Post by John Rabid on Dec 27, 2015 13:56:32 GMT -5
1.Diamond Dogs
December 27th. 2015. Hours before ONE.
The dying moments of a short winter's day shone sharp embers through a cage of rusted chain linked fencing; a mesh of steel that surrounded a still and content Johnny Rabid. With mere hours to go before ONE, Rabid’s world was a glimmering, latticed landscape of brilliant light and dark shadows, the sun finally relinquishing control over a vast L.A skyline as Johnny stood with his arms at his sides at the pitcher's plate, simply waiting. Johnny was as unperturbed now as ever, his neat charcoal overcoat dancing to the call of the Santa Ana winds. Flood flights above flickered like dying lanterns as Johnny’s eyes widened, now almost completely black, his vision squeezing every last detail from a diminishing horizon that seemed to reach out forever.
Darkness would not imprison Rabid this night though, for he could see as sharp now as he could during the day, better even. If anything, it was the floodlights for Kyle’s benefit that would obstruct Rabid’s vision; the distinctive 6’4 frame of Kemp existing in a no man’s land of intermittent clarity as he approached at perhaps a walking pace; not appearing to attempt skulduggery it would seem. A sports bag over Kemp’s broad shoulder contained what appeared to be a hickory bat, peeking out through the zipper. It was difficult for Rabid to tell at this distance. Still, Rabid trusted Kemp, as he had learned to over the past few weeks.
At least to an extent.
It had become something of a ritual for the two to knock fastballs out of a park before showtime; it was simply another of Rabid’s awkward attempts at team bonding to begin with, but over time, that awkwardness relented and was replaced with an odd stillness. Rabid and Kemp playing a subtle game of chess as they smashed home runs with a competitive zeal. Rabid often slyly referred to Baseball as “Rounders...I use to play this game as a kid back in England; with the other boys and girls in junior school...then, when you grow up to be a man? It becomes cricket.”
“You mean, when you become old” Kemp would retort. Kemp often wondered how old Rabid actually was, he seemed to be the 27/28 years of age he had claimed at times, then there would be moments when that fact fractured; dates and places, recalled like memories of decades past. Like most things with Rabid - half truth was the best one could hope for.
Johnny Rabid: Hello, Kyle. You’re early.
Kyle took a few moments to answer as Rabid removed his coat. Kemp’s movements where measured so as to not raise any attention. He placed the sports bag down next to the home plate; he didn’t reach for the bat, not yet.
Kyle Kemp:...So are you. Maybe the big night’s got us antsy?
Johnny Rabid: Antsy?
Antsy? This was an odd response; there was no need for either Rabid or Kemp to be nervous or apprehensive this night thought Rabid; after all, they were facing three teams that had proved of little weight over the past few weeks; the only upset coming from a K.L Henson supporting cast member named Preecha Kamon, a man who had somehow managed to take advantage of a chaotic match on Slam, a match that had already descended by that point into a farce with run in after run in from every which corner of the WseaF universe. The eventual three count Kamon scored was a joke; one with a particularly nasty punchline for the guilty party involved. That referee, the little hiccup, a small, insignificant man that had been admolished though a cruel twist of fate on a cold Texas morning, as a train screamed into a station, as a man’s body was destroyed, half a continent away.
Maybe that was it, maybe the sight of that man, the referee, being shovelled into a body bag was too much for Kemp’s somewhat tender tastes to stomach? After all, Kemp was only human; the death of the referee coupled with suffering the indignity of the Kamon pin might be playing upon Kyle’s already overwound mind, a mind that was being crushed under the weight of Kemp’s seemingly mounting suspicions. Joining the dots for Rabid now would be a simple task, for surely these where the symptoms behind Kyle’s obvious...”twitchiness.”
Sometimes a loss happens and Rabid understood this. Yet, perhaps Kemp didn’t understand. Perhaps he considered himself a target now for another cruel moment of circumstance. Rabid decided to sound out the rallying cry; it was all boastful fury for sure; but it did carry a measure of weight and purpose beneath...
Johnny Rabid: Those that chase us with their slender, malnourished talents, all squirming like toads baking on a hot summer’s highway. Squirming with regret, the kind that comes when you know you’re way in deep over your head...
The Outlaw Gentlemen; Preecha Kamon and Patrilli, The People’s Choice; when you dissect each team, thought Rabid, what remains is an autopsy of half functioning limbs; misfiring nervous systems and handicapped minds. Each team was not a whole; but a percentage of a threat, because each team is let down by a fifty per cent margin. For every Spencer Adams their was a Vic Venable; a thug just itching to skip town and hide under a rock labeled: backstory. For every Raymond Hatcher; their was an Adam Young, a murdering, rapist hillbilly loon; imagine a Mikey eXtreme, then slowly carve away with a scalpel until you remove every last vestige of talent and drive and the corpse that remains, that somehow still breathing corpse on the slab, well that corpse is Adam Young.
Preecha Kamon? He was a unique animal, for he was let down by a Patrilli. Patrilli, the nowhere man, a lost and deluded soul who was born under a cliched star. That ever elusive mystery man type, forever searching for his true identity and purpose; his life however is nothing more than a clumsy caricature, bouncing from one implausible coincidence to another; a mosaic of juvenile choices and sporadic intelligence. The man wakes up in a room; receives an order to run, and just so happens to find his way into the “loving arms” of Armand De La Fontaine at “The Master and Margaritas”, the Barnum of sex crimes; a ringmaster with aspirations too tall for his diminutive intelligence to climb. In many ways it’s Fontaine, and not the taxi driver Patrill that is the weak link; for it’s Fontaine that allows his dreams of masterminding the perfect tag team to spin away from him; over and over he builds up this consummate picture of Kamon as a ultimate killing machine, while inside Kamon’s fragile mind exists a buddhist landscape of silent reflection and meandering response, robbing him of that precious killer’s instinct Fontaine loves to crow on about. No wonder K.L Henson has the drop of them both over and over; the sociopathic nerd may be a flake, but at least his eyes are open; as well as his ears.
Rabid caught his free hand gently waving from left to right as he contemplated this; he wondered if Kamon ever listened to Beethoven, his deaf ears pressed tightly against the speakers, wondering with forlorn jealousy if this was what music truly sounded like. That Allegretto just sprang to mind for Rabid; symphony number seven, it was Rabid’s favorite; that second movement with its metronomic brilliance; a piece born out of tragedy. Maybe Kamon could hear this; those low tones vibrating through his damaged senses. Rabid bet they could reach him somehow, reach down deep and teach Kamon a very particular lesson: Ludwig’s son commits suicide, yet the world receives magic. Surely this would be ONE’s service to the world also, as bodies great and small fell from ladders, as backs were broken on tables, as chairs composed new and exciting symphonies. Ludwig was a genius, but Rabid and Kemp? Well, what they could achieve together might just match the maestro.
All it would take, would be the prolonged suffering of others.
And as for Preecha? Well; he would learn another lesson from that Allegretto as it sang out to the heavens above the staples center; that to be a star in this industry? You need to know how to sing. And more importantly? How to hear. Silence removes one’s tether from the world around you; now there’s no crash of a ladder to signal a dive out of the way, or a table being set up to spark a search for incoming adversaries. This was an environment where sound was every bit as important as sight, and Preecha was deprived of it’s precious benefit. Preecha is handicapped; broken before the first sound of the bell; broken still after it’s sounded again; a toll he can never hear, not that it would matter much, since he would be too incapacitated to do much about it. Fontaine should be flogged for allowing his client into such a match; this is a man who claims to be a manager, yet can’t see that Preecha is planning on exiting this world under a red haze of glory; Preecha wants to die in battle; this is the perfect math to do so, and yet Armand can’t see the impending catastrophe up ahead. A blind man, leading a deaf man; with Patrilli as the silent third monkey.
Rabid continued to speak; even as he realised his blustering speech was only reaching a set of deaf ears; Kemp’s focus was on other matters. The shift in light above was of paramount importance to Kemp; it would offer a slender window to strike as Rabid’s field of vision “might “ be slightly impaired. Kemp had observed Rabid’s dislike of sunlight; the floodlights offered similar problems; their more obtuse angle differing from those in a wrestling arena; throwing Johnny Rabid off guard...perhaps.
Johnny Rabid: Everything is on the line for those toads now. It’s their all or nothing days, they're crossroads; their slide down the history books, leaving a trail like a slug as they crumble in slow motion. The strong, broken by the weak; Preecha Kamon, Spencer Adams, Dicky Hatcher, it doesn’t matter which equation you pick, they’re all dragging the same dead weight around like a curse...
Like a curse, a horrible; unavoidable curse. Ever since that first meeting they had; Rabid he had been this lingering shadow just behind Kemp; this prowling entity that toyed with Kemp’s idea of invincibility. Mortality had a name and a face now; reminding Kemp that he wasn’t as unstoppable as he once thought. Rabid’s little games on that first recon Kemp undertook into Rabid’s world always played upon Kemp in the small hours; how can a man see through tinted windows; what happened to that dog owner?
Then their was the mist, what did it represent? The clouding of a man’s mind? Even Oblivion was weary of Rabid; as if a silent pact had been brokered between them. Not even the mighty Obi-Sea-Vion could offer haven. And yet, the question remained: “Why Run?” If Rabid needed Kemp, surely he should feel protected. This monster was on his side, the shadow was his tag team partner. Kemp was inner circle surely.
Then Kyle remembered what happened to Billy, and everything snapped right back into horrible focus.
Johnny Rabid:...Ashamed to gaze into the eyes of their partners. Ashamed of their poor choices. Tonight’s their Thermopylae; their Alamo. Their last roll of the dice. It’s their judgment day and they’ll fail.
Kemp thought about that....judgment day. If only he knew.
Johnny Rabid: Let’s be honest, ONE is a joke to us, Kyle; because ONE is simply the clearing of the deck. You know what awaits us after? We have the Thickness to attend to. And attend to we shall.
Kemp looked at the bag. The handle poking out. If he doesn’t do this...would he become a Patrilli? A nowhere man with no direction home? Or a Preecha, a mindless robot endlessly awaiting new command codes? Rabid didn’t know it yet, but he was making Kemp’s mind up for him, even as a cascade of chills ran down his shivering back.
Johnny Rabid: We are here, Kyle...week in and out. We arrive...we win...because for us? That’s all there is. To win is to exist. It’s the engine that drives us. The fire that consumes us. Others pretend to embrace the obsession, but they remain afraid to be consumed by it. Maybe that's what truly sets us apart, Kyle. We do what needs to be done.
And their it was. Kyle’s expression was stern now. Cold. It would happen tonight.
Kyle Kemp: I agree. No turning back.
Rabid strapped the glove onto his hand, allowed the ball to clatter into his enlarged grasp with a flick of his pitching wrist as he attempted to judge the moment. Something was off, Kyle’s focus on that sports bag, too pronounced. The night was turning sour.
Johnny Rabid: You sound different. You good?
Nothing for a moment.
Kyle Kemp: I hear the Staples center is sold out. Eighteen thousand and change. Biggest night of our lives and here we are...pretending.
Johnny Rabid: Pretending?
Kyle Kemp: Yeah, pretending. Pretending to be human. Pretending to be...real. I dunno anymore which way is up. And that has to change, John. I need to cut my faults away. I need to be better. That’s my obsession I suppose. Always has been...to cut my mistakes away.
Johnny Rabid: And that's why they’ll lose. They don’t possess your level of conviction. They’re all tethered to a loss; to an Adam Young, to a Patrilli, to a Vic Venable. Anchored to failure. You have to cut that away, Kemp. Sever it from your being. That's what marks us as strong.
Kyle Kemp: Yeah, I do.
Kemp knelt as he unzipped the rest of the sports bag, reached inside and made ready to enact his endgame.
Kyle Kemp: I’ve been wondering recently...If I was a monster, A TRUE MONSTER whose face would I wear? Yours, or mine? Maybe there’s no difference; maybe we’re just a pair of reflections that carry the weight of each other's crimes. I don’t know anymore. All I know is that It has to end Johnny. A mirror has to crack. And what happens after that mirror cracks is just a consequence of what I’ve been forced to do. If there was any other way I would take it, but in all honesty, there really is no other choice.
The dimensions inside that sports bag fell into line with Rabid’s grim assumption. He knew what this night meant now. Rabid had sensed two things during their brief phone conversation prior to their meeting; both a sense of false tranquility and a degree of menace. It was a minuscule inflection, but it was there and troubling. Now it all fell into line all too quickly to be averted. The reckoning was here.
Johnny Rabid: No other choice, huh?
Kyle shook his head. No.
Rabid smirked. Time's up he supposed. Still, it was a good run.
Johnny Rabid: Well then; to answer your previous question. My face of course. It has more style.
Rabid gripped the baseball tight in his mitt as his other hand waved to a silent tune. Kyle removed the “bat”...it was a sawn-off shotgun. The gauge was perfectly judged for distance, Rabid couldn’t elude the blast radius even with Olympic level speeds. Escape was beyond him as Kemp stood and raised the barrel; aiming dead center for where Rabid’s supposed heart should be.
Kyle Kemp: I won’t live my life looking over my shoulder anymore, John Rabid. I’m not a man accustomed to fear. I’m better than that. Always have been.
Johnny Rabid: Well then. Proceed with your mission. And let us truly see...who really is the better man.
Kemp pulled the hammer back.
He steadied his aim.
And fired.
“I want you to know that I take the issue of trust, very seriously...”
2.The Severing
10/27/15: The last meeting between Johnny Rabid and Billy.
Johnny Rabid: ...very seriously indeed. It’s the cornerstone of everything that I do. It’s my foundation, Barber. That has to be kept strong, protected, or else everything crumbles. I can’t have that. That’s why I’m not looking too pleased today. There’s a whole unfolding situation happening here that I find quite disturbing.
Rabid was sitting behind a newly appropriated desk at WseaF towers. Charcoal suit, neat tie, slicked back hair; Rabid wore the quintessential rigueur de jour for any aspiring man of commerce. Opposite him inside this modest middle management office was Billy and John Barber. Both dressed as always, both two stranded islands of working class iconography. Billy finishing off another chicken wing, pilfered from God knows where, as his tent sized football jersey carried a road-map of half eaten chow; while Barber adjusted his Tap-out tee as he nestled down deep into an awaiting leather upholstered chair; his battered bones enjoying a brief respite of moderate comfort as he considered Rabid’s stern words.
John Barber: Disturbing?
Johnny Rabid: There’s been a breach of our trust along the way. One of us has gone...in a different direction. You need to know that I’m not a man who dilly dally’s with decisions, you understand? Being part of a tag team is a very delicate discipline. It’s a symbiosis, you know what the word symbiosis means?
John Barber: Cut to it.
Johnny lent forward, clasped his hands together almost in a prayer position.
Johnny Rabid: Fine. A man in my position, If he chooses wrong, if he sides with the wrong partner, the consequences for him can be severe. Everything that I want; everything that I desire to achieve, to be a champion, to leave an indelliablle mark on this industry. It can all be unraveled with a single choice, one false step. That’s why I have to be sure that you and your client here are still on my wavelength. That we all want the same thing; the recognition...The notoriety...Those titles.
Billy spat out a splinter of chicken, it fell onto the oak desk; Johnny glanced down at the darkly varnished wood, now spoiled by a mound of ugly regurgitate flesh. In that single moment, Rabid could clearly see every argument Seth Lerch ever had against Billy in that discarded meat hairball; it was obvious that his tag partner was not WseaF material. Billy’s uncouthness was only endearing to a select audience brought up on idiocy. Where Rabid once saw strength, Johnny could now only envision a kind of squarer. These petty men that sat opposite where so far beneath him. Seth Lerch had finally made him see that.
Johnny adjusted his tie, a vague attempt to hide his disgust, as Billy chimed in.
Billy: Shitfire son, I want those titles too. For sure!
Johnny Rabid: And who would that title reign be with, Billy? With me...or the problem?
Barber was quick on the uptake as pieces fell into place.
John Barber: You mean Howard Black.
Johnny Rabid: The Man with the broken wing. The God fearing man. You announce he’s to be the trainer of Billy live on Slam without my prior knowledge. Right after our victory against Legion and that toothless hillbilly bitch Adam Young. Right after I tell the world that he’s under my tutelage. Explain to me again why I was kept in the dark over this? Why you opened the gate and allowed a Sentinel to wander into MY world, to trample all over MY plans? Explain to me the reasoning behind that! Because I’d really like to know what my Tag Team is actually thinking right now. If anything at all.
Rabid’s temper never usually rose above moderately annoyed; until now. There was real rage building within his frame; it became stone like; somewhat hunched. A predator ready to administer a kill as he thought about how much was riding on this. Two nights previously at Helloween, #Beachkrew had demolished the competition to become the sole driving force behind the company; the owners elect. It was an unpresidented occasion; one Rabid had little sway over but one he relished in none the less. For he knew that even though Kyle, Wade and Holmes considered him a perpetual outsider, his time would come. Patience had always been the most overlooked of virtues, considered Rabid. Patience and planning. Such foundations worlds are built upon.
Now their was finally opportunity to add into the mix; Wade and Tiburones had failed to capture The Tag Team Championship due to a bad News Benson debacle; the perfect time for Rabid to strike and seal his position at the head of the #Beachkrew table. But he sensed a parasite was attempting to burrow its way into the skin of his plans. It had to be rooted out and dealt with for it was aligned with his enemies; jackals that plotted against him.
John Barber: Now...settle down, Rabid. Howard is a former Television champion. He’s a professional; he’s offered his services because--
Johnny Rabid: Because he wants to make sure The People’s Choice remain the company's Tag Team champions. You’re being played out of a title run by a man who is every bit as conceiving and as duplicitous as that charge of his, Spencer Adams.You can’t see that because all you see is a man with a broken wing. A family man. But these are facades. These are lies spun to deceive; you’re trapped within a politician's gaze, Barber. All you see is middle American honesty and goodness. What I see is ruthless ambition, a fly trap baited with false honesty and homespun values; but beneath all that is something rotten and calculated. The People’s Choice was made FOR THE PEOPLE, NOT BY THE PEOPLE. The people didn’t choose a murderous anarchist in Vic Venable to represent them. The people didn’t choose a creepy, insidious, nerd - a virgin weirdo plotting world domination from the confines of his Star Trek basement. Nobody made that choice, except the People’s Choice.
John Barber: They’re really under your skin, aren’t they? They’re just opponents; you have to stay detached.
Johnny Rabid: Detached? Listen, Iv’e never claimed to be anything more than I am, that's the truth. I’ve never stood on a mountain top and shouted down at the thralls of beggers below like some kind of profit. When people need me, they come to me knowing full well who and what I am. They may feel frightened by it, terrified by it, but they know. They know deep down inside and they never truely have to ask. Some search for a different answer because they fear their delicate reality is collapsing, but in the end, they realize what I am has been and always will be. Nothing can change that, and they except this eventually for what it is, and what it represents. As I thought you and Billy had.
Barber shuffles in his chair, an air of uncomfortable realization bubbling back up to the surface.
John Barber: We, we have..I suppose.
Johnny Rabid: See now? That’s good. That's the difference between me and the People’s Choice. What are they, really? Are they modern day knights on a pilgrimage? glorious protectors of the innocent? There’s no truth to them that can’t be unraveled. One is a trained killer, the others a deluded fantasist while their puppy dog like mascot lives his life like a man with infantilism. It’s bullshit from the ground up and yet they seem to get away with it because no one believes that anyone with their level of conviction could by anything other than sincere. And yet, that's exactly what they’re not. It’s a lie. The kind of lie I would have been proud of. You can’t hear it, but I can; those Orwellian jackboots are marching, as the actors proclaim themselves heroes. And heroes they are, unless we expose them.
Expose them and those like them; the Raymond Hatcher’s of this world. Endlessly spinning yards about their greatness and their guile. And yet; what do they have to show for their proclamations? Nothing. Empty space inside a barren trophy cabinet because they all lack that one per cent of ability that separates the near-do-well’s from the champions. And what is that one per cent comprised of? Belief. A Raymond Hatcher can make a deal with anyone. But unlike me? Those deals have no weight of conviction. They just float upon a breeze and are carried away into the night. Because Raymond Hatcher isn’t me; he isn’t Johnny Rabid; the man that achieves what he proclaims. Listen to me, John Barber. I will be the Tag Team Champion of the world. That is a deal that’s stamped with truth. My truth. Anything that gets in the way of that, no matter the size; will fall. Understand?
John Barber: Look, the only “truth” I understand is that you’re being paranoid. Black’s been sidelined by Joey Flash’s attack; he just wants to help. To keep himself involved in the game. Billy needs to learn new techniques, he can’t just rely on his size alone; it’s not enough. Trust me, there’s no conflict of interest here. It’s just training.
Johnny Rabid: Training for what? For whose Tag team? Mine, or his? You’re kidding yourself if you think Black isn’t hardwired into all of this with some endgame in mind. Hidden behind the face of Betty’s precious little boy is a straight arrow Church fearing man with a devil for a tongue. Black and Adams are the same animal, Barber; you feed one and the other gains sustenance, because they churn out the same lie; a lie that they, Vic and Teo can “right the world’s wrongs”, with that gold around their waste as some-kind of god given chalice. Lies, Barber. Lies that deceive and program; program a man like Vic Venable; an ex-con trigger-man; the thug robot that blindly follows commands because somewhere, over on that distant horizon, he’s been told there’s hope. Hope...
Rabid eyes became locked on Billy’s damn feasting; he was like a pig. Gluttony he had no problem with; but this was disrespctful.
Johnny Rabid:...Hope for a man who’s lost it all. Whose parents died believing their son to be a failure. A man who murder’s women in cold blood, yet still has the arrogance to believe he’s a “hero”. And Spencer and Teo? They feed that lie, an illusion spun for a desperate man. Vic Venable is nothing but a devoted zealot; a cult member bought and processed by another man’s master plan. If a man as hazardous as Vic falls into line with a following, that’s a danger sign. That’s a red flag and you need to pay attention to that. The People’s Choice are dangerous; to us, to this company. And Howard Black? He’s in collusion with them. Their puppeteer, pulling Spencer and Vic’s strings over and over again; telling them to spread his new Gospel to every available world Spencer’s beadle little mufti-dimensional eyes can set upon.
...Especially yours, Barber; they have you blind now. You, and Billy.
John Barber: We’re not blind, Rabid. We know the plan and we’re sticking to it.
Billy: Yeah, I suppose.
Rabid smirked; as far as reassurances go, this was pitiful. It was time to put this sorry incident to bed. Stop the clocks, stop Billy; and his nauseating habits. For good.
Johnny Rabid: Such an “earnest” vote of confidence. That’s the rub on that matter isn’t it? You say you’re on board, but the opposite is plainly obvious.
John Barber: John..
Johnny Rabid: Plainly obvious. PLAINLY FUCKING OBVIOUS! And that means decisions have to be made. Now.
Rabid raised his hand to swat that damn chicken leg away. Barber was quick, lightning quick; he grasped Rabid’s arm mid-motion. Rabid was taken slightly aback; it wasn’t every day his speed was matched. Still; it would do neither any good.
Johnny Rabid: Take your hand off of me...or I’ll take your hand OFF OF YOU.
John Barber: We’re leaving.
Johnny Rabid: Yes, you are.
Rabid stood; blood and fire and a rage rarely seen exploded across the room; Rabid twisted his wrist and in one fluid movement he had eluded Barber’s grasp; Rabid stood tall now, knocking Barber to the ground, his free hand reaching over the desk as Billy threw a desperation punch that was easily avoided with a simple lean to the left, then back to the right with insane speed as Rabid wrapped his hand around Billy’s throat.
And lifted...lifted Billy high into the air. All FOUR HUNDRED POUNDS OF HIM!
John Barber wiped a slither of blood from his nose as he looked up from the tiled floor; mid morning sunlight drenched the moment in a dream like quality. Rabid held Billy high aloft; choking him with one hand. Steady, unwavering. Not even breaking a sweat. It was like a magic trick performed by a madman. Maybe that's what it was, maybe something more.
John Barber: Shit...fire...
Johnny Rabid: Look up, John! Look up and see what it means to be in a tag team! This is the crucible of everything...trust. If I squeeze now...
Rabid’s grasp squeezed; Billy’s circulation of air was banished as his windpipe was slowly being crushed. Billy heaved for oxygen, but none could find purchase. Rabid was hanging Billy above his own desk. A one man lynch mob with no need for a tree.
John Barber: STOP! FUCKING, STOP!
Rabid tilted his head to one side and admired the glory of the moment. Even though he would later consider this move a mistake, he enjoyed being himself briefly. Ancient memories of wars past whispered distant battle cries in the recesses of his dark and melancholy mind.
Johnny Rabid: Billy? Can...can you hear me?
Billy tried to nod, but the task was impossible; still, the attempt was acknowledged with a smile.
Johnny Rabid: Good, good. Take this lesion with you as you leave. The path you walk alone is yours; all decisions yours alone to answer to. Your freedom. Your choices. The path you walk with a partner however? That’s a path of faith; you have to have faith in your partner to do the right thing. To be there for you. To stand by you. To fight for you. It seems so easy to classify; but so difficult to enact. You tried, Billy. You truly did. But you just weren’t good enough. You fell short..which reminds me.
Rabid slammed Billy’s turning blue body down on that dark oak finish; the desk shattered in two. Wood splintered upon impact as Barber ran to Billy’s side; he checked his breathing; it was there, a faint inhale, exhale.
Inhale...exhale...
A moment later, Billy was unconscious; dreaming of pie and bacon as Rabid stood above them. Towering. A God.
Johnny Rabid: Look up, Barber. Look up and listen. This is the voice of the future speaking. You had a chance; a slender impossible chance to bask in greatness; but you squandered it because you’re soft. Your mind is soft and brittle with indecision and a lack of loyalty. You fell when tested; you became just another pawn for the People’s choice. Today you suffered punishment for that failure. I suspect after this day, Billy will be on something of a diet from now on. Difficult to eat with a broken windpipe I suppose. Alters the appetite. I wonder, what kind of client you’ll have six months from now. Will he still have the weight you need?
John Barber: I’ll kill you for this.
Johnny Rabid: That’s a threat with little consequence to me. Many have tried; better men. Giants of their age. It does no good. You’d do better to concentrate on what you can achieve; like solving this riddle. How does a two hundred pound manager move a four hundred pound unconscious wrestler and get him to the hospital? I’ll leave you with that conundrum as I have you fired. Good day.
Rabid straightened his tie and exited the office as Barber sighed and began to heave Billy’s huge frame across that tiled floor.
“You can’t ask me to tag with this man again, it’s insane!”
3.The Roadblock
One week after Rabid and Kemp’s first successful match and the Owls were circling.
Yet that crazed WINEO-bago, it just kept trundling along regardless, oblivious to the fact it was being observed as it’s shattered chassee ran on bare tires and all night long cocaine binges. The vehicle’s set path this week was another Slam; it would make it there as always, yet the miles and the debauchery had not been kind to the vehicle; also the reckless choice of allowing Andre Aquarius behind the wheel had resulted in some rather pronounced superficial damage to the bodywork. Not that any of this bothered Jared Holmes; as he pointed out, “If you’re in a war; you get scares. The damage stays, we earned all of that!”
And so the damage remained; across states and borders they travelled; yet rarely with Rabid. He thought the whole ride was a lie, kind of like when you visit a rich friend, a friend whose apartment has a poster of Che Guevara plastered across bare brick walls, looming over antique lava lamps and rarely played guitars. If you’re rich, don’t live like a student. It’s uncouth and false and it betrays your hard work.
Besides, someone had to ride point.
Rabid’s Jaguar DB-9 was a fast and flighty beast; it’s slender lines matched it’s dandy movability; not that such skills wherever required while deftly hugging America’s highways, which are inevitably straight and true. Still, on occasion the need did sometimes arise to avert danger, or occasionally remove it, as would be the case this night.
Meanwhile, inside the ‘bago; Kemp was cutting a long monstrous line of coke to the sounds of The Death Set’s “They Come To Get Us”; sitting opposite him was Wade Moor and Jared “Los Tibulones” Holmes. The 6ix god and the Brosideon smiled as Kemp sank his pale face into the soft substance and felt his nostrils burn with pulsating heat; then his watering eyes blinked as his tired, haunted face stared back with introspective concern from the mirror on his lap.
Kyle Kemp: Oblivion.
Wade Moor: What, Boi?
Kyle Kemp: Oblivion; maybe he can protect me from him. IT’s a monster, a destructive piece of work that’s near enough seven feet tall, and four hundred pounds, that's insane numbers we’re talking about; he should do the trick. He should be enough. I mean, Rabid can’t fight those numbers. He just can’t. Right?
Jared eye rolled as he caught Wade Moor’s poker face expression.
Wade Moor: Sure Boi! Sure. That’s a good plan you have there; made of guts and steel that plan. The deep sings it’s praises, Kyle Kemp. The deep honors you; after what you went through last week, to still win the match. That takes a man living a sealyfe; a man who has seen the eyes of devil and smiled in his good presence. You have made this Godnilla proud, Kyle Kemp; proud I say!
Jared interjects -
Los Tiburones: Incredible fortitude, Kyle. You have true #beachkrew fiber running though those home-run bones of yours. Never forget that. What we are can never be shattered by a People’s Choice or a random mash up of lesser talent; it certainly doesn’t falter at the sight of a FIST, or a Superkick Club or a whatever the fuck Adam Young is this week. The tide goes out to sea, Kyle...with it, the shoreline is eroded. Changed. That is what we do; that is our purpose; we alter the landscape; we change the direction and course of fate because it is our destiny to do so. As it is now yours.
Wade Moor: Amen, brother Tibs. Amen.
Los Tiburones: You know, Kyle. You know you can win those titles.
Kyle Kemp: With Rabid? Are you serious? This is supposed to be a recon mission; I’m supposed to find out what you need to know so you can hang Rabid out to dry. That's the plan; now you’re changing the rules? You honestly think I want to continue this charade? Fuck man; fuck...you don't know what I saw him do at that gym. How he looked right at me through that one way glass. Right into me; I felt my guts being ripped open. Have you forgotten the message?
Kyle help up his cell phone; the still cracked touch screen held a strange burned ghost of Rabid’s face on the glass; like a supernatural retina burn; watching. Always watching.
Kyle Kemp: We’ve opened the door to something we shouldn’t have here. I don't know if it can be closed. I don’t think he can be stopped.
Los Tiburones: Perhaps he can’t be stopped; but he might be...contained.
Kyle Kemp: And how do you suppose I perform that magic trick? Or do I just allow him to carry on playing mind games with my life; tell me, Jared. Is that what you see me as now; a preoccupation for Rabid? A roadblock to stop the storm ripping onto you instead. Am I taking a bullet for you? Because I never signed on for that shit! Understand?
Jared leaned in; he placed his hand on Kyle’s shoulder and smiled a reassuring, calculated smile. It was a blueprint stolen from his father’s bag of tricks; an evasive maneuver that calmed the weary spirit. Jared was always running a private race with the sector of his father to see who could cajole and manipulate the best. Kemp felt the breeze of the courthouse fans upon the back of his neck as Jared began to speak; Kemp’s defiant stance met now with a devious cross examination.
Los Tiburones: Did you watch your match? Did you study it?
Kyle shook his head.
Kyle Kemp: It seemed to go okay; we had a good flow; some nice back and forth. Our timing needed work; but we held it together.
Los Tiburones: It was better than that. Your partnership, It sang. Those double teams as you destroyed that Adams nuisance where singing their way through the veins of that match all night long; you two have a resonance and a substance to your offense that myself and Wade don’t yet possess together. That’s a rare find; that’s the hidden notes in a symphony that hold the whole together. Think about it Kyle; taking those titles from People’s choice. How sweet would that be. Think about it, a team such as yours robbing The People’s choice of their precious titles? After everything they’ve done, it would be simple justice. Show him, Wade.
Wade removed his shirt as Kemp frowned. Their, tattooed upon Wade’s chest now was a giant CROW. The huge black shadow hung over the Brosideon’s heart like a twisted flock of death. Wade smiled as he taged himself in and worked Kemp over:
Wade Moor: When we saluted the passing of Scarecrow on the first Slam after his passing; many considered us sick; sacrilegious. Tell me, Kyle. Is that how it felt to you; to see us knock over the tolling bell before the ten could be sounded?
Kyle Kemp: Wasn't t that the point, to shock?
Wade slowly shook his head as air exhaled from his lungs, It was as if his expectations we’re being deflated at a incremental rate.
Wade Moor: No, no...to shock? Why? No; it was...respect. I true warrior such as the Scarecrow? He sought no quarter from his enemy; no pomp or circumstance. For these are the trappings of fools that wear meddles pinned to their uniforms. That fight in wars for another man’s glory. Everything we take in #beachkrew is our own. That is our power. Our strength. See this tattoo? This isn’t no medal nilla; its an education. My education. My proudest moment captured forever. A moment in history intertwined with my heart and soul; that’s what it means to me to see the crow fall. To watch him die at my feet. It meant I could be reborn; one life is crushed so another could now blossom and thrive. It was a glorious trade sent from the deep itself; from that blessed deep that sings to us the true ways of the sealyfe. That divine darkness that can only be found once you surrender yourself completely to the depths. Now answer me this; what did Scarecrows death mean to the People’s choice?
Kemp thought it over; considered all the options. It did seem strange that these individuals would get involved. Scarecrow had no deals with them; except Vic who he slatted constantly before his demise during a hard fought internet title match. Yet there they where, running out to make the save, to “preserve” the memory of the Scarecrow. And yet, the question remained, with only one logical answer.
Kyle Kemp: A photo opportunity.
Los Tiburones: Exactly; a photo opportunity. That's their “heroism;” that’s the true purpose of their “courage.” They used a man’s death to garner a cheap pop from the crowds. We had business to attend to’ to stop a shame being committed over the grave of our scalp. What was their motivation; none of them hung out with Scarecrow. None of them had a vested interest in his survival. Ther links where tenuous and self motivated. Go back and watch the tapes; they’re not eulogizing over the good deeds of a Scarecrow; they dancing on his grave as they take his place. They’re celebrating the man’s death while masking the sick act as “protecting his memory”; of course they are, for if they do; they’ll probably think they can hotshot some of his tee shirt sales. Now, are we going to allow this farce to continue? Or are we going to rob these fucking vultures of every last ounce of their worth?
Kyle Kemp: Spencer always did come across like a fucking yuppie. That’s what he was that night; his run out on stage on Slam to stop us was a hostile takeover of the people. He’s always lived in the Crow’s shadow. He must have enjoyed every last moment of that attack. When he ran against the Scarecrow for the people’s championship he spoke of heralding in a “new era”. But his DRG sponsored crap was transparent rubbish and everyone could see that. Flash forward a few months and Teo Del sol is spouting the same Spencer bullshit as he tries to oust me from my belt; just attempting to accomplish the same goal for the same reason. To sell shirts; to rinse the people dry of their cash with spin. Spin; that's all they truly are; a cult of fucking spin.
That Vic Venable is no better; his story of revenge and redemption is a a hackened mess of truth cajoled into becoming a money spinning cash cow. Vic Venable; the brother of a great, that quite Frank-ly wasn’t. Frank Venable never had the staying power to be a true great of this business; he fluttering n though the window when the mood suits them then disappears the same route just when he has a head of steam. He smells money, collect's his check and then he’s off to Vegas for hookers and blow. If the man was a true legend; he’d do all that and still turn up for work on a Sunday night, but he doesn’t. He’s off, gallivanting across the globe pretending his life is a syndicated drama.
Wade Moor: Vic Enable is a wryly, and dangerous. We know he’s a killer. And now we know that Rabid might just be s match. Think about it. You might hate him. We might hate him. But Rabid has ambition. That will keep you safe. Besides...
Wade trailed off; thinking better not to finish the sentence.
Kyle Kemp: Besides? Besides what?
Los Tiburones: he requested you by name last week. This Tag Team was his idea.
Kyle Kemp: WHAT?!
= = = = = = = = = =
Several miles down the road a black, custom built Lexus was hidden from view behind a large hauling for car insurance. Beyond the vehicle lay a train crossing which remained idle. A twin set of barriers up for the time being; give or take a few minutes from now however, and that antiquated device would be required to protect and serve the nation as an AMTRAK Juggernaut, hauling several thousand tons of coal planned on thundering it’s way though. The hidden Lexus was counting on it’s bribed punctuality; for it’s supercharged mechanics and reinforced shell were designed and built for a very particular purpose; to push an arriving WINEO-bago out onto the tracks and watch with glee as #Beachkrew where decimated in the resulting collision between coked up assholes and unstoppable train engine.
The gray haired Lexus driver adjusted his driving gloves revealing an owl tattoo. It was ornate and slightly Celtic in design. It meant death to those that crossed it’s path. The middle aged Assassin in question had performed this particular task countless times before; his cold efficiency was legendary within the fraternity; but his face was not; anonymity was his shield, and he used this advantage to great effect. A ghost among ghosts.
But one that was still very much mortal.
The first shunt was brutal and violent as Rabid ploughed into the back of the Lexus; the Owl Assassin was shocked by the speed and ferocity of the attack; how did the Jaguar manage to sneak up on him so quickly? The mist wasn’t that thick, visibility was good.
The second shunt caused the Assassin to smash his nose onto the dash; it split apart as the air bag inflated, it’s dimensions quickly removed with a flick knife as the Assassin attempted to regain his bearings.
The Lexus was now conjoined with the Jaguar; which was now pushing the Assassin’s vehicle ONTO THE TRACKS.
The mist rose higher as the Assassin struggled with the exit to his purpose built coffin. The door handle felt like lead; as if the Assassin’s entire surroundings where currently encased in concrete.
Inside the Jaguar, Rabid had Beethoven on full blast; that Allegretto was singing it’s truth to him; a slow, measured truth as the Assassin screamed at the top of his lungs for mercy; his last cries falling on ears only tuned now for greatness. The weak where simply non entities destined for removal; the Outlaw Gentlemen, The People’s choice, Preecha Kamon and Patrilli. In reality, the dying Assassin was them; just a shunt away from- -
= = = = = = = = = =
The WINEO-bago slammed on the breaks as licks of flame danced their morbid reflections upon the windshield of the vehicle. Kemp regained his composure after a moment as he thought about what Wade and Jared had said. Perhaps the partnership with Rabid should continue; after all, Rabid wasn’t everywhere. Just a few hours a week is all it would take, breaking apart mid-carders with the monster, in exchange would be a Tag Team title, ripped from the grasp of a Yuppie fool and his pet jailbird. What harm could it do?
What harm...?
Kyle’s face dropped as he stood among the wreckage; all around the WINEO-bago was the burning remains of the Assassin and the Lexus; the train had done it’s job as was intended; while it’s unintended target had already wired the cash. So at least somebody's son would see a dream education blossom and grow.
Johnny Rabid: There seems to have been accident. We should call the authorities.
Kyle Kemp: What, what are you doing here?
Johnny Rabid: You know, I don’t know what’s wrong with you people. We rule the WseaF, I don’t see why we don’t all just take the plane, like civilized people.
4. Human Nature.
Two Weeks ago, the night before the last Slam of 2015.
A constant cacophony of power and invention arrives and taxes from a Texas runway. A few miles beyond the airport’s borders is a hotel window. Long, slender sections of light fall upon the naked form of a familiar WCF stewardess. She stands, elegant; at peace; the light illuminating her form only momentarily as she pulsates in and out of existence. Somewhere, behind her in the darkness, a man sits; his legs crossed; fascinated by her natural blonde design.
The Voice: And his reaction?
The Stewardess: He seemed concerned at first; then..I guess you could call it. Happy.
The Voice: Happy?
The Stewardess: Yes, as if someone had finally shown him the way. Isn’t this the reaction you wanted?
Their was a pause.
Voice: Better than I expected to be honest. Thank you.
The Stewardess: My honor sir. I am forever yours.
The voice leaned forward from the darkness. Johnny Rabid smiled; and nodded.
Johnny Rabid: You’re making great progress, you know that? I think in a few weeks time, you’ll be fully human again...with my help of course. Isn’t that wonderful?
The Stewardess turned away from the window and stared into the eyes of her God. She wanted to kneel her naked form, and bow her head, yet her instructions were clear on the matter; some fight needed to be shown. Some semblance of free will, so that an illusion of Independence could be maintained. With time, that illusion would give way to reality; when Rabid saw fit to allow it.
The Stewardess: I, I just want to feel that way again. Just once. Will you really give it back to me?
Johnny saw no rush in answering, but did nonetheless. After all, she had performed admirably.
Johnny Rabid: I think so. I think I might just give it back to everyone. It is the season of giving.
