Post by Rico Rojas on Oct 4, 2015 12:47:23 GMT -5
WAR
It always follows me, I can't elude it, like a rabid dog with my blood upon it's snout. No matter what name I use, or whose life I live under, War will always find me. Today, I am Rico Rojas; but that's not always been the case. Throughout my life I've worn many faces, lived under many pseudonyms; cracked histories that carry fear and hope in equal measure. Yet, throughout all my lives and non de plumes and burning biographies there has been but one constant. One shadow that I could never shake. The War. My war. No matter what I do, it always follows. Anchoring me to a single moment in time where a choice has to be made.
Do, or die.
My life is a War against that single choice, its a war against fate; a war against my demons and those that conspire to control them. In the end, we all experience our own War. It dresses for the occasion as it watches and learns our weaknesses. Then, when the time is right, it steps out of the shadows and deals the cards upon the table. We pick up our hand, study it, and make a choice. Me? I chose to fight the hand I was dealt. I've been fighting that hand all my life. I scraped and crawled my way out of the ghetto's and the slums; I was a good soldier to those that paid. Then I became a good soldier to those with a badge. Now? I fight a war for my family. For those I care for. And God help those fucks who get in my way.
On Sunday the fourth of October, War deals another hand. Just another face for the same old struggle. The bell rings and the War begins. But then, War has always been fought. And we, have always been it's soldiers. The only choice you have in War, is the same single choice you have in life, how many bullets are you gonna fire before that one, lucky shot, takes you down?
Me? I've got forty nine rounds. And I don't intend to miss.
Aim true, WCF. Aim true.
Because if you don't? I'll burn your whole rotten, fucking world down.
Do, or die.
My life is a War against that single choice, its a war against fate; a war against my demons and those that conspire to control them. In the end, we all experience our own War. It dresses for the occasion as it watches and learns our weaknesses. Then, when the time is right, it steps out of the shadows and deals the cards upon the table. We pick up our hand, study it, and make a choice. Me? I chose to fight the hand I was dealt. I've been fighting that hand all my life. I scraped and crawled my way out of the ghetto's and the slums; I was a good soldier to those that paid. Then I became a good soldier to those with a badge. Now? I fight a war for my family. For those I care for. And God help those fucks who get in my way.
On Sunday the fourth of October, War deals another hand. Just another face for the same old struggle. The bell rings and the War begins. But then, War has always been fought. And we, have always been it's soldiers. The only choice you have in War, is the same single choice you have in life, how many bullets are you gonna fire before that one, lucky shot, takes you down?
Me? I've got forty nine rounds. And I don't intend to miss.
Aim true, WCF. Aim true.
Because if you don't? I'll burn your whole rotten, fucking world down.
1. MARTYRS UPON THE WALL
Combatants: David Sanchez, Wolf, Adam Young, Vic Venable, Teo Del Sol
Combatants: David Sanchez, Wolf, Adam Young, Vic Venable, Teo Del Sol
Possible Future tense. The Mexican border:2022.
America has fallen. This is the age of Omega, and now only brief trace elements of the past remain. Fragments of old glory history baking under the scorching mid day sun, such as former President Donald Trump's hundred mile long folly;“The devil's monument” his wall of segregation that now runs along the once U.S Mexican border, from the Imperial beach high command in the west, down like a long, protracted snake of hatred and bigotry to the Brownsville interment camps in the East. At key intersections, conscripted soldiers are dressed in “UMC – United Maratopian Confederacy” approved body armour, sitting in armoured, elevated gun towers comprised of reinforced concrete and fascist steel; their chain guns and flame throwers are aim assisted with tele-photo lenses, targeting hapless running victims on large, computer enhanced view screens; the soldiers itchy trigger fingers scouring the desolate mid-morning landscape searching for pockets of enduring freedom, men, women and children – to be stamped out with the flick of a switch and the flare of a thousand rounds per second of Omega sanctioned death.
In this nightmare you either kill, or be killed.
Above, Black-Hawk helicopters; complete with marksmen armed with M-24 high powered sniper rifles, hug the desolation like feverish vultures. The marksmen inside observe the decay below from behind black hockey masks, hanging from open passenger doors by harnesses tethered to a length of bungee rope; picking off stay dissidents with horrific impunity. The sound of muted gunfire echoes over the bodies of dead children, left to rot in the hot sun, an efficient warning for the populace during the day; useful carrion for the animals at night.
The dust is whipped up as six refugees seeking asylum slam their battle wagon into high gear and gun it straight for the imposing, tall structure of the wall. The six wheeled vehicle's outer shell is reinforced with crude plates of welded steel, adorned with the previous confederate flag, while it's roof has an extendable ladder bolted down on a platform, this desperate structure resembles a make shift fire truck ladder, designed for a hopeless climb over the wall, and the slender, impossible chance of safety.
“Target twelve clicks, incoming, running hot”
The authoritative, impassioned chopper pilot turns to face his masked, sniper cohort and signals their decent with a flippant twirl of his finger. Behind the black mask, “Sniper 19” nods his approval, clack-clacks his rifle, and aims dead center down the gun sight in readiness as the Black Hawk's massive T-700 engine roars into action, descending and hugging the desert terrain, creating a whirlwind of confusion and panic in it's deadly, accelerating wake.
After only a few moments the Chopper is upon the Wagon, the down draft causing the vehicle to swerve violently. Yet miraculously, it keeps it's course, even as the Black Hawk's skies attempt to overturn the vehicle. While the sniper's bullets bounce off that enforced hide with a resolute efficiency.
The Sons of FIST will not be swayed.
Inside the Wagon are six soldiers of a lost legend, the sons of FIST: acolytes of the fallen Adam Young, readying themselves for the final battle as they slam fully loaded clips into AK-47's and flush their nostrils with hot fire from small vials of synthetic cocaine. Combat fatigues, heads shaved, faces painted with the confederate flag. Men and woman with dime store cybernetic augmentations drilled into flesh and bone, their wills dedicated to the scriptures of the blessed Super kick club. The holy words of the Cartel. The arcane knowledge of Men for Hire and the unsullied mantra from the angelic shining light that is The Big Time Jerks.
The wall is almost upon them as “Sniper 19” drops his rifle and lowers himself from his bungee rope onto the vehicle; a side panel opens as Henchman #1 leaps out onto the roof with cybernetic agility; swings with a wild uppercut as 19 leaps over the machine man and unleashes a vicious roundhouse kick. But 19 is caught in mid air and thrown upward, cannoning dangerously close to the rotor blades before using the body to desperately privet and run along the hull of the chopper before landing gracefully behind the Henchman, connecting several brutal body blows to the spine before hitting a sudden reverse DDT!
Inside the vehicle the roof buckles under the impact as two more Henchmen make their way outside, just in time to see Henchman #1 roll off the vehicle, bones and steel shattering as they connect at speed with the desert tundra below.
19's mask has cracked in two as the sniper slowly removes the helmet, revelling.
Rico Rojas
Older now, his hair is longer and in dreadlocks, teeth replaced with synthetic approximations of their original organic counterparts, his once neat beard, now wild and flowing; his eyes seem...odd; the pupils glisten an unnatural red in the mid morning light, the shadow of the chopper above allowing the glow to resonate before his victims as he brandishes a set of unclipped taser batons from his belt and waves the red-neck cyborgs on, his footing steadied by augmented forces our era can barley fathom.
The red-necks activate auxiliary power to their cybernetic limbs as their arms and legs shudder and cry out mechanised roars under express command; lowering their centre of gravity to compensate for the precarious ride, fingers spitting and reforming into elongated deadly blades. Henchman #2 (a slender woman in her early thirties) surges forward as –
Rico leaps, still attached to the bungee; attempts to vault over the cybernetic siren who –
Cuts the bungee rope apart! Rico lurches forward, dropping his batons, landing awkwardly on the ladder as Henchmen #2 is upon Rojas to finish him off, the former south beach saint hanging on by an ever loosening grip!
A sweeping strike barely misses Rico, who swings back, gaining momentum, he launches himself high into the air, performing a mid air inverted hurricanrana; wrapping a crude head scissor take down around the neck of Henchmen #2, throwing her off the vehicle whilst Rico's fingers just find purchase back onto the ladder as he completes his insane somersaulting manoeuvre.
Henchman #3 smirks, he leaps high into the air with augmented assisted precision, landing gracefully. Perched, the henchman leans down as he readies to cut the fingers off Rico's hands with razor sharp efficiency!
With slender moments left, Rico signals to the chopper pilot above. The pilot nods, fires an on board harpoon into the roof of the vehicle, riveting the driver inside into his seat, the pilot pulls back on the stick, tearing the drivers flesh and augmented steel bones apart!
The vehicle comes to a sudden stop as the cable is detached! Henchman#3 flies off from the roof and hits the wall at seventy miles per hour! His brain and augmented bone matter instantly turn to piecemeal and junk as Rico hits the ground hard, rolling to an unceremonious stop. A few agonizing moments pass before Rico gets to his feet; wiping a slither of blood from his cybernetic eyes as the vehicle's doors crack open. Inside the Van the driver has been shredded apart, a still screaming corpse that lets out a high pitched, synthetic squeal while the remaining two henchmen exit; brandishing AK-47's.
Rico's eyes widen, but not because of the approaching cyborgs, for this day is about to transcend into a new kind of madness. An Armoured Personal Carrier arrives, the scratching and snarling sniffs from the cages they contain can only men one thing.
Rico: Well, ain't this a fucked up day.
Raptors. Genetically created dinosaurs from the kingdom of Maratopia approach as the rear doors of the truck open. Their Gang Master leaps from the cockpit of the sleek APC, a tall, thin man wearing black body armour. Face hidden behind one of those black hockey masks, the trainer's right arm has a black armband, which is adorned with a single, green Omega symbol. The menacing Gang Master casually waves on a night stick, which he claps against the palm of an open hand, a hypersonic signal relays instructions to the cybernetic augmentations welded to the skulls of the stalking beasts. The Raptors snarl and comply as Rico back peddles away from the path of the incoming feasters.
A small, augmented scream is silenced as the monsters tear into the fallen dissidents. They begin to digest their prey alive; the look of absolute horror upon their dying faces sear into the artificial eyes of Rico as those augmented pupils burn red with revulsion.
Mexico's impenetrable wall is sprayed once more by blood and brain matter. No Americans will escape the grasp of the Omega Men today. Nor their gruesome pets, or their forced accomplices. All roads to freedom end in death. The United Maratopian Confederacy remains in total and unequivocal control. “The steady hand of progress”, they call it. Rico calls it something else when he's not wearing yet another mask. When he's not undercover.
He calls it fascism.
And today? He's seen enough.
Gang Master: Look at them, Rico. Isn't it beautiful? Look at how elegant they are. Graceful even. These magnificent beasts, they're the hands of Omega. As we are. Creatures that carry the teachings of Torture and the words of Omega; prayers that will guide our heretic souls out from the fires of a broken America. They'll make us glorious again, Rico. They'll make us whole.
Rico: I don't give a fuck about this wall, or your lost America. I'm from Bogota.
The Gang Master doesn't hear Rico. He's too engrossed with the feast at his feet.
Rico: You admire them, don't you, Stockholm? You want to join in.
Gang Master: I do, in my own way. Their feast is my feast.
The Gang Master Smiles as he lifts up his mask, revealing the face of Raptor Sargent Kyle Steel; brainwashed at the “Torture camps”; converted and conditioned to be a psychotic handler for a gang of crazed, insane predators. Whatever kind of man Kyle Steel was before the war; that's a history that's been burnt away by hours of agony and psychotropic drugs. They say Torture saw to his conversion himself, his “most complete prize” he called him.
While for Rico, he doesn't see Kyle the ring announcer now, Steel's become just a ghost of that man; he's been reborn a killer. A monster. And at that split second, upon the field of battle, something inside Rico snaps. He sees a pool of oil approach the atrocity before him. A plan forming.
Rico: Why hold back, Steel? Now is your time.
Gang Master Steel: What?
Rico removes a flare from his utility belt, lights it, and throws the flare into the throes of the feasting Raptors. It ignites the pool of leaking fuel from the Battle wagon, turning the scene into a fire storm! Instinctively, Steel screams with a perfect pitch, lurching forward to save his charges. Rico uses this distraction to steal Steel's MP-5 sub Machine Gun from it's strap; kicking Kyle into the burning funeral pyre and opening fire with the rifle.
Gang Master Steel: RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIICOOOOOOOOOO!!!
Steel is engulfed with flame; his body a human torch that pivots and spins on the spot with no place to go but the earth. Those Raptors, one final feast before the flames devour them whole, their snapping jaws, tearing into the former announcer with a dying fury.
Rico: You never could say my name right, Stockholm.
KABOOM! The Battle Wagon explodes! Rico is thrown back, he slumps against the wall as above, three Black Hawk helicopters train their sniper rifles upon Rico, a trifecta of red dots appearing upon his chest. He smirks, drops to his knees and locks his fingers behind his head. Rico knows running isn't an option.
The burning Steel crawls from the fire, skin bubbling; a charred, half eaten mass of hatred and determination. Rico looks upon his handy work with a wry joy and smiles. Kyle's legs below the knees are gone, his face; unrecognizable. Rico tilts his head to one side as the moans from Steel are silenced; his voice box succumbing to the fervent heat.
Rico: What was that, Steel? You need to speak up...
Kyle Steel falls forward. Dead.
Rico: Nevermind, asshole.
A moment, then...
Rico: Someone needs to get me a lawyer.
Taser lines shoot from the Black Hawk's incoming snipers; their aim is dead on as a kneeling Rico awaits the impact but it never occurs. TIME SLOWS; the world around the south beach saint distorts and warps, it's as if someone has hit the pause button. His eyes GLOW, as if they've tapped into some great machine that's holding reality back. A discombobulated, sassy, female voice speaks; a Cerebral Artificial Sentience buried deep inside the eyes of Rico Rojas.
C.A.M: Sir, temporal incursion achieved. Synapse signal established. Do you wish to proceed with transmission?
Rico: Establish.
C.A.M: Transmission achieved.
Rico: You picking this up Eric? You should be, because this isn't some fucked up hallucination your suffering, this isn't a schism, or an MDMA comedown. This is a telepathic radio signal from the future. Your future, mind-jacked into your past by technology too painful and fearsome to describe. And it's all as real as you allow it to be. Everything that unfolds now, It's up to you, Eric. It's down to you to change the nightmare around me. Who you become in the future, the Rico that kneels before you now? He can't change what's transpired, but the Rico I was in the past? He has a shot at changing events, even if it's only one step to the left, that might be enough to save them, to save us. You have it in your grasp, Rico to do something about the nightmare that Tanisha and Gale fight to survive in. You can alter our future, starting October 4th 2015. You have to listen to me; a good man once told me that one War has a chance to change another. Like a ripple in a pond. The actions you take there, change how we are now.
In the coming years, everything we had; Miami, the WCF, it's all gone. The world turns to shit in our hands, my mirror man. The destruction of Poon Guinea; the death of a President, the retaliatory strikes by Maratopia after a murderous assault on Pantheon towers. Everything that occurs pushes our reality towards the brink of destruction. If you're going to be ready to survive this; you're going to need me. You're going to need the history I hold in these eyes of mine. Eyes that were given to me a long time ago by a man you now call an enemy, but will learn to respect as a friend.
I know this is a lot to understand.
Let's start with WAR; it begins for you Sunday, it's going to be a massive undertaking. Right now you don't have the understanding to fight the forty nine other stars that face you with the clarity of vision needed to survive. That's where I, I mean you, come in. I'm going to pass on the knowledge I've gathered over the last seven years. I'm going to get you up to speed. When you face those bastards, you'll need to step though those ropes unafraid. They're going to expect a rookie that night; a greenhorn making school boy errors, a child with nervous energy running though his veins.
Time for a transfusion.
Today is the day their sky falls in. There they are at home right now, a row of smug little fuckers sitting in their, “Torture Time” jammies with that annoying jello stain on the front that never washes out. Watching Gemini Battle blow his big chance at victory by half-assing his promos and they're thinking, actually thinking to themselves, that just for a moment, they actually have a chance. Those skies don't look as cloudy or as grey as they once thought. Shafts of blistering orange sunlight cut like razors through a bag of #beachkrew coke as they're eyes beam at the thought of victory.”I can do this”, they murmur. Maybe they're not all that bad on the stick, maybe they can cut a rug. Sure, it isn't as mean as ZMAC; or as assured as Wade Moor, but they've got a few moves and they're honed. They've been around the block a few times now, and life's not as daunting as when they first walked though the door. WAR, it ain't scaring them like they thought it would. Even Wolf thinks he's house trained now. No Jonny Fly, no Orbit, no Joey Flash or Dune. The cue to the top has thinned out. The air might be breathable amongst those blessed clouds of the upper mid card. They've got a shot.
No, they don't.
What they have is a shot to the gut with a size twelve boot. We're gonna stop they're hearts cold. Right now, you and forty nine worthless pieces of shit that call themselves “The Future”, or “The Monster“, or “The Plague”. Are gonna line up in that ring and you, Rico Rojas, you're gonna shock them all. Everything they are, It's just all semantics for “overrated”. What you are Rico, is a killer. There's no semantics needed for what you're bout to achieve, they'll try and brand it a miracle. But in the end, you're just a man, achieving his potential. And that, is what will scare them the most. Because they'll know, they'll finally begin to understand, that Rico Rojas isn't a stand in. Or a transitional character. Rico Rojas has their number. And now, he's dealing the cards.
C.A.M? Bring up a scan of the Wall, section 12; David Sanchez.
The world turns into a panoramic hunt for a glimpse of Sanchez; Rico now sees in three hundred and sixty degrees, nothing goes to waste. His world is whole, complete, all the jigsaw pieces are in place. Suddenly, the camera zooms in on a section of the wall; its a spray painted mural of David Sanchez, that side on profile, that granite like jaw: stoic, almost Caesar like with it's regal profile.
Rico: David Sanchez, look at his face. Just look at it! It looks like a smashed in queef. It's like a car crashed Puppet. Who knew a face could get all the angles so wrong? You know what the worst part is? He's not dead, he commissioned some conscription fucker to paint him here. That's typical Sanchez; the man with the Jesus complex, every night for Sanchez is the last supper. Every fight he ever fought was a battle for martyrdom. He wants and craves that heroic demise. He wants the death of a Scarecrow, but he's too much of a coward to commit to it. Just like everything in life, it's too close to the fire for Sanchez, but then again, when your the biggest fucking hypocrite on the planet what else should we expect?
He calls himself the Plague that will destroy Professional Wrestling. Yet he still wishes to sit upon it's throne. Why? Because David Sanchez has to be the ultimate tragedy, the ultimate sacrifice that proclaims itself a deity. Something inside David Sanchez hates being trapped in that cage of flesh and bone. It festers and germinates and grows and devours sanity and reason, until all you have left is a man who will willingly wear a crown of metal thorns buried into his flesh, just so he can imagine himself as a Christ figure; just so he can sit at that table and point the finger at the next fucking Judas to come along, dumping man's sins upon their shoulders and shouting for their head. In short, David Sanchez is a fucking nut case, and he's afforded way too much praise.
David Sanchez. He is not the second coming, he's just a very naughty boy.
When you face Sanchez on the fourth Rico, make him the fool, drown him upon the shores of your greatness. Become a better messiah, Be the mountain he can never climb, replace his heaven. Become an Asgard that smites and belittles him. Sanchez? He's nothing but an Orange County beggar, pleading for scraps at your feet. Think about that first day he arrived in the WCF. What was he about? He was nothing but a spaced out vaudeville villain tagged with a righteous hero in Teo Del Sol. He was playing a role and playing it well. But is he anything more? No, because when you dissect a David Sanchez none of the pieces fit, the educated man from Mexico City, out to prove to the world how educated he is by constantly drowning the world with boring soliloquy after boring ass soliloquy. He's a dunce that swallowed a dictionary. And the worst part is, his stupidity has exposed the idiocy in others. The fools that follow him and call him something special are just as fucking stupid as he is. And that cult of headless sheep that surrounds him, that wills him on to a U.S. title run with his eighth match, they're just building his gallows high for that eventual downfall he so incessantly craves, they're feeding that Christ metaphor right to the hilt as the blade is dragged across his throat.
And who will hold the knife that day?
Us. We do, because only we understand what a David Sanchez truly wants, we'll be the courage he lacks. We'll provide him with his heroic death. Samm and his bratt kid at his feet, crying, sobbing for life to rediscover his crushed lungs. It's all very tragic, and exactly what he wants. In the end, its about fucking empathy and accepting reality. Its about that Medusa touch that turns on its handler. Its about wilting a black rose and ushering in a new season.
Rojas is red...Sanchez is dead...I'll sharpen Lady knives, upon his death bed.
A simple rhyme, but it matters. C.A.M?
C.A.M: Yes sir?
Rico: Go find me a hero.
Co ordinates alter and transmogrify as they seek out a target; eventually zeroing in on a masked man, trapped in a delusional, vanilla world. Teo Del Sol AKA Teddy Blaze, the former Television champion. Former hero. Former Failure. A shadow etched upon a wall. A spay painted forgotten man, too naive to survive in this brave new world. That cheeky smile creeping though his mask, taking on an unintentional, sinister visage as real blood and worse spays across the wall. A grinning man, observing murder without a cloud seemingly upon his soul.
Rico: Teo Del Sol. Picture a child, trapped in a man's body. A fool, who's innocence eats away at your soul like a cancer. A hero, who's almost retarded in his eternal, misplaced optimism. It would be so easy to rip apart a Teo Del Sol. Just tag and bag him as a naive idiot who has blinkers on to the world. But with Teo, it's much more insidious than that; because a Teo Del Sol isn't a fool. He sees exactly what the world has become, his eye sight is twenty twenty and he simply just doesn't care. Teo reaches out to our children, Rico. He reaches out to Tanisha with bedtime stories about how everything is going to be okay. About how the world will cradle and take care of those pure of heart. Teo Del Sol is not a hero, he is not a shining knight, he is a rat catcher. A pied piper leading our only child over a cliff face. That mother fucker is the biggest piece of rancid shit on the face of the planet. He's the prince of lies; a cruel joke perpetrated by Jonny Fly. Fly gave Teo that title just so the WCF could have that glimmer of hope. That faint slither of comfort. But that's throwing the people under a bus. That's leading a blind man half way through a minefield, then bailing out with a giggle. And Teo, he knows this. But that Teo, he just doesn't care. It's all fine and dandy with Teddy. Teo's A-Okay with the deception; he's fine with the script. It's perfect for Teo to be the eternal hero, climbing mountains searching for hope. It's snug to his world view as the lone warrior out to restore order to a chaotic world. It fits his perfect little lie, hidden behind a smiling vanilla mask.
Destroy this prick.
When you find a cancer? You cut it out. When a man attacks your home? You kill him. No regrets. No remorse. No eulogy for a forgotten hero. When a lie smiles and beams and tries to trick your children into becoming brainwashed fools you are offered little choice than to decimate. To annihilate. To expose that lie by skinning the flesh. By snapping Texas bone and crushing Luchador dreams. This is the era of truth. This is the era of the real. Teo Del Sol can claim to be many things, but a hero? No, that is simply the final crime of a cruel joke, one with an acid tipped punchline. But who will stop him?
We are the answer this question needs. We are the final equation. The sum of all of Teo's darkest fears. Our eyes see the truth, Rico. When a man like Teddy Blaze begins to throw fights for a beer and a blow job, when a man like Teddy Blaze reaches such a low ebb, can anyone truly say they know for sure he's actually changed? Teddy knows deep down he'll never be anything other than a glorified jobber. Supposition: Teddy Blaze is a ringer, a marketing tool for Seth Lerch to hang his youth aimed marketing campaign upon; this is Seth's master plan to call his damned product, “Family Friendly”. Seth needs Sol to work, he needs to get the FCC off his back, he needs Jonah Worth off his back. Conclusion: Teddy Blaze, AKA, Teo Del Sol is a smoke screen, a willing fraud designed and built to spearhead a new arm of the Seth Lerch Empire. Seth; he's wants to branch out, to rot the hearts of our youth, just as he rots the minds of the worthless fans that grovel at his feet. And so, the lie is born. It is nurtured by Jonny Fly, with him throwing the TV title match as a nod and a favour to Seth Lerch, one that will be reciprocated later on down the road. And so, that lie just trundles on, crushing everything in it's path. It hits a perfect wall in Los Tiburones. So Seth, he squeezes, and squeezes and squeezes the life out of that match; he rings it dry of all the cash it can produce. But in the end? Teo Del Sol is sold down the river, extinguished. He is an expendable clown who has reached his expiry date. Timestamped October 4th, 2015. The architect of his demise? Rico Rojas. World? Your welcome.
C.A.M: Sir. Power levels at 46 Per Cent.
Rico: How much time we got?
C.A.M: At current levels? Twelve minutes.
Rico: Good, go get me an anti hero. Let's cut his balls off and stuff 'em in his mouth.
C.A.M: Affirmative. Congratulations on that colourful analogy sir.
Rico: You being sarcastic with me, Cam?
C.A.M: Sorry, Sir. Should I delete this subroutine? Or file this exchange under, “healthy banter?”
Rico: Just get me a jobber to kill.
C.A.M: Understood. Banter it is.
New Co-ordinates discovered; the camera spins and refocuses on a new quadrant. A three legged dog hobbles next to the wall, using the concrete monstrosity as a prop for its ageing carcass. Eventually, the emaciated animal steadies itself for a new mission. The dog crouches, winces, and takes a long, protracted deification against the spray painted mural of a lone, steely eyed anti hero; a man of dark and terrible secrets howling at the moon, for no particular reason. Wolf is his name. A lone Wolf; because that's unique and different. Isn't he special, this lone Wolf? This lone Wolf man of mystery who just doesn't fit into normal, civilized society? Yawn world, for we have found just the right cliché for Rico to kill. And thankfully, kill he shall.
Rico: Picture an assembly line. Its dishevelled, broken down. This lingering joke of a place sounds out the same old rally cry each year, that they produce the best in original wares; that their craftsmanship is second to none. Its all new and shiny like it was, rather than perfunctory and dull, which is in fact now the case.; but hey, don't ever tell them that. They get pissy if you say such heresy; they begin to cry, and moan, and hiss about how they're, “just not understood” any more. Each year they make the same old idiotic claims. Each year we laugh and cry and finger point and wonder what has become of the anti hero.
Years gone by they fashioned us the unique marvel of a Philip Baines, the cruel ingenuity of a Logan, and the razor edged insanity of a Hell's Angel. Now we have the banal dizziness of Caliban, and the bargain bin, make do low emitations of a Wolf. Just...Wolf. Who is in fact...a lone wolf. Running around like a banshee, howling from the roof tops, trying to convince a world that simply just doesn't care how strange and important and precious Wolf is. How dangerous and sinister and mysterious Wolf is. He beats up his old school friends because that's how you get credibility these days, he scowls and snarls and has a basement full of devious secrets to capture that serial killer vibe, and we're all supposed to shudder with fear. It's anorexic shit. Its the worst kind of insult to this industry.
Scarecrow dies, and Wolf steps up; tramples on his own tail, and stumbles down the stairs. Wolf is the Scary Movie of anti heroes. He's a fucking deadpan nightmare. He wins a nothing gimmick match with Ace Maverick (he doesn't even get the pin) and he thinks he's the king of the world. He picks up another result, and it's a pity fuck of a pin. Wolf is not a professional wrestler, he's a charity case; he's a telethon with crying celebrities and pointless dime store acts. Wolf is the bottom of a very deep barrel and he's about to be found out come October the 4th And I should know, I remember who he did, ouch.
Okay, so. He's dead. Who's next?
C.A.M: Target acquired. I think you'll be pleased.
Rico: I'll be the judge of that. Spill.
Eyes. A sea of irises that bleach the wall with a full beam of light. Half in shadow is the imposing, mysterious form of Occulo. But can he see his future, can he escape his own past? So many eyes, but do any of them truly see? Occulo's past is a yoke that breaks his back, hold him back, dragging him beneath the surface, drowning him with the machinations of his father and the haunting, painful sorry administered by a sadistic mother. Occulo is a Shakespearean trope. The spark of humanity crushed under the weight of family. Great if you're a soap opera, not so useful if you're supposed to be a professional wrestler.
Rico: Occulo. The coward, the man that ran away from the U.S. title. The man that ran away from XIII. The man who didn't have the balls to pull the trigger on his father and put that bastard down. A sentinel of indifference, too wrapped up in his own spiraling mythology to care about the small things such as the WCF and his not so precious titles. Occulo, forever the small boy hiding under his mother's table, cowering in his father's office, forever broken upon the wheel of history. The coward that stutters whenever his parents names are mentioned. Little Johnny Mullins Jr. The schizophrenic Pinocchio forever out in the cold; with his fragile strings cut by Joey Flash. I wonder, if Mullins will ever find out the true significance of that lighthouse? I know it's purpose. It's simple actually; some lives just can't avoid the rocks.
All that abuse. All that hurt and pain. No matter how robust you want a hero to be; they always break eventually. Tragedy is the backbone of heroics; no matter how valiantly you face your past, it still remains. Hounding you. And therein is the true calamity of a Occulo; if you let your past paint you in the corner, there you stay. And so is the case with Johnny Mullins; no place to run or hide. No haven that is safe, and so you drown. Fathoms deep.
I remember the night the bomb dropped on Poon Guinea. I remember the sires and the confusion as the tsunami raged towards Miami. A thrall of bodies, running and screaming in all directions. Like a wave of blind flesh unable to find its way home. I held Tanisha in my arms that night, I told her softly it was going to be okay. And in that moment, that impossible moment, when I held our child in my eyes, when I was convinced we were going to die, I knew then what I know now. If you don't have that base. If your life is a flimsy castle of cards? Then it will fall. As it has with Occulo. That's why Occulo will never win WAR; why he'll never face Dune in that match at ONE. Because Occulo will always see the cold as a friend. Rather than the enemy that pushes him further and further away from a title. Exorcising him from ever being a champion again.
Eyes wide shut for Occulo. What time we got?
C.A.M: six minutes. Oh, here's an interesting face.
Rico: I sense sarcasm. Adam Young?
C.A.M: Should I?
Rico thinks about those dead soldiers. The sons of FIST, lying dead at his feet. The acolytes of Young. Burning; charred into piecemeal. Adam Young; the villain, the redneck; that indomitable soldier of the south. His mural is of a flag bearer waving proudly that Robert E. Lee, a gesture of defiance under the noses of authority. A chest beating dolt without a care in the world. Stoic in his ability to annoy and to disrupt. A shape shifter, creating and destroying worlds with the wave of his childish hand. Adam Young, unrepentant in his capacity to leave chaos and bemusement in his wake. There's a slender part of Rico that admires him; but it's a fleeting whim. Soon, reality takes over. The gravity of sanity anchoring Rico back down to earth. Adam Young, the joke who dreamed he was a God. Yeah, thinking about it, he's a good name to kill.
Rico: Do it.
C.A.M: Target acquired.
Rico: Adam Young's greatest tick is that he keeps believing he doesn't exist. Adam Young sees himself as a disciple of the devil. As a brash, working class hero. As a son of the south. As a brother. As a husband. As a dark priest. As a Wrestling dynasty. He wears a million and one different faces, matched only by this ridiculous fuck...
And yet, he never sees the truth. He never understands that he's Adam Young. Adam Young, the A-hole loser. No matter how many times he tries, his chance of winning is always going to be a million and NONE. Because all those faces, all those dreams and false starts and pointless diversions add up to absolutely zero. Adam Young exists for one reason, and one reason only; to be a whip to test the backs of those that are deemed lazy, or egotistical. He's the bogey man out to derail careers. The leprechaun at the bottom of the garden. The trickster they send you when they want to remind your ass that its not that far of a fall back down to the bottom of the card. They feed this troll just enough to keep him entertained. This gestalt of shit that cowers in the dark, damp recesses of the WCF. Adam's industrious; but only by default. He's the infinite amount of monkeys typing an infinite amount of pages under an infinite amount of guises hoping for that one lucky day his Hamlet will finally arrive. But it never will. Because Adam Young is not designed to be anything other than the clown slip up for a good star will fall under. The sharp shock to the system to remind you that no position is sacred. Ask a Corey Black, and he'll tell you; it smarts. Ask a Joey Flash and he'll laugh, because to a Joey Flash, losing to Adam Young was simply a calculated distraction. A pawn in a game he played in conjunction with a man as delusional in his ability as a Teo Del Sol and Wolf.
Adam Young does not exist. Not in the conventional sense. Only the threat of Adam Young exists. The day of dread when you're faced with a transmogrifying fool. For those that are small and inconsequential, he's a hero. He's teaches the light of intelligence to dream big. But consider the charred remains at my feet. Consider where his dreams will finally reside. They're cremated in this pyre. They're ash. As Adam Young will eventually be. A lost figure of fun in this brave new world of Maratopian nightmares.
All you have to do with an Adam young, is remember to step to the left. And avoid the clown shoes.
Time begins to struggle against the confines of Rico's fearsome technology. Those teaser wires begins to shutter and shake, like heavy tungsten wires on a bridge they begin to moan and roar as the laws of reality creep their way back into Rico Rojas line of sight.
Rico: This is going to hurt, isn't it?
C.A.M: I could tell you the odds, but my on board sympathy chip tells me it's just easier to say yes.
Rico: Well, gee whizz, Cammy. Thanks for that.
C.A.M: Sir, in quadrant five. I've found one last name.
Rico: No time, Cam. Best we just disengage and brace for impact.
C.A.M: Sir, I'm sure you'd reconsider if you knew.
Rico: Doubtful.
C.A.M: Sir, it's Vic...
Rico: Venable?
C.A.M: Affirmative. Anarchists do like their martyrs.
Rico thinks it over. If he disengages the transmission now, he'll face nothing more than a short, sharp shock from the tasers. He'll blackout in a blink of an eye. The experience will be fleeting. Easy to overcome. If Rico waits however, and deals with Vic Venable; admonishes him until that very last second? Rico will have no time to brace for impact, the pain he'll endure will be amplified. Excruciating.
Ah, fuck it.
Rico: Punch him up.
The anarchists “A” sign rests beneath the looming figure of Vic Venable. That tower of moral ineptitude looming over his home town of Atlanta, Georgia. The man who sauntered out of prison with a brisk new outlook on life; just in time to discover his brother missing and his parents dead. Just at the right moment to sniper kill a helpless woman sitting at her desk. That Vic Venable; the man who lost a match to a gimmick 'tard and former Grime named Ace Maverick. And because Vic Venable likes to take up valuable space with his promos, in much the same way he hogs precious air from more needy idiots, lets just go over that whole open wound once again, one more time, just to make him feel at home.
You Lost Vic...
TO ACE MAVERICK, YOU FUCKING TOOL!
(P.S. I do actually read all your shit. Love your work. Hugs.)
A large splatter of red, from a machine gunned corpse, drips down Vic's portrait. Right between Vic's spread apart legs; it gives the unfortunate appearance of a tampon split. Which sort of seems fitting in hindsight, considering how much of an angst ridden bitch Vic is. Anyway, the stage is yours Rico.
Rico: What's the definition of anarchy? When you see Vic, you should pull him aside and beat it into him. Because that Pendejo has absolutely no fucking idea. None. Nada. Vic Venable has lived in an institutionalized bubble most of his life. He's the kind of needy soul that likes the warm comfort of a womb. If that womb can't be a prison cell, then he's going to find the next best thing. A world ruled by mob law, where the strongest survive and the weak wear dresses and kiss their ankles. That just so happens to be the WCF. So, here Vic is; out to prove he's every bit the reformed good guy he so desperately believes he is. But just like every other idiot on the wall, he's delusional to a fault. Vic likes to wrap himself up with lies and half truths, with ideologies he just doesn't understand, so that he can fortify himself away from the cold realities of the outside world. He's a neurotic wreck, hanging on to every word his buddy Cliff says. Hanging on to “the gang life”. The world spins, but Vic Venable has no fucking clue how to stand upright. So off he goes, leaning very language, expect common sense. Unable to except the fact that he's just at fault for the murderous crimes committed under his watch as anyone else in his former merry little troop. And because Vic just can't except his past, he goes on yet another killing spree, were he kills those he blames at distance, rather than face them head on like a man. Vic Venable cannot understand the fact that Bryson Hendricks died simply because of Vic Venable and no one else. Vic Venable is an Occulus shaped coward, sensitized to the closeness of truth. So he picks off history at long range, and convinces himself that being a killer with a sniper rifle is a good and just act.
I've killed a lot of people with a sniper rifle protecting a wall I despised. Never once did I convince myself it was a noble cause. When I had Vic jumped on Slam all those years ago, it was not a noble act, but then, does a killer of women really deserve one? Where's the handbook that exonerates Vic Venable from being a psychopath? Is it hidden under the corpse of Scarecrow? Are #beachkrew really the “unoriginal swine?” Vic so steadfastly claims? Because I don't see no wrap sheet for Tibs that says, “Murderer” on it. Knocking over a bell, apparently, in Vic's book is a heinous act tantamount to fucking genocide. But murdering a list of men and women? Nah, you're all good to go according to good ol' Vic. This is the lunacy of Venable. This is why the rabid dog has to be put down. He wants life to be gang warfare? Then Sunday is the perfect opportunity to grant him his wish.
Vic Venable paved the way for his road to nowhere the day he buried six rounds into a frightened, defenseless woman named Ryoku. A woman he knew couldn't handle a gun. He's the instigator of her families sorrow, and that's a stain that can never be forgotten. It will haunt Vic forever, pushing him further and further out of the light. And if it doesn't? Then I guess we'll all finally know how much of a fucking fraud he is. This Sunday's execution of Vic Venable isn't murder, it's euthanasia for a tortured soul. Or the killing floor for yet another liar with dreams way too high above his lowly, piss-ant little station.
Times up?
C.A.M: I'm afraid so Sir. Good luck.
The world shunts and barrages against the temporal incursion; its as if a wild animal is thrashing against an invisible harness. Rico smiles, he got Vic Venable. He took down the target; after all these years. He got one over on the bastar--
The Taser lines shoot into Rico's chest as a torrent of high voltage pain engulfs his senses. The south beach saint slumps down. Unconscious...
…
Sometime later.
“Wake up, Mister Rojas.”
A moment before the voice is recognized, Rico's senses returning to him as he realizes he's in the presence of Watch Commander Hank Brown of the exodus center. That can unfortunately only mean one thing.
They were going to exile Rico...to the warlands.
And certain death.
TO BE CONTINUED
Rico: I'll be the judge of that. Spill.
Eyes. A sea of irises that bleach the wall with a full beam of light. Half in shadow is the imposing, mysterious form of Occulo. But can he see his future, can he escape his own past? So many eyes, but do any of them truly see? Occulo's past is a yoke that breaks his back, hold him back, dragging him beneath the surface, drowning him with the machinations of his father and the haunting, painful sorry administered by a sadistic mother. Occulo is a Shakespearean trope. The spark of humanity crushed under the weight of family. Great if you're a soap opera, not so useful if you're supposed to be a professional wrestler.
Rico: Occulo. The coward, the man that ran away from the U.S. title. The man that ran away from XIII. The man who didn't have the balls to pull the trigger on his father and put that bastard down. A sentinel of indifference, too wrapped up in his own spiraling mythology to care about the small things such as the WCF and his not so precious titles. Occulo, forever the small boy hiding under his mother's table, cowering in his father's office, forever broken upon the wheel of history. The coward that stutters whenever his parents names are mentioned. Little Johnny Mullins Jr. The schizophrenic Pinocchio forever out in the cold; with his fragile strings cut by Joey Flash. I wonder, if Mullins will ever find out the true significance of that lighthouse? I know it's purpose. It's simple actually; some lives just can't avoid the rocks.
All that abuse. All that hurt and pain. No matter how robust you want a hero to be; they always break eventually. Tragedy is the backbone of heroics; no matter how valiantly you face your past, it still remains. Hounding you. And therein is the true calamity of a Occulo; if you let your past paint you in the corner, there you stay. And so is the case with Johnny Mullins; no place to run or hide. No haven that is safe, and so you drown. Fathoms deep.
I remember the night the bomb dropped on Poon Guinea. I remember the sires and the confusion as the tsunami raged towards Miami. A thrall of bodies, running and screaming in all directions. Like a wave of blind flesh unable to find its way home. I held Tanisha in my arms that night, I told her softly it was going to be okay. And in that moment, that impossible moment, when I held our child in my eyes, when I was convinced we were going to die, I knew then what I know now. If you don't have that base. If your life is a flimsy castle of cards? Then it will fall. As it has with Occulo. That's why Occulo will never win WAR; why he'll never face Dune in that match at ONE. Because Occulo will always see the cold as a friend. Rather than the enemy that pushes him further and further away from a title. Exorcising him from ever being a champion again.
Eyes wide shut for Occulo. What time we got?
C.A.M: six minutes. Oh, here's an interesting face.
Rico: I sense sarcasm. Adam Young?
C.A.M: Should I?
Rico thinks about those dead soldiers. The sons of FIST, lying dead at his feet. The acolytes of Young. Burning; charred into piecemeal. Adam Young; the villain, the redneck; that indomitable soldier of the south. His mural is of a flag bearer waving proudly that Robert E. Lee, a gesture of defiance under the noses of authority. A chest beating dolt without a care in the world. Stoic in his ability to annoy and to disrupt. A shape shifter, creating and destroying worlds with the wave of his childish hand. Adam Young, unrepentant in his capacity to leave chaos and bemusement in his wake. There's a slender part of Rico that admires him; but it's a fleeting whim. Soon, reality takes over. The gravity of sanity anchoring Rico back down to earth. Adam Young, the joke who dreamed he was a God. Yeah, thinking about it, he's a good name to kill.
Rico: Do it.
C.A.M: Target acquired.
Rico: Adam Young's greatest tick is that he keeps believing he doesn't exist. Adam Young sees himself as a disciple of the devil. As a brash, working class hero. As a son of the south. As a brother. As a husband. As a dark priest. As a Wrestling dynasty. He wears a million and one different faces, matched only by this ridiculous fuck...
And yet, he never sees the truth. He never understands that he's Adam Young. Adam Young, the A-hole loser. No matter how many times he tries, his chance of winning is always going to be a million and NONE. Because all those faces, all those dreams and false starts and pointless diversions add up to absolutely zero. Adam Young exists for one reason, and one reason only; to be a whip to test the backs of those that are deemed lazy, or egotistical. He's the bogey man out to derail careers. The leprechaun at the bottom of the garden. The trickster they send you when they want to remind your ass that its not that far of a fall back down to the bottom of the card. They feed this troll just enough to keep him entertained. This gestalt of shit that cowers in the dark, damp recesses of the WCF. Adam's industrious; but only by default. He's the infinite amount of monkeys typing an infinite amount of pages under an infinite amount of guises hoping for that one lucky day his Hamlet will finally arrive. But it never will. Because Adam Young is not designed to be anything other than the clown slip up for a good star will fall under. The sharp shock to the system to remind you that no position is sacred. Ask a Corey Black, and he'll tell you; it smarts. Ask a Joey Flash and he'll laugh, because to a Joey Flash, losing to Adam Young was simply a calculated distraction. A pawn in a game he played in conjunction with a man as delusional in his ability as a Teo Del Sol and Wolf.
Adam Young does not exist. Not in the conventional sense. Only the threat of Adam Young exists. The day of dread when you're faced with a transmogrifying fool. For those that are small and inconsequential, he's a hero. He's teaches the light of intelligence to dream big. But consider the charred remains at my feet. Consider where his dreams will finally reside. They're cremated in this pyre. They're ash. As Adam Young will eventually be. A lost figure of fun in this brave new world of Maratopian nightmares.
All you have to do with an Adam young, is remember to step to the left. And avoid the clown shoes.
Time begins to struggle against the confines of Rico's fearsome technology. Those teaser wires begins to shutter and shake, like heavy tungsten wires on a bridge they begin to moan and roar as the laws of reality creep their way back into Rico Rojas line of sight.
Rico: This is going to hurt, isn't it?
C.A.M: I could tell you the odds, but my on board sympathy chip tells me it's just easier to say yes.
Rico: Well, gee whizz, Cammy. Thanks for that.
C.A.M: Sir, in quadrant five. I've found one last name.
Rico: No time, Cam. Best we just disengage and brace for impact.
C.A.M: Sir, I'm sure you'd reconsider if you knew.
Rico: Doubtful.
C.A.M: Sir, it's Vic...
Rico: Venable?
C.A.M: Affirmative. Anarchists do like their martyrs.
Rico thinks it over. If he disengages the transmission now, he'll face nothing more than a short, sharp shock from the tasers. He'll blackout in a blink of an eye. The experience will be fleeting. Easy to overcome. If Rico waits however, and deals with Vic Venable; admonishes him until that very last second? Rico will have no time to brace for impact, the pain he'll endure will be amplified. Excruciating.
Ah, fuck it.
Rico: Punch him up.
The anarchists “A” sign rests beneath the looming figure of Vic Venable. That tower of moral ineptitude looming over his home town of Atlanta, Georgia. The man who sauntered out of prison with a brisk new outlook on life; just in time to discover his brother missing and his parents dead. Just at the right moment to sniper kill a helpless woman sitting at her desk. That Vic Venable; the man who lost a match to a gimmick 'tard and former Grime named Ace Maverick. And because Vic Venable likes to take up valuable space with his promos, in much the same way he hogs precious air from more needy idiots, lets just go over that whole open wound once again, one more time, just to make him feel at home.
You Lost Vic...
TO ACE MAVERICK, YOU FUCKING TOOL!
(P.S. I do actually read all your shit. Love your work. Hugs.)
A large splatter of red, from a machine gunned corpse, drips down Vic's portrait. Right between Vic's spread apart legs; it gives the unfortunate appearance of a tampon split. Which sort of seems fitting in hindsight, considering how much of an angst ridden bitch Vic is. Anyway, the stage is yours Rico.
Rico: What's the definition of anarchy? When you see Vic, you should pull him aside and beat it into him. Because that Pendejo has absolutely no fucking idea. None. Nada. Vic Venable has lived in an institutionalized bubble most of his life. He's the kind of needy soul that likes the warm comfort of a womb. If that womb can't be a prison cell, then he's going to find the next best thing. A world ruled by mob law, where the strongest survive and the weak wear dresses and kiss their ankles. That just so happens to be the WCF. So, here Vic is; out to prove he's every bit the reformed good guy he so desperately believes he is. But just like every other idiot on the wall, he's delusional to a fault. Vic likes to wrap himself up with lies and half truths, with ideologies he just doesn't understand, so that he can fortify himself away from the cold realities of the outside world. He's a neurotic wreck, hanging on to every word his buddy Cliff says. Hanging on to “the gang life”. The world spins, but Vic Venable has no fucking clue how to stand upright. So off he goes, leaning very language, expect common sense. Unable to except the fact that he's just at fault for the murderous crimes committed under his watch as anyone else in his former merry little troop. And because Vic just can't except his past, he goes on yet another killing spree, were he kills those he blames at distance, rather than face them head on like a man. Vic Venable cannot understand the fact that Bryson Hendricks died simply because of Vic Venable and no one else. Vic Venable is an Occulus shaped coward, sensitized to the closeness of truth. So he picks off history at long range, and convinces himself that being a killer with a sniper rifle is a good and just act.
I've killed a lot of people with a sniper rifle protecting a wall I despised. Never once did I convince myself it was a noble cause. When I had Vic jumped on Slam all those years ago, it was not a noble act, but then, does a killer of women really deserve one? Where's the handbook that exonerates Vic Venable from being a psychopath? Is it hidden under the corpse of Scarecrow? Are #beachkrew really the “unoriginal swine?” Vic so steadfastly claims? Because I don't see no wrap sheet for Tibs that says, “Murderer” on it. Knocking over a bell, apparently, in Vic's book is a heinous act tantamount to fucking genocide. But murdering a list of men and women? Nah, you're all good to go according to good ol' Vic. This is the lunacy of Venable. This is why the rabid dog has to be put down. He wants life to be gang warfare? Then Sunday is the perfect opportunity to grant him his wish.
Vic Venable paved the way for his road to nowhere the day he buried six rounds into a frightened, defenseless woman named Ryoku. A woman he knew couldn't handle a gun. He's the instigator of her families sorrow, and that's a stain that can never be forgotten. It will haunt Vic forever, pushing him further and further out of the light. And if it doesn't? Then I guess we'll all finally know how much of a fucking fraud he is. This Sunday's execution of Vic Venable isn't murder, it's euthanasia for a tortured soul. Or the killing floor for yet another liar with dreams way too high above his lowly, piss-ant little station.
Times up?
C.A.M: I'm afraid so Sir. Good luck.
The world shunts and barrages against the temporal incursion; its as if a wild animal is thrashing against an invisible harness. Rico smiles, he got Vic Venable. He took down the target; after all these years. He got one over on the bastar--
The Taser lines shoot into Rico's chest as a torrent of high voltage pain engulfs his senses. The south beach saint slumps down. Unconscious...
…
Sometime later.
“Wake up, Mister Rojas.”
A moment before the voice is recognized, Rico's senses returning to him as he realizes he's in the presence of Watch Commander Hank Brown of the exodus center. That can unfortunately only mean one thing.
They were going to exile Rico...to the warlands.
And certain death.
TO BE CONTINUED
