Post by 6ix God on Oct 2, 2015 13:50:26 GMT -5
ＢＥ ＲＥＡＬ ＩＴ ＤＯＥＳＮ＇Ｔ ＭＡＴＴＥＲ ＡＮＹＷＡＹ ＹＯＵ ＫＮＯＷ ＩＴ＇Ｓ ＪＵＳＴ ＴＯＯ ＬＩＴＴＬＥ ＴＯＯ ＬＡＴＥ
“Thou sealest up the sum, full of wisdom, and perfect in beauty … every precious stone was thy covering … the workmanship of thy tabrets and of thy pipes was prepared in thee in the day that thou wast created. … Thou wast perfect in thy ways from the day that thou wast created, till iniquity was found in thee.” -Ezekiel 28:12-15
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Seeing me twice must’ve been the highlight of her week. Poor little Thursday.When I showed up at her hotel room, the local Holiday Inn – decent suit with a fine view; probably paid an average amount for it – she was lit up like a Jack O’Lantern, likely because on this particular occasion, I hadn’t brought the other members of #BeachKrew with me. My eyes made my way up and down the curves of her slender body: cream colored Jimmy Choo Hoop-100 pumps which must’ve cost a pretty penny, no stockings (or noticeable panties), the same black floral lace Monique Lhuillier sheath dress she always wore (and probably prayed I’d never notice the repetition) , and a hideous gold necklace consisting of an array of fake diamonds sprayed across her collar and chest. Her hair was done up, teased to volume but pulled back in a bun, and her make-up had been applied far more tastefully than last time when she resembled something between a can-can dancer and Harley Quinn cosplayer. She was more confident and relaxed; this was precisely how I wanted her.
I was considerably dressed down so as to disarm any expectations she may have, but even in casual wear I tend to be the most fashionable person in the room. Tonight I was wearing a charcoal Tommy Hilfiger wool flannel quilted jacket over a black Ocean Gang crewneck, black True Religion Mick Skinny Renegade jeans, and a pair of Air Yeezy Red Octobers. When she greeted me at the door, I leaned in to kiss her – lips still tasting strongly of plastic lipstick – and presented to her the bouquet I had picked up at the local Piggly Wiggly on the way over. She got doe eyed and moist almost immediately, and when I suggested that I’d like to stay in for the evening, her head nodded like a Drinking Bird going for its next sip.
Upon entering the hotel room, I was pleased to find that she’d already stocked her refrigerator with New Belgium Fat Tire, my favorite beer, and I had barely the time to take one sip from the first bottle before she’d curled up on my lap, stroking against my chest and neck like a cat in heat. Considering that the entire rest of this week and the following would be one transcendent orgy of drugs, liquor, and easy pussy, having a quiet night with an eager-to-please hardbody, a few six packs of my favorite beer, and a pocket full of dissociatives sounded like what I needed. Who’s to say that even the most righteous of party god champions can’t unwind now and then?
I appeased Thursday’s wishes and shoved her onto the bed, taking time to taste the sweat on her skin before I fucked her like I paid for her. As the initial shutters and glow from her orgasm faded, she curled against me, head nuzzled against my pectoral (beautifully sculpted from rigorous targeted exercise, such as diamond push-ups and bench presses, to name a few). Her eyes batter up towards me, the make-up now a smeared mess and carefully primped hair now wild from the static of the pillow beneath her head.
Thursday: Hey Jared?
“Yeah?”
Thursday: How come you haven’t addressed any of your opponents this week?
I cocked an eyebrow at the brazenness of this question, but when I determined she lack any ulterior motive, other than being a stupid white girl asking questions about things she didn’t understand in a vain effort to “get close with me”, I felt compelled to response.
“Sharks doesn’t give a shit ‘bout what seals think of them. The way I see it, I only got a couple guys to look towards: Dune and Flash.”
Thursday: But all the other guys are talking about each other. Don’t you think you should, too?
“Fuck no. That’s just it: everyone’s doin’ it. I don’t wanna be another face in the sea. And anyway, these guys are dumb focusing on this match. They’re all gunna lose because they aren’t lookin’ past it; they aren’t staking anything on anything past WAR. Sure, you get this shot and that shit, but no one’s even thinking about if they deserve that shot or if it’s wasted on them.”
Thursday: What do you mean?
“Everyone’s treating WAR like it’s about proving you’re better than the other guys in the match. That’s bullshit. The only elimination that matters is the last one.”
Thursday: Some guys are talking about breaking the elimination record.
“And they can have fun with that. But they won’t win. You can eliminate thirty people, but if you got eliminated, then you lost. That’s just it: this match isn’t about proving you’re better than the rest of the roster, it’s about proving you’re good enough to face the champ.”
She nuzzled her head under my chin, but he voice had an odd quality: melancholic and wistful. Perhaps detached.
Thursday: I thought you respected your opponents.
ABORT ABORT ABORT ABORT
“I do. Don’t get me wrong. But they’re going about this wrong. Gotta be thinkin’ if you wanna win this shit, not followin’ the pack.”
Her lips came to my collar bone then down my chest. She looked up and locked eyes with me, her mouth curving back up into a smile once more.
CRISIS AVERTED
She turned to the bedside table and reached over for one of the joints of Blue Velvet I had rolled and put it in her mouth.
“That’s not what you think it is.”
She paused, took the joint from her mouth, and looked at me.
Thursday: What is it?
I considered my options. I could perhaps attempt to paint, in words, the sort of galaxies she’d walk amongst, the colors she’d dance with, the sweet higher beings who would feed her the secrets of emptiness through the most sublime of kisses. I remembered my first trip on Blue Velvet, when I melted into my most base energy and strolled backwards down a hallway after coming face-to-face with Shiva, the Hindu God of Destruction. I thought of the cosmic Atlantean shopping malls with endless escalators I could ride, drugged up and drugged down, untethered from my body and humming to the celestial rhythms of shimmering muzak.
But I knew she wouldn’t understand.
Instead I smiled and took the joint from her fingers, placing it in my mouth as my free hand groped for the lighter. I could feel her leg run along mine and up my pelvis towards my belly button, her fingers gently tracing the ripples of my muscle along the sides of my abdomen. I lit the joint and took a long inhale of the perfumed smoke. The chemical rushed through my veins almost immediately as I closed my eyes and offered it to her.
“It’s something like Love.”
As I listened to the sound of her sipping the smoke into her lungs and gently blowing it out once more, I could hear distant waves and see the first signs of mosaic images in the distance approaching. As she returned the joint to me, I felt her body tense against mine in surprise at the alien images she was undoubtedly beginning to experience. My mind floated up from my body in Oklahoma and sped off West, over the Rocky Mountains and back down into the Great Basin where it rushed the Sierras, on the wings of a wicked and burning wind, towards a man in the middle of the Mojave.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
ＢＥ ＲＥＡＬ ＩＴ ＤＯＥＳＮ＇Ｔ ＭＡＴＴＥＲ ＡＮＹＷＡＹ ＹＯＵ ＫＮＯＷ ＩＴ＇Ｓ ＪＵＳＴ ＴＯＯ ＬＩＴＴＬＥ ＴＯＯ ＬＡＴＥ
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
There’s a wind connecting us, Dune. It’s a wind that rolls down the Rocky Mountains, gliding over the Great Basin and baking in the Western sun. As this wind tears through Bryce Canyon and craggy Southern Utah, it is forced through tight chambers and accelerated; a veritable firebird like the legends of old, soaring beyond the Mojave on infernal wings, over Death Valley, and through the Joshuas trees until it comes barreling into Los Angeles. I’m sure you know of the wind I speak of, the proverbial flamethrower aimed at the dry scrubland hills of Hollywood and Malibu. It was named “devil winds” by the Natives such as the Serrano and the Chumash, which the Spanish would in turn dub “Satanás”. We, of course, now know them as the Santa Annas.That’s how close we are, Dune: a stone’s throw away. You will say we have nothing in common: I was born with every wish I desired fulfilled with the clap of my hand, you were a poor nomad who foraged and killed to survive; I was raised in the concrete jungles of Los Angeles and San Diego, as you roasted in the sand wastes beyond city limits; my Gods were Christian Louboutin, Coca Cola, and Pablo Escobar while god abandoned your people long ago. But we’re both desert dwellers, even if my patch of desert is paved and commodified. As California grows as dry as Death’s husk, we are reminded of the sands and ashes out of which we were born. The winds of your world are the winds of mine: my destroyers are your destroyers. I trade my smog for your Santa Annas. The difference between us is a matter of perspective and argument as to the constitution of civilization.
I say this because even as your home burns, the ash and heat float on the Westerlies towards Malibu Canyon. A single spark? It’s the figuratively breaking of the levee. The tremors you occasionally feel beneath your feet out in the desert stem from the epicenter under my streets. The raids of your bandits pale beside the anarchy and bloodshed of the gang wars our poor fight. You measure “scarcity” as an indicator of resilience and hardship. You attribute a lack of air conditioning and orange trees as validation of your perceived struggles. The absence of “civilization”, you claim, is the crucible within which you were forged. Yet you fail to account for these contradictions and comforts: the lack of overcrowding, the removal in location from danger zones, and the security of being able to spit in the wind. You, Dune, are blessed because a desert is empty enough to become lost within (do Howard and Occulo know how to find you?). Your desert made you strong, but it also made you weak.
And it made you weak because in it you ceased to fear Death.
A contradiction, no? I don’t expect the belligerent warrior-spirit type like you to understand these sort of abstract concepts; you’re not a philosopher, even if you like to meditate pedantically on drivel like “fire” or “combat”. But when I say you’ve become weak by losing your fear of Death, I mean you’ve forgotten what it’s like to live. Life, Dune, is but an aspect of Death. Without Death, there is no life. No fight to go on. That passive acceptance will never allow a man to do greater things than he has already done.
That fear of death is what drove us to keep building and gaining and accumulating while you became fat and lazy. There’s a certain lust for experience one obtains when the spectre of the next “Great Quake” or “Great Fire” hangs above your head like the three Moirai with their shears to snip your thread. The angel of death, scythe poised. When every alley could harbor a knife or a gun, poised to strike like the rattlers in their holes. Every pill a little too dirty with filler meth, like the polluted waters or poisonous plants bearing such a striking similarity to the healing ones. A drunk driver tearing down Mulholland Drive and careening through a red light into a four-way intersection on Sunset Boulevard. It’s those faces and fears which define Los Angeles. Which define my post-modern/apocalyptic paradise I was torn from so as to reside in La Jolla.
This chaos. This crowd. This sense of alienation among the masses. This is not what you were built for. You can’t blend in. Slither through. Tell the difference. You’re a gladiator, not a rioter: accustomed to circling an enemy, man or lion, in the pit before pitting your strength against one another. You weren’t built for the din of anarchy, the smashing of glass and tearing down of order.
This is why you’re thrilled to stay out of WAR. And this is why I’ll win WAR.
And this is why of all the contestants in WAR, you most fear my victory. You don’t know how to deal with someone like me. You are not me. But Dune? I am you. It’s not just a mask. It’s not California. It’s not even the icy blue eyes we both have. It’s the path we’ve left in our wake: the broken homes and broken bones. You’re a reaper, Dune. A harbinger of destruction. You’re the vicious firestorm tearing through the hills. But me, Dune? I’m the tidal wave. I’m the swelling from the deepest pits of the ocean which will tear through your little sand pit home and drag you under in my riptide. Because while I know the kiss of heat and flames, you don’t know the chill of the deep. The pull of the current. You’re from the driest place on Earth, and I’m out of your element. Your antithesis. Your opposite and equal.
Poor, poor Dune has been fighting midgets for so long, he’s mistaken himself as a giant. Oh you’re big, alright, but you’ll never be big enough to touch the ocean floor while your head’s above the water. One day the Great Quake will drop my city back into the earth from which it came, but then your desert will have a beach. Then your people will know the fear of sea: tsunamis and tidal waves, floods and storms. But at when I’ve won WAR, I’ll give them the first taste of it at ONE when I drown you, Dune. That is, if you survive Joey Flash.
Check the forecast. A storm’s brewing.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
ＢＥ ＲＥＡＬ ＩＴ ＤＯＥＳＮ＇Ｔ ＭＡＴＴＥＲ ＡＮＹＷＡＹ ＹＯＵ ＫＮＯＷ ＩＴ＇Ｓ ＪＵＳＴ ＴＯＯ ＬＩＴＴＬＥ ＴＯＯ ＬＡＴＥ
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The world was in gray scale, grainy and skipping like an old roll of film found locked in the basement of the Grand Ole Opry. A relic of a sadder time in America history, locked away and gathering dust. Jared stood on one side of the stage, the spotlight shining prominently on him and casting a sinister shadow across the black base and huge white lips painted on his face. He grinned like an idiot, clasping his white gloved hands together and throwing back his head in a wild laugh.“Laydeez en gentulmen, we gots quite the show for ya tonites!”
LAUGH FOR MISTER SHARKS
The audience gave a rolling roar of laughter following by crazed applause in appreciation. In the blinding glare of the stage light, Jared could make out none of their faces. Instead, he dramatically motioned towards the curtains behind him, parting to reveal a slew of nude dwarfs, rolling about in ecstatic orgy, their hands and members probing and beating one another in hideous rhythm.
“I do declare we gots a WAR on our hands! Oh not da kind dat dem good, clean propah white folk souf de Mason-Dixon Line be getting’ all misty eyed o’er! I be talkin’ ‘bout da WAR in da Dubya-See-Eff! Seem like juuuuus’ yestahday e’rybody be smackin’ dem lips tagetha, lookin’ fer a little piecea dat sweet sweet booty like it was PEE-KAN PYE.”
LAUGH FOR MISTER SHARKS
A wild whoop and chatter from the audience. A tomato flew from their ranks and splattered against one of the midgets who immediately began to shovel bits of it into his gnashing mouth. Soon the others had dogpiled him, licking and biting to snatch the sweet and tangy juices running down his neck or lap up the bits of pulp remaining.“Now, now, dun wanna be feedin’ dem! Deez boys be huuuuungry! MM-MM! End at hungah be fixin’ it’s BIG OLE green eye on one thing: dat big shiny gold belt. I betcha can pawn dat thang off fur least TWO nights in N’Awlins widda sweet lil’ honey! Dem wrastlers shur knows hows ta pick ‘em!”
LAUGH FOR MISTER SHARKS
The applause burst tribal and bent into peals of joy. The midgets slowly clambered off the skeletal remains of the other midget they’d finished devouring as the curtains slowly closed, Jared hooping and hollering along with them. Everything was vaudeville.~*~*~*~*~*~*~
ＢＥ ＲＥＡＬ ＩＴ ＤＯＥＳＮ＇Ｔ ＭＡＴＴＥＲ ＡＮＹＷＡＹ ＹＯＵ ＫＮＯＷ ＩＴ＇Ｓ ＪＵＳＴ ＴＯＯ ＬＩＴＴＬＥ ＴＯＯ ＬＡＴＥ
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
I’m sitting at a round table across from two other men. I’m not sure where the table is, but it’s neither here nor there. The place the table is at is both and room and not a room. I can feel the walls and sense of enclosure, but I’m also sure that I’m somewhere deep underwater amongst the ruins of only what I can imagine to be Atlantis – sunken shopping malls with battered windows and creaking glass elevators housing aquariums full of the strangest fish (not quite birds but not quite sharks), a McDonald’s lit up like the one in Las Vegas with gaudy neon lights and nude hardbodies with no faces serving McGangBangs to a line of terracotta soldiers like the ones guarding the tomb of Qin Shi Huang, and streets empty save the passing of an occasional shark wearing the chilliest pink shuttershades. Despite being clearly outside, I somehow know that I’m also inside. For a moment, the drug ebbs down to reveal the hotel room as it last was, but in an instant I am swallowed beneath the surface and back at the card table.One of the men sitting across from me is familiar, though I’ve never met him before. His shaggy brown hair, stubbly beard, and silver crucifix hanging around his neck could only place him as one Howard Black. The other man I have never seen before: short and of medium build, brown bangs hanging down before the spiked fluff of an undercut which hasn’t been upkept, wearing a worn Detroit Lions shirt and pair of brown slacks. I’m suddenly conscious of the fact that I’ve a hand of playing cards (as does Howard), and the unfamiliar man (probably around my age) smiles at us.
??: Gentlemen. Bets, please.
Howard grumbles and shoves a pile of chips forward. I gaze down at my hand, noticing I have a perfect Black Jack. I double Howard’s bet.
??: Show ‘em!
Simultaneously, Howard and I drop our hands: both Black Jacks. The dealer smiles and flips up his own cards: a perfect Black Jack despite all impossibility.
??: House always wins in Vegas, boys. Pay up.
He gathers our chips, and I contemplate flipping the table and pounding the dwarf (who I must have a good half a foot on) until he’s crying like his precious little Lions after my Chargers ran a train on them in week one. My only swerving comes from an odd sense of trepidation and awe this odd little man seems to inspire in me; I’m not even sure I understand why he’s so odd when he looks unassuming enough.
“Who the fuck are you?”
He smiles at me, thin and sly, as he deals us another hand.
??: I’m Michael. I created you.
My jaw drops as Howard chuckles, picking up his hand.
Michael: Don’t laugh; I created you, too.
The chuckling ceases. My mind isn’t working properly under the influence of this gorgeous drug, and after a moment of attempting to piece together a cogent sentence, I’m able to retort.
“The fuck is this ‘I made you’ shit?”
Michael’s eyes trace me with an almost sad and contemptful pity. He shrugs and looks over at Howard before looking back at me.
Michael: There’s not much to it. You’re fucked up, and the drugs are showing you something. Blue Velvet is some weird shit, man. I’d know; I created it, too.
Heisenberg? Was that was this guy was? Some mash of Walter White and Jesus Christ, selling salvation in a White Grape Wild Cat blunt wrap? I look down at my hand and found the cards were blank. Howard tosses his hand down angrily, revealing his cards being blank as well. Michael chuckles and rises from the table.
Michael: Let’s take a walk. Maybe we can all learn something from each other?
We stalk through the underwater ruins, following this hipster shepherd closely. His pace is leisurely, his hands stuffed in his pockets. Howard pulls a cigarette from his jean pocket, placing one in his mouth before offering another to me. I accept it and place it between my own lips, curious to find it ignites immediately. The smoke is sweet and tastes like Blue Velvet. Howard offers another cigarette to Michael, but he raises a hand in protest.
Michael: I’m trying to quit. Anyway, you’re probably wondering what this has to do with WAR, yeah? You only really see shit that’s relevant to whatever’s going on this week when you smoke this crap. I can’t exactly give you any definitive – I’m not psychic – but I can give you what I know.
I look over at Howard, the ugly Nebraskan who fucked his whole life up by not using a rubber and believing in Jesus too much to do the decent thing and punch his wife in the uterus during the first trimester. I’m still not sure why he’s here, but from the menacing look he’s given me, I have the feel he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Then again, I’m on drugs.
Michael: Howard is here to serve as a portent; you know what that word means, right?
“Uh, yeah, you dickhead.”
Michael: Great. Then you’ll remember the fate of Howard Black: the sky was the limit, right? He’d been on a huge streak beating Thomas Bates in a high profile match, retained his belt in a vicious handicapped match, and went into Ultimate Showdown as the perennial favorite. The Vegas Odds golden boy who seemed to have a legitimate chance and sweet pay-outs. He didn’t win, of course. Too ambitious. Too bloated in the head. The central problem with Howard Black is that he was handicapped by his own sense of decency. Some guys went into that match with big, nasty chips on their shoulders and came out on top. Now Howard had little history with Jonny Fly, Jay Omega, and Alex Richards. Nothing he could say that would be meaty enough. And the people he had history with? Scarecrow, Kaz, and Dune? He was just thick as thieves with them. No guts. Combine that with a portrait of American life, and he didn’t have the chance he was made out to be. We had a new tag champion who walked into his first defense a winded man and is now on the bench.
Of course, if Howard’s ego swelled up like a hot air balloon, yours has been the size of a blimp since day one. But that’s what makes your so interesting, right? You’re not a nice guy. You’re a real rotten bastard, all things considered. You lack any redeeming qualities or sense of potential redemption. You can’t “fall”. You can’t give us a story which tugs heartstrings unless it’s over the people you’ve victimized. You’re a villain who relies on cheap aesthetic, low-brow kitsch humor, and unabashed idiocy to ridicule any sense of good taste or decency. The exact opposite of Howard Black.
“This is pretentious. And self-serving.”
Michael: I’m trying to give you something unorthodox for your promo.
“I don’t want it. This is stupid. I just wanna be high.”
The scrawny little hipster shakes his head. What a shitty haircut; it flops about on his head like a mop, and I wish I could tear a large chunk off his scalp.
“You think you’re some sort of God figure just because you popped up in my drug trip? What an asshole. Fuck you, kid. I bet you’re that type of guy who discusses Ginsberg poetry and rants about existentialism. You probably like Nietzsche and play Dungeons & Dragons.”
Michael: Okay, look, fine; I’ll cut the high-minded shit.
“Thank you. Now what the fuck do you want? I don’t give a shit about you jerking off over Howard Black or me, for that matter. Howard’s a fucking loser who choked. If you made him, you failed.”
Pretentious von Scrawny lets out an exasperated groan. He places a hand on my shoulder which feels like a million knives. Immediately, I’m hurtling through space at an incredible speed, seeing images zip through my eyes: a woman sobbing deeply as she points at gun at me from out of the shadows; myself with a hideous dummy on his lap, performing a comedy routine; walking to the ring in a different attire I don’t recognize and no mask; chopping my way through the jungle; a spaceship; I’m in a spaceship; dear god a needle is coming towards my eye and I can’t blink why can’t I blink who is this person in the background leering at me with a large gray head and jet black eyes smoking a Cuban cigar and chuckling like an old jack-in-the-box.
I’m alone, floating through the void without a star or the faintest crack of light to guide me.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
ＢＥ ＲＥＡＬ ＩＴ ＤＯＥＳＮ＇Ｔ ＭＡＴＴＥＲ ＡＮＹＷＡＹ ＹＯＵ ＫＮＯＷ ＩＴ＇Ｓ ＪＵＳＴ ＴＯＯ ＬＩＴＴＬＥ ＴＯＯ ＬＡＴＥ
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
It’s hard to keep balance under the influence of this many Percocet tablets, and the Ray Bans I’m wearing indoors are the only line of protection between my dilated pupils and the uncompromising rays of sunlight streaming in through the sky lights. Otherwise, I have made absolutely no effort to disguise myself: besides the white “#FREEPARTYTRAIN” deep-cut tank top (courtesy of SilentHashtagBeachKrew.com, with the base tank top sourced from American Apparel, who are known for their quality cotton blends and all-American manufacturing), purple camouflage Bathing Ape jacquard sweatpants (an often maligned Japanese designer brand known most famously for being the preferred brand of talentless shuffling jiggaboo Souljah Boy, but Bathing Ape offers both comfort, quality, and bold design often avoided by American designers), black suede Nike Air Force 1 hi-tops (retro is always chic in the 21st Century), and a charcoal herringbone Sean John topcoat. I had been dropped off at the mall by Thuggin an hour ago (I think?), and I’d spent the better part of the day meandering aimlessly amongst the perfectly controlled climate and temperature. After eating a pretzel dog dipped in artificial cheese sauce at Auntie Anne’s Pretzels and popping upstairs to suck down a Baja Blast at the Taco Bell, I found myself exploring the upper levels of the mall, coming across a particular alley leading to the Macy’s. Spencer’s Gifts, Zumiez, Tilly’s, and Hot Topic stood in perfect order with a Game Stop across the aisle, alerting me to the fact that I’d entered the corner of the mall the pimpled fuccboi goth highschoolers had been relegated to so as to keep the eyesores away from Dillard’s. As I weaved through the crowd of neon-haired teenyboppers playing hooky, I noticed an advertisement for WSeaF merchandise in the Hot Topic window and entered the commercial shrine to rotting pop culture.
Hot Topic is a retirement home for counterculture and low-brow trends. This is the library of references which Seth Macfarlane plunders for his next episode of Family Guy. Amongst the irony of a heavily corporately packaged “rebel” identity (pissing off your authority sold for $35+tax) was every mouth-breathing relic you could find: SlipKnoT binder paper (for the back-to-school goth who wants his homework turned in on something sp00ky), Bob Marley incense burners (for those who want to scream “try-hard”), shirts for irrelevant angst-metal bands like Suicide Silence and Insane Clown Posse, Dr. Who bobble heads (for those who think Harry Potter is “kid stuff” now), and Manic Panic hair dye. It was the sort of store where scene kids, juggalos, unwashed metal heads, stoners with white-boy dreadlocks, and aspies can congregate and mutually bring down the property value of a retail location. If mass shootings targeted stores like this, we’d probably consider Elliot Rogers and James Holmes national treasures. The world would be a quantifiably better place.
As I peruse the store, scanning my eyes over shit like Invader Zim hooded sweatshirts (do kids still like shit like this?) and studded belts, a pudgy emo kid with greasy, uncombed, and clearly dyed black hair bumps into me. He looks up at me through thick-rim glasses, probably some fucking Sam’s Club brand his white-trash parents scraped pennies to buy him, and frowns sheepishly.
Loser: Sorry, man.
Even gazing through the gossamer of opiates, I was sure that no one was paying attention to us. I grabbed the kid by the shirt collar and threw him down into the foot of a clothing rack before delivering a kick to his disgusting fucking stomach which hung out the bottom of his undersized Chiodos shirt. I was able to pull this off gracefully and quickly enough that he could hardly make a sound to alert anyone before I had continued along my way through the store.
I make my way to the wall of WSeaF merchandise, entirely unsurprised that Seth Lerch has granted a chain like this permission to be a distributor. Joey Flash sweatpants, replica Dune and Teo del Sol masks, Jay Omega hockey jerseys, DhyphenRhyphenG skull caps, and some Danny Anderson shirts on clearance (lol). In a corner of the wall display sat a collection of shirts: Sea-V Champion, #BeachBodied, UNLEASH.THE.LEVIATHAN, and Better Than You. I smiled; I noticed the stock on the shelves below was remarkably low. A lanky kid who looked like he could use at least a good ten Big Macs walked in front of me, bending down to grab one of the #BeachBodied deep cut tank tops, turning and showing it off to his friends. From the patchy growths of wiry black hair on his cheeks and chin to the quarter inch gauges in his ear, I imagined his age was somewhere between hormonally disturbed high-schooler or man-child collegiate.
Scrawny: See this? They got the new #BeachKrew bro-tanks in!
A group of fellow mongoloids and one make-up splattered tramp wearing a necklace full of Monster energy drink pull tabs.
Loser #1: Shit dude, that’s awesome.
Loser #2: I think they got some more. I hope they get in those swagged out Satanic goat tanks that Tiburones has been wearing the last few weeks.
Scrawny: Dude, that shirt is so legit.
Clown Tramp: I’ll get one. I’ll rock the shit out of that at the next show.
I’m morbidly fascinated with this group before me. Are these our fans? Loser wannabe punks who are still listening to Green Day and attending Warped Tour? No. It’s not possible. #BeachKrew drew uppity sorority girls and former prom queens with tastes for Ambien and dick; sure we had the occasional CODE: MARIGOLD in a fuccboi sneaking in, but there’s no way that could be indicative of the larger trend, right? The wretched looking cooze turns, notices my tank top, and immediately grins at me to expose a mouth of yellowed teeth (probably from the Monster energy drinks and occasional hits of crank).
Clown Tramp: Nice #FREEPARTYTRAIN tank, man!
As soon as she says it, the group is alerted to my presence. The collection of three unwashed late-teenagers has become fixed upon me; the armpits of a fat one’s shirt are stained with sweat, and they all smell like stale menthol cigarettes. I want to fucking puke and dash their brains out against the polished concrete floor in that order.
Loser #2: Shit dude, that’s only from their official website, yeah? Like WCF won’t sell it?
“Uh. Yeah. Yeah it is.”
Loser #2: Holy fuck, how much was it? Is there tax or shipping?
I have no idea how much this shirt costs a pedestrian; I was just given it for free by Thuggin to promote the merchandise.
“Like, twenty-five bucks? Couple extra for shipping?”
Loser #1: You know Tim came to school in one the other day.
Loser #2: Yeah, but Tim’s parents will pay for overnight shipping.
‘Parents’. Fuck, these are high schoolers. The girl is looking me up and down with eyes that say she’s into anal; I wish I knew the age of consent in Oklahoma. I could probably kick the shit out of her three loser friends. Her mouth is a tragedy, and I’d force her to brush her fucking teeth or wear a bag. But her ass is decent, and I bet she’d let me cum in her hair. The guys are still jabbering at me like a give a shit about anything they have to say. I remove my eyes from the girl. The conversation trickles back into my ears.
Scrawny: Are you going to WAR this weekend?
It suddenly occurs to me that this group has no idea as to who I am. They’ve been standing around me for ten minutes now, worshipping at the altar of #BeachKrew, an altar than none of them will ever be deemed worthy to tend, and none have realized that I am Los Tiburones. My mind goes into panic mode; do I say anything? Do I take out my wallet, show them my ID card, then proceed to start hitting them? Do I just pull the girl aside, whisper it in her ear, and tell her to make her friends fuck off? Do I continue this act of being someone I’m not because they don’t deserve to realize who I am? Why don’t they know who I am? How can they be such big fans of #BeachKrew and not recognize me without a shark mask? I was unmasked last Slam, wasn’t I? I’m unmasked in my promos, aren’t I? Am I not exceptionally good looking? Enough to leave an impression so that even just a pair of Ray Bans wouldn’t be enough to conceal my identity? It’s not like I’m trying to be discreet; I’m clearly Jared Holmes and definitely on one. I don't give a shit about these fucking kids; they're the exact sort of fuccbois I regularly try to bully into suicide. They'd never be allowed in my parties, I'd never hang out with them, and why the fuck don't they realize I'm Jared "Los Tiburones" Holmes, king fuccboi murdered and Sea-V Champion?
Why do they not recognize me?
“Yeah. Sure am.”
Scrawny: Bad-ass, man! Los Tiburones is winning for sure! See you there!
“Yeah. See you there.”
It’s a blessing I’m on opiates; I’m physically unable to sprint from the store. I find a corner of the mall where no one can see me, and I envision dragging that nasty little scene slut back here and fucking her in the ass as put her in a rear naked choke. I’m so high I contemplate jacking off right then and there. There’s graffiti on the wall: Ｄｏｎ’ｔ ｄａｒｅ ｔｏ ｄｒｅａｍ ｂｉｇ， ｊｕｓｔ ｄｒｅａｍ ＢＩＧ！
A picture of a smiling Japanese family from an old car commercial has been taped beneath it. I wish I could dive into the picture. I wish I could burn the world to the ground and build a big shopping mall in its place where everything is plastic, everyone eats Auntie Anne’s Pretzels, and #BeachKrew merchandise is sold in anchor stores like Neiman Marcus rather than Hot Topic. This is the perfectly curated prison. It’s the happiest purgatory on Earth. Outside is a WAR. A WAR I need to win if I want my laserdisc visions to come true.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
ＢＥ ＲＥＡＬ ＩＴ ＤＯＥＳＮ＇Ｔ ＭＡＴＴＥＲ ＡＮＹＷＡＹ ＹＯＵ ＫＮＯＷ ＩＴ＇Ｓ ＪＵＳＴ ＴＯＯ ＬＩＴＴＬＥ ＴＯＯ ＬＡＴＥ
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Jared motions to the curtain once more: it reveals a long, strong, and beautiful man standing above the hulked figure of another, whip raised and cascading down up his back with sickening crack after crack. Jared smiles through painted lips. He walks with an exaggerated heel-to-toe motion, an opiated buck-and-wing, until he is situated just behind the actors. He lays his chin to rest on the shoulder of the man standing tall; a man with lush dark hair falling over his shoulder, a face like an angel, and a body carved of marble.“Gud mawnin’ to ya, Massa Flash! Bout ta go git dat Dubya-Ache-Sea? Been spendin’ da last cuple months in da kitchen cookin’ up dat SUPAH HAWT FIYAH ta fight fiyah wid fiyah en burn de Firestarta to da ground? You was da furst ta step up en see da folly in dem fuccbois like Occulo, Jon Crow, and Howie Black! Ya cud see thru da light lager-soaked mask of Missuh Beckman ta finda big empty shell beggin’ ta get cracked like an egg fur an omelet. Ya done kiss a lil ass, speak a few lies, and dees boys go chargin’ ta fight like big ole dummy silverbackers after da last banana. You da Sentinel Stomper! Ain’t Dune endin’ no ICE Age but you! You done sent ole ICE Beckman ta his death! Ya crashed da Poondock Saints wid a nighta drugs en few nice words! You was so in ole Kaz’s head ya bought a penthouse in it! E’ryone thinks you ain’t deserving ya spot here cuz dey blind en dumb!
Don’t matter ya lost ta Grime. Or ya thru da match ‘gainst ole Yung Adam. Dat you done ate dat Bates’ Boot at Aye-Dee-Em, thru da Tag Title in de trash when Kaz offered it, and ya last inturestin’ tiff was wid Missus Kathy P! Good ole boys like us, Massa Flash? We dun need dat mar-key story or dat big ole gimmick match. What matters ta guys like us is da settin’ of dem pawns! Swimmin’ below da surface til ya under da boat, den knock dat shit over. You, Massa Flash, are da only one worth facin’. Duyne, Seth, and Fly knows it. Roman, Cairo, Beckman knews it. Hell, I knows it!”
LAUGH FOR MISTER SHARKS
The audience laughs and claps as roses fly to the stage, landing delicately at the feet of Massa Flash like a coronation. Wade enters stage left, sans make-up, with a large push broom to sweep the stage clean.
“Dat’s what gives boys like us da advantage. While e’ryone tryin’ ta squeeze thru da front, we go in thru da back! It’s da scenic route, sure! But who ain’t wantin’ ta stop en smell da roses? It’s da good route. A guy like ole Dune don’t see dat, which is why you gonna win: he’s outsmarted. Big brute wid no brain. No sensa bein’ sneaky. En I be lookin’ forward ta yous beatin’ him so I can finally test ya in dat squared circle at ONE. Jus’ picture it, Massa Flash: gon be steppin’ in dat ring widda REAL challenge. Someone willin’ ta motivate ya ta take off dem sweatpants and burn dis motha down! I’m da man, Joey, and yousa smart guy. You can see dat. Dat’s why yous worried ole Mistah Sharks gon win WAR. Iffin I win, ya gots a lee-jit-i-mut contendah which puts dat odds at retain real different-like.
Cuz I am you, Massa Flash! We’s birds of a feather! I’m da Next Joey Flash aye-kay-aye da Next Next Johnny Fly! I see da cracks and know da threads ta pull! A match ‘tween us like a chess game, and ‘neath dat big ole head of yours, I know ya gots an analeetic mind already schemin’ up move one. Let’s dance, Massa Flash! Lightnin’ verse Hurricane. Two trickstas havin’ a battle of da ultimate gambits.
Lawd have mercy, I’m getting’ hot jus’ thinkin’ bout dis. Beatin’ ya makes me da KING! Da man who ended da reign of Dune, knocked down on his first defense at ONE. Lawdy, ‘magine dat! Da shame. Da humiliation. Da lamb of Joey Flash killed on da altar of #BeachKrew who been takin’ Dubya-Sea-Eff in a tidal wave. Cuz you know how dis momentum goes: I’ve won da Sea-V Title, drop it to da next guy, en cash up. Das what you did. Das what Bates did. En I’m finna do it mahself afta WAR.
Cuz ya see, Massa Flash, if anyone but me be winnin’ WAR, ya ain’t getting no good fight at ONE. Ya get some dum-diggity-bum haypenny #Flashjobber en no dee-rek-shun. Ya can’t have dat: ya NEED me! But das okay, Massa Flash cuz I’m winning WAR. So certain I’m winnin’ WAR I ain’t even payin’ no mind ta anyone but you en Dune. Das what a real contenduh duz.
So y’all have fun but not too much. Hate ta see ya put outta action! Cuz make no bones ‘bout it Massah Flash, I’m gunnin fer YOU. Have fun polishin’ mah next belt.”
LAUGH FOR MISTER SHARKS
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
ＢＥ ＲＥＡＬ ＩＴ ＤＯＥＳＮ＇Ｔ ＭＡＴＴＥＲ ＡＮＹＷＡＹ ＹＯＵ ＫＮＯＷ ＩＴ＇Ｓ ＪＵＳＴ ＴＯＯ ＬＩＴＴＬＥ ＴＯＯ ＬＡＴＥ
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
She is so fucking warm against me. I don’t know why her nails against my skin always seemed to elicit the prickling of my skin, a sort of icy chill despite the warmth of her touch, but despite having just emptied my seed into her once again, I feel completely unsatisfied. She lets out a sigh, long and sad like she has something to say – the stupid cunt always did this when she had something to say. As I turn to face Emma, I feel a sense of rage and resentment wash over me. Her face displays little other than intense dislike, and it doesn’t take a psychologist to determine neither of us want to be here. I don’t know why I called her over and shot my load into her again – probably because I was fucked up. But I wasn’t fucked up. I have no idea how I got here.Emma Hartley: So that’s it?
“Yeah, that’s it. Did you expect something more?”
She shook her head, probably hoping to illicit some dropping of my guard and deeply revealed sadness. Then again, Emma never totally bought my gimmick; she’s why I don’t date or fuck smart girls.
Emma Hartley: No. Of course not. Typical Jared.
Something like anger hit me in the chest. I could feel my skin grow hot, and I was tempted to turn and bat her one. The audacity of this bitch to think she somehow figured me out was suffocating and oppressive. I suddenly became conscious of just how small the room was, and it became hard to breath through my iodine creeping through my capillaries.
“Did you really think I’d give you anything more than a pussy full of cum for the shit you said in that documentary?”
She laughed, dry and sarcastic, defiant to the last. She turned to look me in the eyes, her face a mask of self-important fulfillment.
Emma Hartley: Are you going to pretend that everything I said wasn’t true? That you aren’t some fucking lunatic who would kill his own grandmother to win WAR? I gave you a compliment, Jared: these other guys are so blinded in hatred by your cheap shithead antics, they don’t have a chance. You, on the other hand, don’t feel anything. You think you feel shit like anger, joy, or sadness, but in reality all you feel are highs and lows caused by the chemicals you shove in your mouth and nose to evoke anything resembling an emotion. You’ll win WAR because it’s just a game to you. Everything’s a fucking game to you.
“Someone’s got sour grapes.”
Emma Hartley: Fuck you, Jared. I was a trophy to you. An accessory. I’m only here because you can’t let go of the fact I’d say no to you.
“You sure as hell said yes to this.”
Emma Hartley: I didn’t say yes to this; you brought me here.
“Oh, and I made you spread your legs for my dick, too?”
Emma Hartley: Yeah, you fucking junkie. You’re still hallucinating.
The floor is gone. Only the bed exists. Emma smiles, and her mouth is too big. My fist cocks back, and I strike her. Her head snaps back, falling against the pillow, and I’m quick to mount her and begin beating her face into the pillow. With each successive blow, her face changes and distorts until I find myself looking at my
Mother: ＢＥ ＲＥＡＬ ＩＴ ＤＯＥＳＮ＇Ｔ ＭＡＴＴＥＲ ＡＮＹＷＡＹ ＹＯＵ ＫＮＯＷ ＩＴ＇Ｓ ＪＵＳＴ ＴＯＯ ＬＩＴＴＬＥ ＴＯＯ ＬＡＴＥ
The mattress is laughing. I’m suddenly aware of a sensation in my cock and flash back to reality briefly enough to find myself onto of Thursday, fucking her like an animal as she screams like a dying deaf retard. She loves it. My pace quickens. I’m back in the bed in Nowhere fighting the figure beneath me. It’s Emma again. Her nose is caved in, and her teeth and splintering out of her bleeding gums. Her eyes roll back as I orgasm into Thursday. I have killed good taste.
I roll off of her panting, the last waves of Blue Velvet subsiding along with the throws of physical ecstasy. Thursday coos like a dove as she wraps herself around me, pulling me tight against her.
Thursday: My champion. My next WCF Champion.
I have no time for her, though I’m unwilling to get up. I lay in the silence of the moment, turning over the visions the drug has revealed to me: the failures of Howard Black, the smugness of Michael, and the prophecies of Emma. I think on the words of my mother, that haunting echo ripped from an inconsequential pop song from the mid-2000’s. What she spoke was the epitaph on the tombstone of all those in the WCF who thought they could come into WAR victorious. Of all those who had bought my little Los Tiburones gimmick hook-line-and-sinker. Who thought that #BeachKrew’s dominance could stop here and who counted us out of the endgame. Those who would notice he hadn’t joined their reindeer games of shit-talking and be insulted or think he wasn’t taking them seriously because they were too stupid to read between the lines. An epitaph. A single line, repeated ad nauseam; an empty meditation on failure and acceptance of the inevitable: that the only certain is that nothing is certain. I believe it was Camus who said the singular question of philosophy was to decide whether or not one should kill themselves. Those who step in that ring with me on Sunday will be well on their way.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
ＢＥ ＲＥＡＬ ＩＴ ＤＯＥＳＮ＇Ｔ ＭＡＴＴＥＲ ＡＮＹＷＡＹ ＹＯＵ ＫＮＯＷ ＩＴ＇Ｓ ＪＵＳＴ ＴＯＯ ＬＩＴＴＬＥ ＴＯＯ ＬＡＴＥ
{People So Inconsequential to the Outcome of this Match I Wont Bother Shooting On}
1. Andre Jenson
2. Patrilli
3. Cormack MacNeill
4. Conall Darrow MacNeill
5. Billy
6. Wolf
7. Legion
8. Dustin Beaver
9. Derek Moreno
10. Vic Venable
11. Jay Omega
12. David Sanchez
13. Adam Young
14. Night Rider
15. Teo Del Sol
16. Spencer Adams
17. Thomas Uriel Bates
18. Gemini Battle
19. Jackson White
20. Zombie McMorris
21. Alex Richards
22. Ultimate Destroyer
23. Denise D'Evil
24. Jeff Purse
25. Oblivion
26. Tyler Walke
27. Biohazard
28. Dexter Radcliffe
29. Gunther Blythe
30. Marcus Peters
31. Joseph Vacher
32. Hunter Thompson
33. L.A. Kush
34. Jeff Danger
35. Bad News Benson
36. Occulo
37. Torture
1. Andre Jenson
2. Patrilli
3. Cormack MacNeill
4. Conall Darrow MacNeill
5. Billy
6. Wolf
7. Legion
8. Dustin Beaver
9. Derek Moreno
10. Vic Venable
11. Jay Omega
12. David Sanchez
13. Adam Young
14. Night Rider
15. Teo Del Sol
16. Spencer Adams
17. Thomas Uriel Bates
18. Gemini Battle
19. Jackson White
20. Zombie McMorris
21. Alex Richards
22. Ultimate Destroyer
23. Denise D'Evil
24. Jeff Purse
25. Oblivion
26. Tyler Walke
27. Biohazard
28. Dexter Radcliffe
29. Gunther Blythe
30. Marcus Peters
31. Joseph Vacher
32. Hunter Thompson
33. L.A. Kush
34. Jeff Danger
35. Bad News Benson
36. Occulo
37. Torture
