You're the only one who seemed to show some emotional turmoil when your friend bit the dust that night at Madison Square Garden. You seemed to be the only one who gave a shit...you know, until we called Pantheon out for it and they attempted to save face by showing some kind of remorse. That fake remorse...but not you Alex. You're the only person who attempted to meet me face to face and get some kind of revenge.
“How did that work out for you, Alex? If I remember correctly, you ate that Rico Rojas #BITCHSLAP and, once again, Pantheon was outsmarted by #BeachKrew. You see, I always have a plan A, B, C...shit I even got a plan T. That's how low in the depths of depravity my mind is. You're just a dog drinking milk from a saucer. You think you got the big prize...until your shit is squirting all over the floor and somebody else is left cleaning that mess up.
“Kind of like how you'll end up at War. That goes out to your Pantheon devotees as well. Dexter and Gunther. If you two know what's good for you...
“Well, you'll just turn around and run. Check that shit.”
The artist's needle finishes it's daily buzz. He wipes away the blood from Wade's chest with a white cloth, exposing the newly printed tattoo underneath.
A dead Crow.
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On board the WINO-bago is where we lay our scene (hows that for Shakespearean ZMAC?!). The ensemble known as #BeachKrew sat around the bus, drinking, snorting, shooting, tripping, whatever measure of dipping those narcotics into their bloodstream they could handle. Wade sat off in the corner, a rag of formaldehyde all to himself. He saw dark visions as they shot across the videodrome in his mind, showing him the Hell that was ever present. It was all around them. It was in the homes of families. It was in the school systems. It was in the government.
Wade looked around at his #BeachKrew compadres and knew that this was all life was. It was sitting around on a bus with seven other depraved souls getting as high as you possibly could...but it wasn't an escape. It was reality. It was the cold clutches of the world that most people found inhabitable...but it was #BeachKrew's every day life. It was the world they had created together.
He looked towards his best friend Jared “Los Tiburones” Holmes, that mask pulled up over his mouth as he sipped his Corona. Wade knew everyone looked at him and only saw the shark mask. It was his fuccboi deflector – as he called it. Wade saw passed it. He saw the anguished soul that lie underneath. He knew just how far down in the depths he was.
He was at Leviathan levels.
A few more months, and he would be there.
That fateful day in the swamp, when Los Tiburones had come across a beaten and bloodied Wade Moor, his arms strained out of socket after hanging from that tree for hours on end...Wade knew that day was the beginning of something. He knew that Los Tiburones had happened across at the right time, finding him in such a pathetic state...he could have just left him to die there in that miserable swamp.
Instead, he had saved Wade. He let him down from those bindings because, for some inexplicable reason, Wade Moor needed Jared Holmes...but Jared Holmes needed Wade Moor just as much, if not more. Something cosmically adventitious had brought them together in that musty swamp.
“Earth Children, general tidings and nondescript blessings to you all. This week, hasthtag BeachKrew faces a most collectively daunting task It is, how your citizenry communicate...”
“A gang bang?”, interrupted Andre.
“Fuckin' ship wrek?” Los Tiburones added.
“Puta bitch collection, esse?” muttered Rico.
“A mass murder?” Wade asked.
“It's definitely a gang bang!”, Sandy Coconutz interjected.
“Everything to you is a gang bang! I'm talking about fuckin' fuccboi genocide. You talkin' about fuckin' these crackuhs!” Andre replied and everyone eyed him suspiciously “I mean...people. Not crackuhs. You know die fuccbois die fuccbois die still fool.
Everyone refocused their attention on Jimothy Thuggin et Hacksaw.
“Your biggest challenge yet? Next weekend is War. Your kind has always been obsessed with the idea of War. They froth at the mouth as human kills human. We...I, have never believed in War. Such an obsolete concept, privy to mankind exclusive, born of idiocy and avarice.”
Jim Thuggin takes a long hit off of his Cuban stogie, a gift from Rico Rojas, before continuing his spiel.
“...But if it's a War the WCF wants, then it's a War that we impart upon their front doors. Strike first, never inquire, correct?”
“FUCK YEAH!” #BeachKrew shouted in unison.
“This is a quest you must carry out next weekend. Three of my Earth Children enter the squared circle and work as one. A hive mind. If Tiburones takes a hit to an excretory organ, all of you take a hit to the an excretory organ. If Rico strikes that #BITCHSLAP with the might of Thoralk's Laser, then you all have smote that hapless plebeian. If any of you win War...need I proceed?”
#BeachKrew collectively nod as their minds synchronize on the proper ALPHA brain waves. At War, it was a truly all for one, one for all scenario. Everyone aboard the WINO-bago knew what was at stake. Fuck, they had known since their debut. This was the first step to winning the World Championship. The way to be heard. Winning the World Championship as a stable would propel them to the forefront, and #BeachKrew's message would finally be heard loud and clear.
“Next weekend is when WCF will finally be forced to open their eyes and ears”, Wade spoke. Everyone was shocked as Wade was generally quiet, off to himself in a corner somewhere, “Next weekend is when their willful ignorance finally comes to a screeching halt. All of these fuccbois are built for the short game. They don't know how to win a War. Must of them don't even know how to win a battle.
“Sunday Night in Oklahoma City is our battlefield. It's what all the chess pieces have been moving toward! A clash! A War! A bite of the big fish!”
Wade chuckles under his breath.
“Well, we're sharks and Leviathan's...and we're higher up on the food chain than the rest of you. Sure, you have your 'rankings' and your 'status'! But none of that matters to us. We're just here to take it from you. It's what you all scramble for! To be noticed! To be heard! To be OVER!
“Well, you're over at War. There's nearly forty people in this match...one of the largest rosters in War history, but only some of them have a semblance of a chance. The ones who don't...well, you know exactly who you are. Men like:”
“Ultimate Destroyer?” Andre inquired.
“For once...you bring up his name appropriately”, Wade Moor replied, “Ultimate Destroyer stands absolutely no chance of winning War. He has the physique...it's whats inside the mind that's lacking. Muscles are a fine tool...given you have the knowledge of using them. You were born with a hefty gift, but you were cursed with the mind of a child, Destroyer. That's why you won't have two legs to stand on in this match. You were fucked from the beginning, and you knew it.”
“Men like Cletus T. Clyde?” Jim Thuggin asked.
“Cletus T. Clyde is the epitome of never, shouldn't, couldn't. He's a man who got by on his 'look' as well...but when he was forced to display technical prowess and intelligence, he faltered under pressure. That must have been a massive load, considering your size Cletus...but Wolf took you to the pound, didn't he? He clearly outclassed you in every competition you two had. You saw him and you saw somebody who's blood lust was nearly insatiable. The thought of it crippled your thoughts and paralyzed you with fear and anxiety. That's why you're silent now. That's why you no longer have two thoughts to rub together...
“And if you thought Wolf was bad?
“Hi. I'm Wade Moor. Nice to meet you. But it won't be nice when I take that useless tank you call a body and shatter it into a million little pieces. This War match...it's not your match. Just like the rest of your matches haven't been YOUR match. Who else do we have?”
“Jeff Danger?” Sandy Coconutz contributed, always wanting to be part of things.
“Oh, Danger?...wait, who the fuck is Jeff Danger?” Wade Moor asked.
“I don't know...some kind of bad ass or something? Fuccboi, probably.” Andre answered.
“These are your 'men', Seth? These are the kind of guys you decided to spend your hard earned dollars to acquire? Saw them down in developmental somewhere and decided that you could throw a shiny new package on them? Decorate them into one of your superstars? The next Adam Young? The problem with that is, you wrap up shit in fancy packaging...it's still shit. You can still smell it. Then when you finally dig in, you expose what's underneath. Jeff Danger is the prototype fuccboi. One with no thought, no originality behind what they do. These are the 'men' of the future. No worries. I'll dispatch him with ease and he'll be begging to get let out of his contract. On his hands and knees. I pray you have mercy on him Seth...because Satan knows I won't.
“Then you have L.A. Kush. Sounds like somebodies created wrestler on WCF TWO KAY SIXTEEN. Sounds like a fifteen year old who just smoked his first doobie came up with this one. 'I smoked weed I'm a stoner now! FOUR TWENTY BRO! I bought the joint rolling handbook because I want to impress my friends!'
“Want to know what I did to impress my friends? I beat a fuccboi within an inch of his life. I beat Scarecrow so bad, someone ran in and pushed him over a railing to put him out of his misery!”
“That's what they'll be screaming whenever I'm pounding my fist into your face, over. And over. And over. And over again. They won't be able to recognize you when your eye becomes your mouth and your mouth becomes nose, etc etc. Fuck, you might not be able to recognize yourself after it's all said and done. You might think this is your chance to make an impression, but you already did when you signed your name on the dotted line Kush...and it was a bad one.”
“Cuz he's a fuccboi”, Kyle Kemp said.
“Shit, I didn't even know you were here Kyle”, Andre replied, “Wait...where the fuck is Hunter?”
“I spent Hunter on a very special mission. You're all busy with War...and he's carrying out a separate task. We all have goals to achieve. Now quit interrupting Andre. That's exactly why you're my least favorite of all Earth Children. Go on Wade.”
Wade chuckled at Jim Thuggin's indifference towards Andre. It was exactly how Wade Moor felt towards his next “class” of opponents. The could have, should have, would haves...but just not enough in the tank to get it done. The Angels of Death were the perfect example to use.
“Ahh...we all have our demons, don't we? The Angels wear theirs on a perfectly knit patch, don't they? AYE OH DEE. How you doing? I only ask because I have absolutely no idea. All of you are the embodiment of 'why should I give a fuck?'. You barely register as a blip on my radar because you are barely a blip on anyone's radar...and trust me, sonar travels deep under water. But I find myself in this trying match and I find myself preparing for you regardless. There are like a hundred of you, right? The less controversial DRG, as it is. The far less talented, as well. You guys even have Oblivion on your team and you barely manage to capture people's attention and imagination?
“That's when you know you've hit rock bottom. I guess Night Rider hit when he shacked up with that hobgoblin Denise D'Evil...but I guess he's the lucky one in that situation. Or is he? I don't know, Denise spends half of her time plucking at Tommy Bates heart strings, knowing he's a decent man and savoring every minute of his three inch agony. But wait? She's playing Tommy Bates? She has no intention of ever hooking up with Bates? In my world, we call that bitch a cock tease and she'd get slapped the fuck out on principle.
“Unless there's something else that we're all missing? Maybe...just maaaaybe, you're the one getting played Night Rider? I mean, you got played when you formed the Angels of Death, thinking the talent you were acquiring was actually worth a shit in the WCF. How long have you been in the WCF? Like three years, on and off? Yeah, I think it's time for you to call it quits when this is the high point of your career. Getting #BeachBodied by a couple of new guys because you never learned when to flip the switch.
“Now you're going to be standing in the ring with the best of them, thinking that you have some chance of pulling this victory out of your ass. At the very least, you think you'll have a decent showing? L. M. A. O. Don't make me laugh, Rider. I'm calling it now: First round #BeachBodyBag. You're going to be a name under somebody else's statistic. Teo Del Sol lasted fourty five minutes but he eliminated half of AoD while he was in the ring! That's your destiny in this War Match...and one I'd be happy to bring to fruition.
“Then you have the cock tease, Denise D'Evil...what a fucking joke you are. Not even a good joke. I get more of a chuckle out of Zombie McMorris' thrice used memes then I get out of watching you on the monitors backstage. I go take a piss whenever I hear the name Denise D'Evil being announced. I know it's safe because I know I'm not missing much. Sometimes, I don't even have to piss. I lie just so I can get out of watching you crowding up the television.
“Oh, but you got this intriguing story with Tommy Bates going on, right? The AoD versus the DRG in a bike gang sons of anarchy fucking stupid publicity stunt. Cashing in on the success of some garbage ass TV show with a bunch of clowns reenacting watered down scenes? That's low, even for WCF. Are you trying to sink this ratings ship, Seth? The one we've tried so hard to right? It's not your fault. I shouldn't be blaming you for Denise D'Evil being a massive fucking failure.
“She only has herself to blame. She's out there trying to win matches. Can't. She's out there trying to create intriguing storylines. Can't. You give her this immortal god mode shit and she gives you fucking Days Of Our Lives Yesterday in return. Anyone with half a brain knows where her storyline with Tommy is ending up...in a culmination match with Night Rider. She's not even going to be a part of that shit show. This is how you sell pay-per-views? Attach some fugly ass wench with decent c-cups to it? Man, you couldn't even sell a hot dog with that combination.
“Denise...you want to be a part of an intriguing storyline? Well, at War, you're getting your wish, bitch. You're going to be a part of #BeachKrew's ascension to the very top of this company. That's the only way you're going to captivate the audience. She goes for that simple dropkick...but Wade pushes her legs away! Denise gets up! BOOOM! DROPPED WITH THAT FUCKING BROSEIDON PUNCH! SHE'S DEAD! BAH GAWD I THINK SHE'S DEAD!
“But you're immortal? Good. You get to live with that shit for the rest of your miserable life. Take this word from the real Death Bringer.
“And then you got Oblivion...the monster. AoD's wild card. I could say I'm in that position as well, but everything I do, every move I make, it's all with a glorious purpose. Could you say the same thing, Oblivion? Or are you just trying to be as offensive as possible without all the success? I mean, you're a former Hardcore Champion. A former Tag Team Champion. All of this sounds pretty good on paper...but once you're standing before as and we see The Monster Oblivion...
“Man, we can't help but laugh. You're like a cartoon character. A caricature of what a monster actually is. You gallivant in a mask, talking to the fifty disembodied voices in your head like your name was Caliban or something. Real monsters...well, they just don't let anybody see them for who they truly are. They couldn't handle it. I've tried to hide mine away, not out of fear of society, but for the true fear society would show me. They would bow down to their knees and pray to God I didn't rip their heads from their spines.
“But you...you like to wear the mask, hiding that bumfuck face away from the prying eyes of the world...but why? Why do you cover your face Oblivion? Why do you hide away what you truly are? Why not take off the mask and show the world who you really are underneath? Ashamed. A frightened little child. The best part of you died back in that institution Oblivion. Now, the only thing we have before us is this hollow shell of what Oblivion used to be.
“You follow a grown man around, force feeding him shit liquor because evil? Is that what evil people do now? You think you've still got IT? The only thing you'll have when War is over is lungs full of water. I'm going to drown you so deep in that watered down brand of evil you're carrying around on those massive shoulders. I'm going to crush you with that high impact shit and BROSEIDON PUNCH you so hard in the face, it'll knock that mask off and your lame fucking ass back into the nineties. This isn't the War where IT finally makes a stand. It's the War where IT gets knocked flat on IT's fucking ass.
“And Riddlebox. Riddle me this fuccboi: What has two legs, clown makeup, and straight up sucks? If you guessed Isaiah Chavis, then you're wrong. Man, I've never seen somebody try so hard to be evil and fail miserably. At least Oblivion has something going for him, but you...man, you're just a sad miserable failure wrapped up in a clown costume. Like, this gimmick will get over:
#OH
#WAIT
“Man, if that shit didn't work for Isaiah Chavis, then it definitely isn't going to work for you. I mean, he actually had...talent? I don't know. He had something going for him there, man. But you? God damn, if the lights ever went out in the arena and one of those riddleboxes appeared in front of me talking about “Lions are yellow, but what about seahorses?” or some fuccboi shit like that, man...I'd stomp that thing out, go backstage, and stomp you out too on principle.
“Here you are feuding with one of the MacNeill clan like it's a big deal or some shit. Can't even get him to open his mouth and utter an intelligent sentence. Maybe if your riddles weren't so weak. Maybe if you weren't so weak you would be able to get something going for yourself. Instead, you haven't, and you've found yourself staring me down in that ring come War. Pulling double duty at War, pulling double duty on your mother fucking face. It's going to be a POSEIDON PUNCH followed by a BROSEIDON PUNCH. Knock you straight back into the trailer park you crawled out of. Check that shit.
“Who else is on that whack ass team?” Wade asks.
Andre does a quick check on his Ando-POD...and does a quick double take.
“Uhh...John Gable?”
Wade flashes a look of bewilderment, genuinely confused why John Gable would shack up with some of the biggest fuccboi's in the WCF.
“John Gable? Do my ears deceive me? You're in the Angels of Death? What the hell are you doing with that group of bums? Are you researching a role? Are you doing a character study? Man, you can't act out that level of failure, no matter how well you've honed your craft. And you're a pretty good actor, right? I mean, you've been walking around here acting like a professional wrestler for the better part of four years now.
“Not to discredit your achievements or anything. Longest reigning Television Champion...well, former longest reigning Television Champion now that Los Tiburones is going to crush your record like a pack of lucky strikes.
“But really...the Angels of Death? Is it like when a girl brings her fat friend to a club so she looks like a dime by comparison? But everyone knows she's really a five or six, at best? That's why she'll never be World Champion. That's why you're not winning this War. You got charisma for days, John...oh wait, you're not Jonny Fly. You're not even Johnny Reb. You're John Gable. New here. Suiing WCF over some crummy movie with subpar acting at best.
“You're going to settle that lawsuit in a match? A match at One? You might as well file for bankruptcy now because you're not making it to One. You're not making it out of War alive. I'm going to rip you to shreds for thinking you can come up in here with some mediocre gambit like that. You should have known people weren't going to see your movie...I mean, they already tune out of your matches when you hit the screen so it shouldn't be so shocking to you.
“But you're here in this match and so the world will finally witness John Gable on their TV screens. They'll finally be able to see what a shining star you are...only for you to come crashing down to Earth like a meteor. Right on my gilded shores.
“And the Leviathan doesn't act nice.”
Wade stops and looks out the window as the rest of #BeachKrew continue their nightly activities.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
A blasphemous cacophony of electro whizzbop penetrates your eardrums. Flasks fume as beakers bubble, and you find Wade more alone in his laboratory aboard the WINO-bago. He's hard at work on his experiment...one that would forever change his fate.
But something was on his mind and he couldn't shake it. He couldn't concentrate on his oeuvre with the thought constantly hammering at the back of his cranium like a wicked marching band. The vision that had haunted him since his trip to Hyde Park – where he saw himself hacking away at his father's open chest with that butcher knife – was a relentless image. He wanted so badly for it to be gone, erased completely from his mind...
And he could only think of one way to do it.
As he mapped out his plan and continued his research, he heard a knock at the door. Usually, his Krew knew that he wasn't to be disturbed when he was working, and only usually knocked if the matter was prevalent. He removed his safety goggles and went to the door.
“Who's there?” he called through the reinforced mahogany door.
“Yo Swag...it's me, Jared”, Los Tiburones voice answered from the other side.
“I'm a little busy right now!” he called with his back against the frame, “Can it wait?”
“Nah, man”, Jared affirmed, “Can I come in?. I need to talk to you about something. It's important.”
Wade, frustrated, unhooked the latch and opened the door to allow Los Tiburones into his laboratory. Jared walked in, free of the Shark Mask that usually hid away his face. Jared slipped in to the lab, eyes full of wonder as he looked around. This was a foreign world to him. It was a special occasion when Wade allowed him to enter. He put his hand out toward a beaker filled with a gelatinous orange goop, but Wade stopped him, clearing his throat as he did.
“I wouldn't touch that if I were you”, Wade said, “I mean, you can if you want, but I can't guarentee you won't lose a hand.”
Jared stooped down on his knee, looking deep into the beaker.
“What are you working on Wade?” Jared asked.
Wade laughed a little as he prepared to answer. He folded his arms and leaned against a cabinet behind him.
“You wouldn't believe me if I told you, man.”
And that was a fact that Wade could confirm. In fact, his Krew would probably find him insane if he told him what he was working on. He could barely believe it himself...but it was his father's life's work. It's completion would see the light of day...but first Wade had to do something important. Before that, he needed to find out what Jared wanted.
“What's on your mind, bruh?” Wade asked.
Jared stood up from his knelt position and kicked the front of his checkered Vans against the back of his leg. He seemed...nervous. The body language was definitely a first for Los Tiburones. His nose scrunched as he spoke.
“I'...I had this weird ass dream last night. You could say it was the alcohol, you could say it was the drugs...but I've been feeling strange since Thuggin made his speech the other night.”
“What happened in the dream?” Wade asked with a cocked eyebrow.
Jared hesitated to answer...as if he didn't want Wade to know after all...but being best motherfuckin' bros and all, Jared had to answer.
“...I was in some dingy, musty basement. You were there...”
Wade's heart rate accelerated, and his mind immediately flashed back to his darkest of visions. He watched himself bring the knife down once...
“...you had this knife, and man, there was blood everywhere...”
Wade brought the knife down a second time.
“...and fuck me but it felt so real, you know? I haven't been able to shake it since it happened. I had to talk to you about it...Am I going fucking crazy? It felt so real...”
Wade stared at Jared as he relived the memory – was it a memory? - to culmination yet again. How was it possible that Jared had seen this vision too?
“Listen to me...”, Wade said and Jared's head snapped to attention, “We're all insane...but let me let you in on a little secret...”
Jared's neck pulsed as his own heart rate intensified.
“I've been having the same dream. I have no idea what it's all about...but it haunts me everyday. I haven't slept since we went to Hyde Park. I can't shake the vision, anywhere I go, anything I do...it follows me...”
Wade hesitated for a moment.
“I think I have to go back. I have to go to my father's cabin in the Everglades. Something is drawing me there...and I intend to find out what it is. Would you come with me? I...”
Wade showed a very brief moment of vulnerability, one that you generally wouldn't find him in.
“I don't know if I want to find out alone.”
Jared looked taken aback for a moment, but only a moment. He held out his hand and Wade slapped his into it and cupped it. They put their foreheads together as Jared answered.
“You're fuck right I'll go with you. What are bruhs for?”
Wade smiled and his eyes shifted to that devilish black once more. And for a brief second...
It felt like Tiburones had done the same.
the one to bring you down.
Nightmares can't warn you of the evil
winds that are blowing your way” - Approach The Podium (Winds of Plague)
___________________________________________________________________________________________
“Regret.
“The pain of defeat.
“That notion of a wasted opportunity that can never be realized again.
“You'll ask yourself: Where did it go wrong? Could I have done something different? What could I have done better?
“These are the thoughts that will run through your mind as #BeachKrew #beachbodies each and every single one of you come TEN-FOUR-FIFTEEN. Do you think any of you stand a chance come War time? Do you think it's your destiny to win War? Do you think it's a life long dream of yours?
“#BeachKrew doesn't give a fuck about your destiny. #BeachKrew doesn't give a fuck about your dreams. We're death come to swing a hard left, fuck your destiny in it's ass, and cut it's throat open when we're finished. We're nightmares come to plague these pathetic dreams that have been helping you sleep at night. Hashtag BEE KAY is a pestilence, an epidemic...and it's growing every day. There's nigh on five from #BeachKrew heading into this War match.
“And you think you all stand a fucking chance? Don't make me laugh. I like a good joke but that one's a barn burner. #BeachBodybags on deck. We'll bury you in the sand quicker than Flash does Dune. Wait for the tide to roll in and you drown against those waves we've created.
“I play with you fools like puppets, man. I have you dancing around on this battlefield believing your think for yourself! You crave this fight! You worship this War!!!...but the War you're fighting? It was created by Death itself. You want to have your name carved in stone and be immortalized as a winner? Rise to the top like cream?
“You hear that, don't you Seth? This one goes out specifically to you boss. You think you have a plan for War? You think you have a plan for War, man? You're going to stick your hand into that hat, pull our names out, and seal this companies fate. I know you're sitting there wishing – to Hell and creation, making a deal with the Devil – that your old favorites would make their surprise return. Shoot you a call the night prior to War.
“Bobby Cairo? Yeah man, I know you're feeling that. Money in the coffers. Hashtag THICK SPEAK.
“Skyler Striker? Want that epic return on deck?
“Maybe your boy Logan?
“Jonny Fly? Crowd pops?! That would give you a raging fucking hard on, wouldn't it?
“You want your Hall of Famers to show up at the last minute and make this main event mean something? Well, Wade Moor is here to tell you to go fuck yourself. This year isn't going to be one of your 'feel good' moments. It's not going to be an amazing tale told by one of your 'up-and-coming faces' of the company. It's not going to be a hokey struggle, a story of heart and triumph in the face of a great adversity.
“It's going to be The Leviathan absolutely #shipwrekN every single measure of 'talent' that you've booked in this match. Fuccboi's usually sign their own death certificates, but you selfishly signed their lives away when you put their name in that hat. It's going to be cerebral turmoil slash heart and gut wrenching genocide. It's going to be me wrapping my hands around each one of their throats and choking the absolute life out of them. It's going to be a fuccboi fatality.
“And I'm going to finish them.”
_________________________________________________________________________________________
Scene I: The Crow Flies At Midnight
A bare human chest exposed. A needle dug in, exposing blood as ink sinks in to it. The tattoo artist works tirelessly on the piece as Wade Moor sits back calmly against the leather chair, a smile draped across his face. He continues to check his phone as his Twitter notifications buzz off the hook due to that Internet Championship thread. Double duty. A few people are locked in to it courtesy of Seth Lerch but nobody will be able to pull it off quite like The Leviathan or Los Tiburones.
These are the kind of multitasks that #BeachKrew was built for. While Zombie McMorris and Jackson White put most of their time and effort into the Internet Championship match, Wade Moor was busy preparing to pull off two upset victories in one night. That was a day in the life of #BeachKrew. It all started during their Slam debut when they cleverly outwitted and embarassed Pantheon, Earth's Mightiest Wrestling Stable. They think that fighting with honor and impunity will win them matches...yet #BeachKrew came out the decisive victors.
It didn't matter that they had won by devious means. That victory served its purpose, to show the cracks in Pantheon's armor. They weren't as Mighty as they claimed to believe. They exposed themselves that night, #BeachKrew's very first night on the scene, and have been scrambling to recover ever since. They brought in the reigns a little when they were collectively able to put away the Dark Riders Gang and seize the Trios Championships last week at Slam. An impressive victory overshadowed by the fact that they were still the human excrement they were, The Earth's Whiniest Wrestling Stable. Wade chuckled at his own joke a little before speaking.
“Pantheon...The Earth's Mightiest Wrestling Stable. The fact that this stable is still standing on it's own two feet is both amazing and confusing. It's like a sick joke that has gone on for far too long, like one of ZMAC's memes. One you wish would die and bury itself under the shit it once was. It used to be one of the greatest stables in WCF history, home to men like Jonny Fly, Steve Orbit, Jayson Price, Polar Phantasm...fuck, even Bobby Cairo was in Pantheon for a hot cup of coffee. That's an impressive resume, one that could carry the team name into the future and beyond.
#OH
(space space)
#WAIT
“Yet here we are in Twenty Fifteen with a brand new Pantheon...and what a dismal line up you have, and your future projection are even more barren. You barely managed to cling on to the relevancy you have from name sake alone by capturing the Trio's Championships. Congratulations are in order for the three of you, Jeff Purse, Alex Richards, and Jay Omega. You managed to beat a DRG on the skids and bring yourself forth from the back of The Pack. (LOL) Brought yourself from like eighteen to nine. What an ascension!
“Man, Purse...what the hell happened to you? You were World Champion for a hot minute weren't you? Killing Eric Price in a War Match three years ago to accomplish said feat? Now here you are, leading this rag tag band of fuccbois to a Trio's Championship victory. In fantasy land, where Pantheon likes to stake their claim, you could say that all three of you were responsible for that victory. In reality, where the rest of us like to live, Jeff Purse was solely responsible. You were the one who came crashing down on Thomas Bates, hitting him with that frog splash to make the pinfall?
“Something tells me that you wouldn't have it any other way. That championship belt around your waist wouldn't have meant as much if Jay Omega or Alex Richards were the one to make that one two three, would it? I mean, now that I've said it out loud, you're going to come up with a line to save face...but we all know how you are. Obsessive. Compulsive. You desire control at all times, and having two men under your thumb, succumbing to your will under the guise of 'friendship' gives you the control you need.
“And now, here you are competing with them in this War match. It's going to be nice to have someone to watch your back...but the minute they aren't looking, you're going to hit them with that Spoke and drop down on them for the one two three. You're going to wait for the most opportune moment to get back what you truly desire...a shot at the World Championship is a beautifully enticing incentive. It's one that you wouldn't be able to pass up.
“That's why there aren't any 'Good Lucks!' or 'Go Get Ems!' coming from that side of the fence. It's 'Sorry Omega! Sorry Richards! But Jeff Purse is winning War this year!' You don't care about their success. You only care that the World Heavyweight Championship is wrapped around your waist once again. It's OK to be selfish, Purse...but don't pretend like you're any better than the rest of us going out there clapping it up with your 'friends' in Pantheon.
“You don't care about these men. Quit lying to us. Quit lying to them. Quit lying to yourself. It's unbecoming. Wear that Obsessive Compulsive Demon on your sleeve, Jeff. Take control of it, otherwise it's going to control you. As for the War match? I'm going to control you, Jeff. I'm going to pull your strings like the puppet you still are. You remember that, don't you? Like two months coming out to the ring with discount demon Abaddon? Had a puppet doing all your talking for you? Is it because you don't have anything interesting to say yourself anymore?
“You have a hand up your ass and your thumb over your partners...but I have my boot over this entire federation. Whether they accept that or not is entirely up to them...but they're going to learn the fact of the matter come War. I may not have as much experience in 'the ring' as you do. I may not be a 'better wrestler' than you...but I own it. I climb in to that ring and close week after week. That War ring you run out to when your music hits and the crowd POPS?! I already own that shit. I've got you beat before we even step through those ropes.
“Trust me that when I say the things I say, they're going to come true. Wade Moor is going to become Internet Champion? I have ZMAC reeling right now because he's playing my game. No more gifs and memes bullshit. I had to bring him up to my level to get #beachbodied. Check that shit. I told you all that #BeachKrew was going to commit fuccboi genocide. Scarecrow's dead. Check that shit. Wade Moor is going to win War. Check that shit.
“But you all have your 'big plans' and 'dreams' that are of no consequence to me. Jay Oemga is going on and on about how he is the best thing to ever happen to this federation. He's talking about how he's arrived like this is a twenty four hour Subway. Jay Omega thinks he's made it here in the WCF...but if you look back on the history books, you can see that the only thing Jay Omega is good at is leaving.
“United States Champion. Beat good old Zombie McMorris to capture that esteemed championship. A handful of title defenses later and where do we find you? On the business end of Deuce Murdock's fake leg, eating a fucking kick, getting laid waste to on the arena floor. Deuce Murdock breaks your leg and cripples The Pack. You lick your wounds and head home, protected by the fact that you were 'injured' on your way out the door.
“Fast forward a few months. Hardcore Champion. You win one of the most brutal fatal five way matches in Slam history. The show had to be confiscated by the FCC because it was so fucking brutal. DVS, Thomas Bates, good old Zombie McMorris again, and Big Train. You came out victorious in that match, pinned the former champion, and created some controversy on the side. Welcome to #BeachKrew's first two months.
“But then go ahead another month or so. Same shit, different day. You're getting attacked by Marc Mayhem, crippled on your way out the door yet again. It's funny, for someone who is so protected...man, you sure get the shit kicked out of you an awful lot. But you get your crutch to lean on...and no, I'm not talking about the one that Marc Mayhem forced you to use for the next few months rehabbing that leg again. I'm talking about the one you'll carry for the rest of your life.
“I never 'lost' those championships.
“Except you did, Omega. You lost them because you let your guard down. You should know by now, that at any minute in this business, somebody is looking to take what you have. They don't care if it's in a sanctioned match or if you're tired from the previous match...they're going to exact that pound of flesh one way or another. They're going to sneak up on you with that knife, carve their name in your back, and walk the fuck away. You'll always be remembered as the person who allowed that to happen, hoping to Hell that everyone will forget.
“And you think you're going to win War? You think you're going to become Hardcore Champion? Well, when the opportunity arises, yeah? Fact of the matter is, you're the person who's been given chance after chance and you repeatedly drop the ball. Well, now I'm going to drop you on your fucking back. Hit you with that Broseidon Punch and eliminate you from War. I'm going to carve my name on you too. The man who eliminated that braggart Jay Omega from the War match...and there wasn't a damn thing he could do to stop me.”
The tattoo artist continues, forever etching that mysterious art into Wade Moor's skin.
“Then we have Alex Richards...the runt of the litter. Confusing, considering you're the biggest BOI I've ever seen in my days. But that's what you reign on, correct? Confusion? That's a pretty solid mantra you have going Alex. You want to know what about you confuses me? How one could have little to no talent and still have won as many championships as you have. How you're still standing in this company.
“I see you, Alex. I know everything about you. Your little promos you like to run. About two hours of contrived crap where the comedy is about as watered down as the Zim-Quila you're always sipping on. Drinking out of a boot and expecting that shit to carry you farther than it has? You're lucky to be where you are right now. Trio's Champion with a few solid mid-card title reigns slipped underneath that.
“But don't think for a second you're going to win War with C-level comedy, D-level talent, and T-level shoot. I didn't even know it could go that low. You'll probably say something like:
“Wade Moor's a fat jerk and an alcoholic!”
“And then you'll turn around and realize that you just #beachbodied your fucking self. That's just one of my many layers...but once you start to peel them back, you realize even more that you don't like what you see. It scares you, terrifies you...and if it doesn't?
“Well, just ask your friend Scarecrow how that turned out. Ooops, did I press a button? You see, he decided that laughing me off, making jokes was a great idea. Just ignore him until he goes away...but I don't go away. I don't pull those Jay Omegas. I'm up in your face, laughing that salty sea breath into your nostrils...giving you the 'push' you so desperately desire.”
Wade chuckles.
“You're the only one who seemed to show some emotional turmoil when your friend bit the dust that night at Madison Square Garden. You seemed to be the only one who gave a shit...you know, until we called Pantheon out for it and they attempted to save face by showing some kind of remorse. That fake remorse...but not you Alex. You're the only person who attempted to meet me face to face and get some kind of revenge.
“How did that work out for you, Alex? If I remember correctly, you ate that Rico Rojas #BITCHSLAP and, once again, Pantheon was outsmarted by #BeachKrew. You see, I always have a plan A, B, C...shit I even got a plan T. That's how low in the depths of depravity my mind is. You're just a dog drinking milk from a saucer. You think you got the big prize...until your shit is squirting all over the floor and somebody else is left cleaning that mess up.
“Kind of like how you'll end up at War. That goes out to your Pantheon devotees as well. Dexter and Gunther. If you two know what's good for you...
“Well, you'll just turn around and run. Check that shit.”
The artist's needle finishes it's daily buzz. He wipes away the blood from Wade's chest with a white cloth, exposing the newly printed tattoo underneath.
A dead Crow.
_________________________________________________________________________________________
Scene II: Wade's Angels (& Demons)
On board the WINO-bago is where we lay our scene (hows that for Shakespearean ZMAC?!). The ensemble known as #BeachKrew sat around the bus, drinking, snorting, shooting, tripping, whatever measure of dipping those narcotics into their bloodstream they could handle. Wade sat off in the corner, a rag of formaldehyde all to himself. He saw dark visions as they shot across the videodrome in his mind, showing him the Hell that was ever present. It was all around them. It was in the homes of families. It was in the school systems. It was in the government.
Wade looked around at his #BeachKrew compadres and knew that this was all life was. It was sitting around on a bus with seven other depraved souls getting as high as you possibly could...but it wasn't an escape. It was reality. It was the cold clutches of the world that most people found inhabitable...but it was #BeachKrew's every day life. It was the world they had created together.
He looked towards his best friend Jared “Los Tiburones” Holmes, that mask pulled up over his mouth as he sipped his Corona. Wade knew everyone looked at him and only saw the shark mask. It was his fuccboi deflector – as he called it. Wade saw passed it. He saw the anguished soul that lie underneath. He knew just how far down in the depths he was.
He was at Leviathan levels.
A few more months, and he would be there.
That fateful day in the swamp, when Los Tiburones had come across a beaten and bloodied Wade Moor, his arms strained out of socket after hanging from that tree for hours on end...Wade knew that day was the beginning of something. He knew that Los Tiburones had happened across at the right time, finding him in such a pathetic state...he could have just left him to die there in that miserable swamp.
Instead, he had saved Wade. He let him down from those bindings because, for some inexplicable reason, Wade Moor needed Jared Holmes...but Jared Holmes needed Wade Moor just as much, if not more. Something cosmically adventitious had brought them together in that musty swamp.
“Earth Children, general tidings and nondescript blessings to you all. This week, hasthtag BeachKrew faces a most collectively daunting task It is, how your citizenry communicate...”
“A gang bang?”, interrupted Andre.
“Fuckin' ship wrek?” Los Tiburones added.
“Puta bitch collection, esse?” muttered Rico.
“A mass murder?” Wade asked.
“It's definitely a gang bang!”, Sandy Coconutz interjected.
“Everything to you is a gang bang! I'm talking about fuckin' fuccboi genocide. You talkin' about fuckin' these crackuhs!” Andre replied and everyone eyed him suspiciously “I mean...people. Not crackuhs. You know die fuccbois die fuccbois die still fool.
Everyone refocused their attention on Jimothy Thuggin et Hacksaw.
“Your biggest challenge yet? Next weekend is War. Your kind has always been obsessed with the idea of War. They froth at the mouth as human kills human. We...I, have never believed in War. Such an obsolete concept, privy to mankind exclusive, born of idiocy and avarice.”
Jim Thuggin takes a long hit off of his Cuban stogie, a gift from Rico Rojas, before continuing his spiel.
“...But if it's a War the WCF wants, then it's a War that we impart upon their front doors. Strike first, never inquire, correct?”
“FUCK YEAH!” #BeachKrew shouted in unison.
“This is a quest you must carry out next weekend. Three of my Earth Children enter the squared circle and work as one. A hive mind. If Tiburones takes a hit to an excretory organ, all of you take a hit to the an excretory organ. If Rico strikes that #BITCHSLAP with the might of Thoralk's Laser, then you all have smote that hapless plebeian. If any of you win War...need I proceed?”
#BeachKrew collectively nod as their minds synchronize on the proper ALPHA brain waves. At War, it was a truly all for one, one for all scenario. Everyone aboard the WINO-bago knew what was at stake. Fuck, they had known since their debut. This was the first step to winning the World Championship. The way to be heard. Winning the World Championship as a stable would propel them to the forefront, and #BeachKrew's message would finally be heard loud and clear.
“Next weekend is when WCF will finally be forced to open their eyes and ears”, Wade spoke. Everyone was shocked as Wade was generally quiet, off to himself in a corner somewhere, “Next weekend is when their willful ignorance finally comes to a screeching halt. All of these fuccbois are built for the short game. They don't know how to win a War. Must of them don't even know how to win a battle.
“Sunday Night in Oklahoma City is our battlefield. It's what all the chess pieces have been moving toward! A clash! A War! A bite of the big fish!”
Wade chuckles under his breath.
“Well, we're sharks and Leviathan's...and we're higher up on the food chain than the rest of you. Sure, you have your 'rankings' and your 'status'! But none of that matters to us. We're just here to take it from you. It's what you all scramble for! To be noticed! To be heard! To be OVER!
“Well, you're over at War. There's nearly forty people in this match...one of the largest rosters in War history, but only some of them have a semblance of a chance. The ones who don't...well, you know exactly who you are. Men like:”
“Ultimate Destroyer?” Andre inquired.
“For once...you bring up his name appropriately”, Wade Moor replied, “Ultimate Destroyer stands absolutely no chance of winning War. He has the physique...it's whats inside the mind that's lacking. Muscles are a fine tool...given you have the knowledge of using them. You were born with a hefty gift, but you were cursed with the mind of a child, Destroyer. That's why you won't have two legs to stand on in this match. You were fucked from the beginning, and you knew it.”
“Men like Cletus T. Clyde?” Jim Thuggin asked.
“Cletus T. Clyde is the epitome of never, shouldn't, couldn't. He's a man who got by on his 'look' as well...but when he was forced to display technical prowess and intelligence, he faltered under pressure. That must have been a massive load, considering your size Cletus...but Wolf took you to the pound, didn't he? He clearly outclassed you in every competition you two had. You saw him and you saw somebody who's blood lust was nearly insatiable. The thought of it crippled your thoughts and paralyzed you with fear and anxiety. That's why you're silent now. That's why you no longer have two thoughts to rub together...
“And if you thought Wolf was bad?
“Hi. I'm Wade Moor. Nice to meet you. But it won't be nice when I take that useless tank you call a body and shatter it into a million little pieces. This War match...it's not your match. Just like the rest of your matches haven't been YOUR match. Who else do we have?”
“Jeff Danger?” Sandy Coconutz contributed, always wanting to be part of things.
“Oh, Danger?...wait, who the fuck is Jeff Danger?” Wade Moor asked.
“I don't know...some kind of bad ass or something? Fuccboi, probably.” Andre answered.
“These are your 'men', Seth? These are the kind of guys you decided to spend your hard earned dollars to acquire? Saw them down in developmental somewhere and decided that you could throw a shiny new package on them? Decorate them into one of your superstars? The next Adam Young? The problem with that is, you wrap up shit in fancy packaging...it's still shit. You can still smell it. Then when you finally dig in, you expose what's underneath. Jeff Danger is the prototype fuccboi. One with no thought, no originality behind what they do. These are the 'men' of the future. No worries. I'll dispatch him with ease and he'll be begging to get let out of his contract. On his hands and knees. I pray you have mercy on him Seth...because Satan knows I won't.
“Then you have L.A. Kush. Sounds like somebodies created wrestler on WCF TWO KAY SIXTEEN. Sounds like a fifteen year old who just smoked his first doobie came up with this one. 'I smoked weed I'm a stoner now! FOUR TWENTY BRO! I bought the joint rolling handbook because I want to impress my friends!'
“Want to know what I did to impress my friends? I beat a fuccboi within an inch of his life. I beat Scarecrow so bad, someone ran in and pushed him over a railing to put him out of his misery!”
“That's what they'll be screaming whenever I'm pounding my fist into your face, over. And over. And over. And over again. They won't be able to recognize you when your eye becomes your mouth and your mouth becomes nose, etc etc. Fuck, you might not be able to recognize yourself after it's all said and done. You might think this is your chance to make an impression, but you already did when you signed your name on the dotted line Kush...and it was a bad one.”
“Cuz he's a fuccboi”, Kyle Kemp said.
“Shit, I didn't even know you were here Kyle”, Andre replied, “Wait...where the fuck is Hunter?”
“I spent Hunter on a very special mission. You're all busy with War...and he's carrying out a separate task. We all have goals to achieve. Now quit interrupting Andre. That's exactly why you're my least favorite of all Earth Children. Go on Wade.”
Wade chuckled at Jim Thuggin's indifference towards Andre. It was exactly how Wade Moor felt towards his next “class” of opponents. The could have, should have, would haves...but just not enough in the tank to get it done. The Angels of Death were the perfect example to use.
“Ahh...we all have our demons, don't we? The Angels wear theirs on a perfectly knit patch, don't they? AYE OH DEE. How you doing? I only ask because I have absolutely no idea. All of you are the embodiment of 'why should I give a fuck?'. You barely register as a blip on my radar because you are barely a blip on anyone's radar...and trust me, sonar travels deep under water. But I find myself in this trying match and I find myself preparing for you regardless. There are like a hundred of you, right? The less controversial DRG, as it is. The far less talented, as well. You guys even have Oblivion on your team and you barely manage to capture people's attention and imagination?
“That's when you know you've hit rock bottom. I guess Night Rider hit when he shacked up with that hobgoblin Denise D'Evil...but I guess he's the lucky one in that situation. Or is he? I don't know, Denise spends half of her time plucking at Tommy Bates heart strings, knowing he's a decent man and savoring every minute of his three inch agony. But wait? She's playing Tommy Bates? She has no intention of ever hooking up with Bates? In my world, we call that bitch a cock tease and she'd get slapped the fuck out on principle.
“Unless there's something else that we're all missing? Maybe...just maaaaybe, you're the one getting played Night Rider? I mean, you got played when you formed the Angels of Death, thinking the talent you were acquiring was actually worth a shit in the WCF. How long have you been in the WCF? Like three years, on and off? Yeah, I think it's time for you to call it quits when this is the high point of your career. Getting #BeachBodied by a couple of new guys because you never learned when to flip the switch.
“Now you're going to be standing in the ring with the best of them, thinking that you have some chance of pulling this victory out of your ass. At the very least, you think you'll have a decent showing? L. M. A. O. Don't make me laugh, Rider. I'm calling it now: First round #BeachBodyBag. You're going to be a name under somebody else's statistic. Teo Del Sol lasted fourty five minutes but he eliminated half of AoD while he was in the ring! That's your destiny in this War Match...and one I'd be happy to bring to fruition.
“Then you have the cock tease, Denise D'Evil...what a fucking joke you are. Not even a good joke. I get more of a chuckle out of Zombie McMorris' thrice used memes then I get out of watching you on the monitors backstage. I go take a piss whenever I hear the name Denise D'Evil being announced. I know it's safe because I know I'm not missing much. Sometimes, I don't even have to piss. I lie just so I can get out of watching you crowding up the television.
“Oh, but you got this intriguing story with Tommy Bates going on, right? The AoD versus the DRG in a bike gang sons of anarchy fucking stupid publicity stunt. Cashing in on the success of some garbage ass TV show with a bunch of clowns reenacting watered down scenes? That's low, even for WCF. Are you trying to sink this ratings ship, Seth? The one we've tried so hard to right? It's not your fault. I shouldn't be blaming you for Denise D'Evil being a massive fucking failure.
“She only has herself to blame. She's out there trying to win matches. Can't. She's out there trying to create intriguing storylines. Can't. You give her this immortal god mode shit and she gives you fucking Days Of Our Lives Yesterday in return. Anyone with half a brain knows where her storyline with Tommy is ending up...in a culmination match with Night Rider. She's not even going to be a part of that shit show. This is how you sell pay-per-views? Attach some fugly ass wench with decent c-cups to it? Man, you couldn't even sell a hot dog with that combination.
“Denise...you want to be a part of an intriguing storyline? Well, at War, you're getting your wish, bitch. You're going to be a part of #BeachKrew's ascension to the very top of this company. That's the only way you're going to captivate the audience. She goes for that simple dropkick...but Wade pushes her legs away! Denise gets up! BOOOM! DROPPED WITH THAT FUCKING BROSEIDON PUNCH! SHE'S DEAD! BAH GAWD I THINK SHE'S DEAD!
“But you're immortal? Good. You get to live with that shit for the rest of your miserable life. Take this word from the real Death Bringer.
“And then you got Oblivion...the monster. AoD's wild card. I could say I'm in that position as well, but everything I do, every move I make, it's all with a glorious purpose. Could you say the same thing, Oblivion? Or are you just trying to be as offensive as possible without all the success? I mean, you're a former Hardcore Champion. A former Tag Team Champion. All of this sounds pretty good on paper...but once you're standing before as and we see The Monster Oblivion...
“Man, we can't help but laugh. You're like a cartoon character. A caricature of what a monster actually is. You gallivant in a mask, talking to the fifty disembodied voices in your head like your name was Caliban or something. Real monsters...well, they just don't let anybody see them for who they truly are. They couldn't handle it. I've tried to hide mine away, not out of fear of society, but for the true fear society would show me. They would bow down to their knees and pray to God I didn't rip their heads from their spines.
“But you...you like to wear the mask, hiding that bumfuck face away from the prying eyes of the world...but why? Why do you cover your face Oblivion? Why do you hide away what you truly are? Why not take off the mask and show the world who you really are underneath? Ashamed. A frightened little child. The best part of you died back in that institution Oblivion. Now, the only thing we have before us is this hollow shell of what Oblivion used to be.
“You follow a grown man around, force feeding him shit liquor because evil? Is that what evil people do now? You think you've still got IT? The only thing you'll have when War is over is lungs full of water. I'm going to drown you so deep in that watered down brand of evil you're carrying around on those massive shoulders. I'm going to crush you with that high impact shit and BROSEIDON PUNCH you so hard in the face, it'll knock that mask off and your lame fucking ass back into the nineties. This isn't the War where IT finally makes a stand. It's the War where IT gets knocked flat on IT's fucking ass.
“And Riddlebox. Riddle me this fuccboi: What has two legs, clown makeup, and straight up sucks? If you guessed Isaiah Chavis, then you're wrong. Man, I've never seen somebody try so hard to be evil and fail miserably. At least Oblivion has something going for him, but you...man, you're just a sad miserable failure wrapped up in a clown costume. Like, this gimmick will get over:
#OH
#WAIT
“Man, if that shit didn't work for Isaiah Chavis, then it definitely isn't going to work for you. I mean, he actually had...talent? I don't know. He had something going for him there, man. But you? God damn, if the lights ever went out in the arena and one of those riddleboxes appeared in front of me talking about “Lions are yellow, but what about seahorses?” or some fuccboi shit like that, man...I'd stomp that thing out, go backstage, and stomp you out too on principle.
“Here you are feuding with one of the MacNeill clan like it's a big deal or some shit. Can't even get him to open his mouth and utter an intelligent sentence. Maybe if your riddles weren't so weak. Maybe if you weren't so weak you would be able to get something going for yourself. Instead, you haven't, and you've found yourself staring me down in that ring come War. Pulling double duty at War, pulling double duty on your mother fucking face. It's going to be a POSEIDON PUNCH followed by a BROSEIDON PUNCH. Knock you straight back into the trailer park you crawled out of. Check that shit.
“Who else is on that whack ass team?” Wade asks.
Andre does a quick check on his Ando-POD...and does a quick double take.
“Uhh...John Gable?”
Wade flashes a look of bewilderment, genuinely confused why John Gable would shack up with some of the biggest fuccboi's in the WCF.
“John Gable? Do my ears deceive me? You're in the Angels of Death? What the hell are you doing with that group of bums? Are you researching a role? Are you doing a character study? Man, you can't act out that level of failure, no matter how well you've honed your craft. And you're a pretty good actor, right? I mean, you've been walking around here acting like a professional wrestler for the better part of four years now.
“Not to discredit your achievements or anything. Longest reigning Television Champion...well, former longest reigning Television Champion now that Los Tiburones is going to crush your record like a pack of lucky strikes.
“But really...the Angels of Death? Is it like when a girl brings her fat friend to a club so she looks like a dime by comparison? But everyone knows she's really a five or six, at best? That's why she'll never be World Champion. That's why you're not winning this War. You got charisma for days, John...oh wait, you're not Jonny Fly. You're not even Johnny Reb. You're John Gable. New here. Suiing WCF over some crummy movie with subpar acting at best.
“You're going to settle that lawsuit in a match? A match at One? You might as well file for bankruptcy now because you're not making it to One. You're not making it out of War alive. I'm going to rip you to shreds for thinking you can come up in here with some mediocre gambit like that. You should have known people weren't going to see your movie...I mean, they already tune out of your matches when you hit the screen so it shouldn't be so shocking to you.
“But you're here in this match and so the world will finally witness John Gable on their TV screens. They'll finally be able to see what a shining star you are...only for you to come crashing down to Earth like a meteor. Right on my gilded shores.
“And the Leviathan doesn't act nice.”
Wade stops and looks out the window as the rest of #BeachKrew continue their nightly activities.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Scene III: Blood In The Water
A blasphemous cacophony of electro whizzbop penetrates your eardrums. Flasks fume as beakers bubble, and you find Wade more alone in his laboratory aboard the WINO-bago. He's hard at work on his experiment...one that would forever change his fate.
But something was on his mind and he couldn't shake it. He couldn't concentrate on his oeuvre with the thought constantly hammering at the back of his cranium like a wicked marching band. The vision that had haunted him since his trip to Hyde Park – where he saw himself hacking away at his father's open chest with that butcher knife – was a relentless image. He wanted so badly for it to be gone, erased completely from his mind...
And he could only think of one way to do it.
As he mapped out his plan and continued his research, he heard a knock at the door. Usually, his Krew knew that he wasn't to be disturbed when he was working, and only usually knocked if the matter was prevalent. He removed his safety goggles and went to the door.
“Who's there?” he called through the reinforced mahogany door.
“Yo Swag...it's me, Jared”, Los Tiburones voice answered from the other side.
“I'm a little busy right now!” he called with his back against the frame, “Can it wait?”
“Nah, man”, Jared affirmed, “Can I come in?. I need to talk to you about something. It's important.”
Wade, frustrated, unhooked the latch and opened the door to allow Los Tiburones into his laboratory. Jared walked in, free of the Shark Mask that usually hid away his face. Jared slipped in to the lab, eyes full of wonder as he looked around. This was a foreign world to him. It was a special occasion when Wade allowed him to enter. He put his hand out toward a beaker filled with a gelatinous orange goop, but Wade stopped him, clearing his throat as he did.
“I wouldn't touch that if I were you”, Wade said, “I mean, you can if you want, but I can't guarentee you won't lose a hand.”
Jared stooped down on his knee, looking deep into the beaker.
“What are you working on Wade?” Jared asked.
Wade laughed a little as he prepared to answer. He folded his arms and leaned against a cabinet behind him.
“You wouldn't believe me if I told you, man.”
And that was a fact that Wade could confirm. In fact, his Krew would probably find him insane if he told him what he was working on. He could barely believe it himself...but it was his father's life's work. It's completion would see the light of day...but first Wade had to do something important. Before that, he needed to find out what Jared wanted.
“What's on your mind, bruh?” Wade asked.
Jared stood up from his knelt position and kicked the front of his checkered Vans against the back of his leg. He seemed...nervous. The body language was definitely a first for Los Tiburones. His nose scrunched as he spoke.
“I'...I had this weird ass dream last night. You could say it was the alcohol, you could say it was the drugs...but I've been feeling strange since Thuggin made his speech the other night.”
“What happened in the dream?” Wade asked with a cocked eyebrow.
Jared hesitated to answer...as if he didn't want Wade to know after all...but being best motherfuckin' bros and all, Jared had to answer.
“...I was in some dingy, musty basement. You were there...”
Wade's heart rate accelerated, and his mind immediately flashed back to his darkest of visions. He watched himself bring the knife down once...
“...you had this knife, and man, there was blood everywhere...”
Wade brought the knife down a second time.
“...and fuck me but it felt so real, you know? I haven't been able to shake it since it happened. I had to talk to you about it...Am I going fucking crazy? It felt so real...”
Wade stared at Jared as he relived the memory – was it a memory? - to culmination yet again. How was it possible that Jared had seen this vision too?
“Listen to me...”, Wade said and Jared's head snapped to attention, “We're all insane...but let me let you in on a little secret...”
Jared's neck pulsed as his own heart rate intensified.
“I've been having the same dream. I have no idea what it's all about...but it haunts me everyday. I haven't slept since we went to Hyde Park. I can't shake the vision, anywhere I go, anything I do...it follows me...”
Wade hesitated for a moment.
“I think I have to go back. I have to go to my father's cabin in the Everglades. Something is drawing me there...and I intend to find out what it is. Would you come with me? I...”
Wade showed a very brief moment of vulnerability, one that you generally wouldn't find him in.
“I don't know if I want to find out alone.”
Jared looked taken aback for a moment, but only a moment. He held out his hand and Wade slapped his into it and cupped it. They put their foreheads together as Jared answered.
“You're fuck right I'll go with you. What are bruhs for?”
Wade smiled and his eyes shifted to that devilish black once more. And for a brief second...
It felt like Tiburones had done the same.
