Post by John Rabid on Dec 6, 2015 17:47:46 GMT -5
1.Gates Of Fire
Backstage, Post Slam: 11/29/15.
“I expected you all sooner. I don’t like to be kept waiting. It shows a lack of character.”
Dune stood at the centre of his destructive handywork. His large, muscular form towered over the timid dimensions of #Beachkrew’s now vandalised dressing room. Outfitted in his usual attire; Dune’s piercing blue eyes scoured as they faced down the combined might of Wade, Rabid, Kemp and DB; four tired, drained warriors standing at their shattered doorway, their minds still racing over a thousand screaming questions; trying to focus though a mind numbing deluge of confusion and panic detonated at ground zero by an army of concerned security and wrestling personal.
The ensuing aftermath of “The I.S. incident”, had left the encumbered owners of the WseaF under the gun for several hours. The arena was still buzzing with Homeland security agents and the company's own in house personal teams long after the final audience member had gone home. Each nook and cranny of the venue had to be checked and double checked. Shortly after the chaos in the ring began #Beachkrew were quickly cornered by the spectre of Special Agent Donald Mosley, who promptly interrogated them all for several hours; the slender, well kept man was now permanently assigned by the F.B.I to deal with all matters concerning WseaF. This, of course, lead back to a new bout of underhanded recriminations into Scarecrow’s death. Even though Rabid was out of the country at the time of the Murder Machine’s demise; Johnny still felt the needle of doubt in every question and query directed towards him. Although, for Rabid, this wasn’t such a new experience for him. Back in London, such matters were a weekly cat and mouse affair that he had become quite adept at dealing with. Still, Johnny could do nothing but envy Bobby Cairo and Odin Balfore as they simply played their “diplomatic immunity” cards and waltzed away. The Thickness had elevated their profile with Rabid from “Former Legends” to “Entitled Nuisances”; any further escalation involving their current fraternisation with the company might mean Rabid would have to direct some of his focused “ambitions” their way.
But this was all academic right now. For the Thickness’s monumental backfire had unfortunately left open a window of opportunity for Dune to sneak in and deliver this own particular brand of unwanted menace.
Now #Beachkrew had to judge another precarious situation, for inside the dressing room; sitting calmly in one corner of the twisted devastation was Jimpohy Thuggin. A cracked spotlight blinked zoetropic imagery above him as he lit up his fourth cigar of the night and calmly puffed away, allowing his “guest” the rule of the floor...such as it was.
Dune: Lacking. That’s what this company is from top to bottom. Lacking anything remotely close to a threat; the closest was Joey Flash; a man not even cleared to wrestle anymore. A grieving father, who’s useless cries are nothing but distant echoes now. I wonder, who screams now in Christian’s name? None of the companies so-called “heroes” give a damn. They all prefer to cower from me. They persist in playing their own petty little games instead. Like Occulo, who pretends that there’s still some pathetic “hope” for me like some kind of doorstep Mormon; crying for my “return” whilst his own life spirals increasingly out of control. A small, bed wetting child, still cowering from his psychotic father; Mullins snr. The same man that murdered his former best friend, Steve Carr in cold blood.
Yet now, Occluo has seemingly forgiven these past transgressions; all he wants for his dear old daddy now is for him to suffer in a phantom zone of his own imagination; living out an eternity in a demented science fiction fantasy apparently. All to please his precious Bonnie Blue. His little tramp that he so desperately wants to impress. Bonnie Blue; the production model for a better Johnny Reb. Yet, does she ever really care about this company like she claims? Or does she not want her precious man to think too long about me, in case he has this wild notion that he can face me in the ring and survive? Occulo’s hooked up with Bonnie because living in her fantasy world is easier than going it alone in a real one. Easier than the idea of facing me for that world title he knows I will soon wear around my waste. After all, Occulo only ever had a backbone for this business when I stood by him. Now that I’ve excommunicated that whelp from my friends list? He’s returned to type. Like they all do. Like Bonnie Blue; still getting caught up in time travelling adventures rather than facing the monsters at home.
Only Oblivion can anchor her down to this world. And we all know why; because she can’t shake the crimes her former self has committed. But here comes Occulo, her touchstone, forever hiding under his father’s desk; searching for a miracle way to rid himself of Mullins snr.. Counting till’ a thousand and praying that the monster that gave him life will eventually disappear. Only that monster, the true being that gave him a wrestling life? He will never go away. Because that’s me. I am his father. His true father. I am the one that made Occulo’s life worth living. And since this is my world, and I will never die? Occulo’s in my shadow forever; and with each passing atrocity that I comitt? Occulo’s cowardice will simply be more apparent. As will Bonnie’s. They thought they could cancel each other’s past out together, but it’s just a more convenient way to die. A cancer that they can never cut out; tempered only by psychotic constructs such as “The cold”. That anthethertise them from the truth. A simple truth, that Johnny Reb will ALWAYS be the Dark timekeeper and that the Sentinals were just me, plus two underachieving parasites searching for glory that they could never attain alone...
...Speaking of parasites...
Dune locked eyes with Rabid. It was the first time they had met since their confrontation several weeks previously when the sand demon emerged from his self imposed exile. That night; Dune and Rabid locked up; neither giving ground. Twisted flesh behind a breathing apparatus snarls as Rabid remains his stolic self. Unmoved by the spectacle of Dune’s display.
Dune: Johnny Rabid...The Curiosity. Tell me. How’s your son, Dorian isn’t it? What a name to lumber a child. School a struggle for him? Must be now that he’s moved to pennsylvania.
Even Kemp squirms at this; his eyes darting around the room for something he can fashion into a weapon. Rabid never spoke about his family out loud. But #beachkrew knew he had one; those midnight conversations on the road to a wife named Emily; almost tender in their discourse. Little moments of small talk about school; about decorating the new house. Rabid had emotion somewhere deep inside that ice frame of his, it melted occasionally with the sound of his son’s voice; fast, quizzical busts of energy could be heard emanating from Rabid’s mobile phone as Johnny would answer every question he could in a way a seven year old child could understand. Now, here, Dune was challenging Rabid to respond. To see if the ice would crack.
Johnny Rabid: He’s settling in well; he’s good at taking care of himself.
Dune: Oh I bet, but can his father take care of him?
Wade contemplated a Brosideon punch right there; he knew he could stand toe to toe with Dune if forced to; it would allow the others to remove Thuggin’ from the equation. But it would be a risk, one that Dune would have already calculated beforehand, hence his appearance. Dune never made a move that wasn’t well scouted.
But if Rabid snaps now? Wade may not have a choice. He’d have to attack. Settle it quick, if he could...maybe. After all, miracles can happen he surmised.
Johnny Rabid: Feels good, doesn’t it? Look upon the mighty Dune, all juiced up on evil and intoxicated with power. And yet, perhaps Occulo is right about you, Dune; perhaps there is still a man beneath worth saving. I wonder; If I where to dig deep? If I were to root out that frail; anguish ravaged man...would he thank me? For forcing him to live in a world without his precious little girlfriend? Or would he beg, beg for my preferred solution.
Dune: I doubt you know begging, Rabid. I doubt very much you know what it means. But I can teach you. I can illuminate your whispery little body to the sensation. It would be a simple demonstration.
Kyle had heard enough. Rabid’s voice had a tendency to rile him up at the best of times; right now, it was a lengh of chalk screaming down a board as it rewrote the bible. Bouts of uncontrollable rage was a regrettable side effect of living inside Rabid’s push button world, a world that had a nack of leaving odd symptoms in its wake; and Kyle was sucombing to those symptoms right now. Right at the worst moment to do so.
Kyle Kemp: Enough of this shit! What the fuck do you want, Dune? Huh? I’m sick of you! I’m sick of you running around this company like a faux terrorist! I’ve just spent three hours of my fucking life mopping up after geriatric pranksters that like to playact terrorism. Now you stand here and you want a piece of the pie too? You want to play terrorist? THEN C’MON THEN! DO IT!
Johnny Rabid: Kyle...
Kyle Kemp: NO, FUCK OFF! C’mon Dune. Put down the chess pieces and let’s settle it!
Wade Moor moved instinctively infront of Kyle as Rabid garnered Dune’s response. There wasn’t much left of the man’s face to read, but Rabid knew their was still a trace of the “other” beneath. The Jackel had left his stench upon Dune’s soul. Rabid could taste it’s bitterness; it’s foul stench almost made him recoil with revulsion, that air of hate was just too close to his own. It brought about a very special nausia, but that wasn’t Johnny’s primary concern. It was Kyle Kemp and those tag titles.
Johnny Rabid: I’d ignore Kyle, Dune; your war is with me.
Wade Moor: Why Rabid, you hurt my feelings. His war is with me.
Dune smiled. He glanced over at Jimophy Thuggin’, who nodded; it was an order to begin.
Jimophy Thuggin’ stomped out his cigar on his hand and tucked it away, he struggled for a few moments as he placed the stoogie somewhere deep inside a soggy, nicotine stained pocket that lined his crushed velvet smoking jacket. After a few moments of shuffling in his chair to find that sweet spot, Thuggin eventually discovered a comfortable position and begin to recite Dune’s list of “demands” as best as he could remember them.
Jimophy Thuggin: Dune...”requests” that Wade Moor. Kyle Kemp and Jared Holmes hand over the W-sea...the WCF to him before midnight tomorrow night. A joint statement that confirms the handover is to be drafted up and read out over the network no later than midnight, tomorrow night. If you do not, Dune will consider this an act of war; and set about dismantling #Beachkrew with absolute prejudice. He will systematically cripple each and every one of you until #Beachkrew serves as a reminder to the “betas” of this company that no one exists above Dune. There's only one alpha. And to prove this...all my children...will be...
Thuggin’ stops. Dune scowls.
Jimophy Thuggin:...all my children will be sacrificed if need be. All except Andre Aquarius...as a token of his esteemed “Mercy”.
Wade smirks a gallows smile. He turns and faces a stone faced trio; arms outstretched.
Wade Moor: You hear this boi? You hear him? He got some balls this Dune fellow. He got some balls hangin’ between those sticks. Thinkn’ he can dive to my depths and swim with me. Make demands to my face like an equal. Make demands to Jimpohy Thuggin! I’m gonna have to hold this boi down I think. Hold him down, and make him drown. You wanna play psycho, Dune? Wanna get yourself a clown bodyguard and pretend to be an edge lord like Mikey extreme? Yeah, sure you do. You want us all to fear “Dune’s America”. What happened to you man? You were a phemon once, now you’re an eXtreme clone. Making demands and wild claims like a drunk idiot on the strip. Barking like a dog. You like to bark little doggy? You wanna bark like a Mikey eXtreme? With his little freakshow parade of emo try hards? Like a darkwave eyeliner fuccboi? Fucking Mikey eXtreme, that’s you, Dune. Hiding out in lighthouses and crying yourself to sleep; dreaming that this country is yours; when the world simply laughs at you when awake.
That title MIkey has now, it echoes man. It echoes like your demands. It echoes hollow words, empty phases. Look how he climbs the empire state building shouting to the world how he’s the “king of Darkness”, shouting out how he beat Pantheon--that fuck boi, doesn’t he know, doesn’t he realise? WE KILLED PANTHEON! It’s stone fucking dead because of us. Mac and Mikey played dosey doe with a set of corpses we had stuffed and mounted months ago. “Hawt American Darkness”...you can translate that to my boi Seamac, and his retarded charge. I never thought I’d see the day when Honey Badger would be reduced to being a care worker but here we are, man. I guess if Mikey can be stupid enough to think he has a chance of being a true champion, then I guess you can stand here, Dune and believe there’s a hope in hell of us signing the WCF over to you. Nether’s going to happen by the way. The title stays with me. This company, stays with me. You want to make demands, here’s one. I demand you prepare for he worst. Because your looking at your worst, your worst defeat, your worst case scernario. You worst day of your life. I’m gonna tear though your world like paper, I’m gonna tear though your world and leave the scraps that are left for bitches like Bonnie Blue and Preecha Kamon. That Kamon, he’s a lot like you, Dune. He has that husky voice now; the one I gave him when I damn near broke his neck in that Dog Collar match. Just like you, he tried to match me. Tried to be my equal. He lost that match because he listened to the wrong silence.
Dune scowls.
Wade Moor: Lies don’t travel beneath the ocean waves for a reason, Dune. Lies don’t travel because the ocean can’t abide them. The dephs only carry the truth; there’s a truth in silence, Dune. But you’ll never know that true silence, just like a Preecha will never know, for he hears only the lies of an Armand De La Fontaine; whispering grandiose plans Preecha hasn’t got the stones to carry out. But that Kamon, he’ll listen nonetheless; because that lie, it’s a beautiful sound to him. Like a distant horizon, like a promised land; it’s the same kind of insanity Bonnie and Occulo reside in. They’ll all die trying to bring those worlds to life. Reaching too far; aiming too high. That silence.
Johnny Rabid: It’s the same silence that deafens you, Dune. Just another Preecha Kamon; he has Armand De La Fontaine. You have.
Dustin Beaver: The Jackel.
Kyle Kemp: Choices, Dune.
Wade Moor: We don’t need twenty four hours to make ours.
Johnny Rabid: Get out.
Wade waits; did they get though; was there a moment there when Dune cracked?
Wade unclenched his hand and waited to hear what Dune had to say. Swagrid would study, listen and calculate. Just as he had done years ago when he was confronted with a Florida glade full of demented bullies that tormented him as a child. That younger Wade, his teenage head held by force under water in the backwoods of his hometown; his drunk, weed smoking captors not realising that Wade was using these precious, horrible moments to become stronger; Wade’s lungs, increasingly becoming accustomed to a watery environment he would one day call his kingdom. Just as he did the WseaF. The home that Dune threatened to take away from him now.
“Keep talking Dune”, thought Wade. “Keep talking, and I’ll adapt”
Dune: You have my demands. I gave you the luxury of hearing them from a voice I know you trust. I suggest you respect them. Comparing me to Mikey eXtreme is like comparing a God to an ant. Mikey eXtreme is a bug begging to be squashed. I thought you were smarter than that, Wade. America is already mine; unlike a mindless fool, I don’t need to crow on about it. As for Preecha? He is a small stone that skips the surface; his time is limited, as is yours.
Dune gestures with a flick of his hand at Jim. Thuggin’ doesn’t blink; imagery of his sons possible demise flickering through his mind as he contemplates the unthinkable.
Dune: Your father has memorized your obituaries. I took the time to write them for you. A small gift as the holidays approach. Twenty four hours to respond. No response? No more #Beachkrew.
#Beachkrew part as Dune motions forward, his huge strides see him exit in a matter of seconds; leaving the five men to collectively ponder their fate.
....
Dustin Beaver: So, who should we face next week?
2.Blood on the #Beach
The WINEO-bago trundles along a winding highway as the stars above illuminate the Texas night sky. Inside, the oder of stale beer and used up weed is tempered by silence as #Beachkrew listen out for their own fate. Rabid leans forward out of his passenger seat, unpeeling his eyes from a window as Wade up front steadies the vehicle behind the wheel.
Rabid spies a nervous Dustin Beaver across from him, he too has his eyes glued to the desert vista, seemingly contemplating his fate. Thinking about the training Gags had drilled into him. Would any of it matter if he faced Dune? How does a man defeat a God?
Johnny Rabid: Worried about the match?
Dustin Beaver: Fuck no. We got that covered.
Johnny Rabid: Dune?
....
Johnny Rabid: You know, I grew up around wrestlers; over the years I heard a lot of strange stories growing up. There was one that always stuck with me. About this old timer; a Yankee telling his grandson about the battle of Iwo Jima. Now this old timer, he was a soldier once; straight out of basic training. This kid, he hits the beach, and it's hell on Earth; the bullets are flying and the blood is everywhere, there’s nothing but carnage all around. But in amongst all this madness the young soldier feels a tug on his shoulder. There’s this man; a sergeant, who pulls the soldier down into a fox hole and there, they wait it out. They hold their ground. This sergeant, he saves the soldier’s life. Years later, the soldier hears about what happened to that life saving sargent; it turns out he was a murderer; strangled his wife in cold blood before the war. Killed several others afterwards. The grandson asks the old timer: “If you knew at the time what that sargent was, what he would become, would you have shot him?”...“No,” says the old timer. “He was a soldier, just like me. On that day...he was a soldier.”
Dustin thinks it over.
Dustin Beaver: So, we’re on the beach, huh?
Johnny Rabid: Son, we are ALWAYS on the beach.
Wade Moor: Amen, brother.
Kyle Kemp: Amen.
Fin.
