M O N S T E R S: pt III

[John Rabid]

A

#Beachkrew Event

M O N S T E R S

pt III

1.NEEDLE AND THREAD

The monster sat in the darkness; legs crossed in a meditative state, contemplating that Ace Slaughter mask once more. Contemplating the jibs and the recriminations that had buzzed below him, sang by the animals that dared to walk upright. This Trios match; this title match, it would be the perfect moment for the monster to once more demonstrate what Oblivion truly means to this company. To the people that remembered him as that towering monolith of hate and pain. Once, they all lived in fear of him, and they could again, If the monster so desired them to. They all lived in fear, and to do so, was to know that you where alive.

Did the Sentinels understand this? Did The People’s Choice? What lives did they lead now? Going through the motions of their day to day routines of inhale, exhale drudgery. Losing week in and out. The occasional victory as a token for diligence rather than talent. Simply hitting the mark once every so often. Did any of their actions actually amount to anything?

“Probably not” concluded the monster. That was always the problem with Oblivion. Finding a life that was worth taking away. The search had become more and more arduous over the last few years. Odin had retired, Logan fluttered in and out of the company on a whim no one could rhyme or reason. Scarecrow had offered some resistance; but all of Crow’s hopes and dreams post that inferno match died one night after his wings where clipped. Every Time someone showed promise, they would either expire, or simply disappear. Leaving behind a tired God, lost in a miasma of his own contrite distractions.

Oblivion was dying inside, he could feel it. He could feel his heart beat slower as the world around him lacked the substance to keep him alive. What was their left to feast upon? The People’s Choice where anorexic; three tired cliches that had banded together to form simply one larger cliche. Spencer Adams; the eternal optimist, that saw truth as no distraction from his mission; to bore the soul out of the monster. Each week Oblivion would have to endure yet another round of Spencer Adams telling the the WCF galaxy that he was going to be the best. Each week Spencer would fall short; one prat fall after another, but that’s okay, because Spencer had “pluckyness” on his side. That supposedly desirable character trait that keeps the audiences hanging on Spencer’s every word.

“Yeah, hanging by the neck until dead”, chuckled the monster. Which reminded him, he would have to hang someone soon, it was a spectacle long missing from his unblinking eyes.

Then of course, you had Teo Del Sol; the People’s champion. The selfish man. The ambitious clown. Perhaps the twist with Teo was that he’s actually a Spencer Adams clone. Would that be so alarming? The WseaF has all manner of oddities washing upon it’s shore. Why not a mirror image that hides it’s secret behind a mask? After all; they’re identical apart from the disguise. Constantly talking about themselves, constantly claiming that they’re the next big trend; the future of the company. How long exactly do you get as a grace period to be “the future”? Is it more or less than six months? When Oblivion arrived in the WseaF, he didn’t need to tell the world he had arrived. He simply had.

Now, take a Teo Del Sol. He has been a Sea-V champion, a People’s champion. And yet, when it comes to the Tag team challenges he’s never picked, even though his career dwarfs that of his compatriot, Vic Venable; the Ray Donovan wannabe that crawls long on it’s belly searching for elusive foes, yet the thug can never seem to pin any of them down. Its almost as if they don’t exist at all; or if they do, they’re simply phantoms murmuring inside his mind. An elaborate conspiracy constructed over years of solitude and regret at the death of his parents. A lie, that tricked its host into believing it was real.

“A little like this prison I’ve made for myself” contemplated Oblivion. “Or is it a cocoon?”

But still, Vic Venable; everyone’s least remembered tweener was continually picked by Spencer over the two time champion. Why? Why not Teo over Vic? Was it because Vic was Frank The Tank’s brother? Was nepotism leading the charge? “No”, realised the monster. It was that Vic was a soldier, and not a leader. He had blindly followed one cause and now he did again. The first was as an anarchist in a cult of ideologically bankrupt fools, the second? A landing platform for the great and powerful Spencer Adams invasion. Vic was a good little solder that never asked for, nor desired, anything from his teammates...his masters. And that made him the perfect, expendable partner. While Teo?

Teo, he liked to rub salt into those Spencer wounds. Teo Del Sol...Still the People’s Champion. Still the undisputed flag bearer for The People’s Choice. And that tune? It was like bitter poison to the ears of Spencer Adams. To play second fiddle to your supposed lieutenant? What a travesty! What would all those “Adamites” do if they ever woke up and realised that their eternal hero was only the supporting cast member to an ice cream themed “curry man” ripoff? Why, they may lose faith in their spiritual leader. And that, from a Spencer Adams perspective, just would not do.

So, Teo gets to keep that People’s Championship; while Spencer and his caddy, Vic Venable go off hunting for “greater” fare. Only, when you settle for second place in the talent stakes, that’s taking a risk. And so far, the risk just wasn’t paying off. The Tag Titles, lost to #Beachkrew. Their ONE shot at redemption, also a bust. Spencer knows now that Vic can’t produce when it matters. So, we have the Antidote backed into a corner. All that frustration, all that anger; boiling over, seeping into his pours. Breaking his little yuppie heart. Oblivion wondered what that sour heart would taste like? A boiled heart from the inside, how could it even be achieved, microwaves perhaps? That sounded plausible to a mind as cracked as Oblivion’s.

Oblivion made a note; “Attempt to cook victim’s living heart with microwaves”. This would rank as the fourth weirdest thing Oblivion wrote down that day. The parchment was, of course, human skin.

The ink? Need it be said? As Oblivion’s train of thought wandered a text message arrived. The words where simple; their meaning...anything but.

A member of #Beachkrew had died.

Oblivion felt his heart pick up pace. Blood rediscovering its purpose. And so, in that blinking moment, had Oblivion. There was a war to fight now. One of his flock had fallen; he could hear their anguish; their rage. A purpose; Vic venable had sought one, but he was simply a soldier who understood little and craved even less, while Oblivion was a God. When a God is awoken; miracles give way to massacres. The sea, parts. And screams are drowned, and sunk forever beneath the waves.

Oblivion looked down at that Ace Slaughter mask, it rested just ahead of him, face up, on the ground. Stephan’s features seemed to give it weight and structure somehow. As if inflated with memory. Oblivion smiled at the vision of horror. He wondered if Stephan lived on in that thing. That raggedy mask. He wondered how loud Stephan would scream if they where together forever; if he forced that ghost to look though Oblivion’s eyes for an eternity. It sounded like the kind of joke to keep Oblivion warm at night.

Oblivion searched for a needle and thread. He fired up a red glow stick with a shake. And wandered around the haberdashery department of the store he had brutalised, stepping over a half eaten saleswoman as he did so, he was looking for black cotton; the needle however, seemed to elude him.

Such a nuisance.

2. THE NEW SHADOW.

“Violence is a part of our business we don’t shy away from sir; we are it’s custodians for a reason. Because we understand it. The way a firefighter respects the flame. It’s safe in our hands.”

Johnny Rabid felt at home at the table of “The Madd House”, New Year’s eve was heralding a bold New Year for the ripper; Rabid had secured a spot by the side of Seth Lerch; shadowing him, learning from him. It also meant that Seth could study his new charge and determine the next prudent course of action. Right now? Seth seemed at peace. If Rabid had anything other than the companies best interest at heart, he was playing those cards very close to his chest. Either that, or Rabid was a man of infinite patience. Which of course, was entirely correct.

Johnny Rabid: “Sir, I know you have your reservations about a man such as Oblivion...”

Rabid was addressing a Jonah Worth aide from the FCC. The man, like Worth, had thin, angular features that often extenuated his absolute mistrust of almost everything to great effect. Seth hated dealing with such authoritarian figures; it was as if a Doctor had to become the patient. The power shift was maddening. Why couldn’t he just backhand this fool?

FFC Man: You cannot surly sit here and condone Mister Lister’s actions? He has killed hundreds!

Johnny Rabid: The FBI would argue that--

FCC Man: That his countless murders are one massive hoax? Please, “John”; none of us here are speaking under a rock! Oblivion should be incarcerated at the very least. The man..and he is a man. Should have been executed for his crimes long ago. Families don’t forget Mister Rabid, why should the nation be allowed to?

Seth glared at the man; back in the old days he would have just shived him and burnt the body on an interstate; but success is a trap all it’s own. And right now, Seth was well and truly snared.

Rabid contemplated his retort; he picked up a glass of red wine, half drunk, and admired the craftsmanship of the grapes. After a few moments he had his answer.

Johnny Rabid: When you look at this glass of wine, what do you see? An indulgence that has been devoured, but not whole. Some of the substance still remains. Why? Because whoever had hold of this glass has had their fill.

FCC Man: I don’t--

Johnny Rabid: Understand? You will sir. Now, this glass; what does it represent? America, sir. Our homes. Our families. Our children and their dreams. This simple glass of wine; think of it as lives not taken by the monster. And why? Because we, in the WCF, give that monster his fill. We offer him a challenge, week in and out, that tempers that urge to kill. Not completely in truth, but it is still quenched. And not just Oblivion’s. Many have walked through our doors and with a compulsion to murder running through their veins. The Nathan Von Libert’s; the Hyena’s; the Mikey eXtreme’s.

Seth Lerch: That one hasn’t actually been proven--

Johnny Rabid: These killers, they walk though our doors in order to play games. We offer these tortured souls a service...

Seth Lerch: We actually have a man named Torture on our books. He wins everything. I can prove that.

Johnny Rabid: ...Whilst providing a service to these dangerous individuals, we also provide a service to the nation. Think of us...as jailers in a way. Only we offer a sort of freedom in exchange; to explore their darker desires under a roof that’s not your School, or Mall, or Home. Oblivion will never be stopped; but he can be slowed down. Truthfully? I feel it’s our most proudest of achievements. This glass in my hands...it has weight, because we, the WCF Galaxy, make sure that monsters, such as Oblivion: have their fill. Now, sir. You can try to capture Oblivion if you so desire. Many have tried. All have failed. Or...you can live with the truth. That some forces of nature simply must be tolerated. Otherwise, extinction is assured.

Rabid pressed the glass to his lips and finished off the wine. It felt good, as if victory had found it’s way into the liquid and nurtured the beverage with the spoils.

The victory however, would only be short lived.

Rabid’s phone sounded off; it was on vibrate. The text message had finally reached him. With a calmness that betrayed the moment, Rabid stood and made his apologies. He left Seth, alone. With no designated driver and all the worst people in the world as company.

2.HAEMOLACRIA.

Miami. New Years Eve: 2015.

Rico Rojas looked down at the cold, white marble floor below him as his two outstretched arms quivered, attempting to steady his broken body. Rico’s blurred vision helplessly observed a tide of blood as it creeped between his cracked fingertips, drowning his senses in a wave of vibrant red fire that hemoraged from his bullet shattered knee caps, washing across the shoreline of his shaking hands as fate closed in.

The pain levels had reached a grateful numbness now. Rico imagined he had about six, maybe seven minutes left before passing out; arteries had been severed; bones destroyed. Two shotgun blasts to the knees meant he would never walk again, yet this was not his primary concern; everything was now reserved exclusively for the screams that echoed behind him; those of his wife, and child: Tanisha.

“Look Up!” Grunted the instruction. Rico didn’t recognise the voice due to a haze of confusion created by his attacker’s mask, all he could surmise was that it was an English accent before him, male; perhaps from London. It was certainly no one he knew; which meant he had no bargaining chip to play. He sensed this was all staged for someone else’s benefit. Gangland performance art he imagined.

The last seventy two hours had cast a sway of grim madness upon Rico Rojas’s world. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to it at all other than to create turmoil within his life. The former #beachkrew member seemed helpless before unfolding events as one monstrous act detonated after another. Everything he knew and trusted was being cut away, amputated with a planned precision indicative of small armies or cells of trained mercenaries.

Manny’s death took days said the Coroner; his body drained of eighty percent of it’s blood; with both his wrists sliced horizontally across. Someone wanted to film the life of Rico’s friend and lieutenant ebb away slowly, document the death over days rather than minutes. When the rest of the #305 Mafia found him, Manny’s tongue had been severed, his body strapped to a chair that faced a mirror. His eye lids, removed. Rico planned reprisals; he wanted revenge, but he faced a wall of silence as evidence vanished as did his crew, one after another, until he was left alone with his family to struggle on, backs turning away as Miami began to plan for life after Rico. Rojas was alone against the circling madness; even Manny’s body was cremated before his grieving mother could visit him, it was as if he was being wiped from existence.

These weren’t messages for him alone, knew Rico, but someone else. He was just a player in another’s man’s game. Always the pawn was Rico. Right until the end.

A slither of blood ran down a milk white owl mask. It’s owner suffered with Haemolacria, bleeding from the tear ducks, brought on by head trauma. A single eye was affected, one trail of red to signify that this was the cell’s leader. A man named, “Tommy Fiend”.

“Look Up”, Fiend uttered the phase once more. Rico knew he was being filmed; the reflection of the go pro stared right back at him though the red haze of his blood.

Tommy Fiend: I used to be like you, Rico. I used to have your dreams. Of the ring. Of the competition. They lingered in my soul for so very a long time. I had a friend once who used to encourage me. Friend...seems like a million years ago he was that. He would tell me stories that where delivered to me as glorious ambition. Stories to lead me astray. To trick me into believing that we where going to rule the world together. No one does that. Except those that already do. And will always do. Those that dragged me from hell and gave me flight. The Owls. My salvation. Your damnation.

Rico said nothing as the antique revolver was trained to Rico Rojas’s skull.

Tommy Fiend: I know, I know...you don’t want to anger me; you want me to keep my attention focused on you rather than your family. That’s very noble, police officer. What? Should I have said that?

Rico’s eyes lent upward and saw Fiend for the very first, and last time. Outside, on the veranda a shot could be heard that silenced Rico Rojas’s life forever. The following echoes delivered his family into his waiting arms.

Heaven fell silent. The Owls took flight.

3.FIVE MINUTES, FIFTY THREE SECONDS.

#Beachkrew watched the 5:53 seconds of footage from the Rush Estate. Plane tickets had been rearranged; flights bumped and moved. Inside the large, spacious living arena where all the trappings Rabid had ever wanted. The real fire. The trophy room. His collection of antiques crowding the walls with history. It felt important. Until tonight, now the walls had simply become their function once more. All eyes where glued to the networks. Text and Tweets constantly checked. Phones hummed and danced with information as Rabid and Kyle stepped outside; Wade shook his head, perhaps it wasn’t safe to watch the mist roll in on the veranda. But Kyle knew better.

Kyle Kemp: They found his wife and child. Single shots.

Johnny Rabid: How very civilized of them. Where is he?

Kyle Kemp: Oblivion? He’s patrolling the grounds. He says he will not rest until the Owls are all slaughtered. By the way; have you seen his face?

Johnny Rabid: The mask; it’s an interesting touch. He seems focused.

Kyle Kemp: I think someone gave him a war. And he likes it.

Johnny Rabid: We need to win those titles, Kyle. For Rico; for the rest of the krew. We need those belts to be ours because the alternative is listening to Spencer Adams and Teo Del Sol and their condolences. Listening to a Joey Flash sneak in the left hook jibe about protecting our own. Flash’s son is dead; and now he apparently has a licence to pretend to have a slither of humanity. Interesting; it’s almost as if he’s possessed, don’t you think?

Kyle Kemp: Possessed? By the death.

Johnny Rabid: Flash, he wants to carry the innocence of his son around with him like a yoke around his neck; all to atone for his sins. That’s made him soft. An understandable condition, but soft. The victim; forever punished due to his lack of judgement. What manner of crime must he now consider himself guilty of? I wonder, perhaps he knows now that monsters do exist, to seek out their own.

Kyle Kemp: Like Flash?

Johnny Rabid: And Dune. There’s something...ancient inside Christain’s murderer. I’ve faced it once before, a long time ago. It may be loitering inside the body of Dune, but it’s there, deep inside all of us I think; lingering, waiting to be let out. For the door to swing open and the light to show it the way.

The sentinels; they have it too I think; racked with guilt I imagine. If not, then they should be. They’re the ones that abandoned Dune. It stands to reason that they must now feel a sense of responsibility; after all, why rush out to the ring and help a man who had once broke your arm and set out to destroy your friend’s career?

Kyle Kemp: Perhaps for the same reason that the Owls killed Rico. Occulo and Howard Black have been forgotten; lost over time. They need to show their teeth. Prove they exist to be more than just the ghosts that haunt the corners of the world.

Johnny Rabid: Occulo is a Mullins; that means he’s calculating and devious. I can relate; but not when the target is pointed in my direction. He’s made assumptions; accusations. All from under his father’s old office table I’d imagine. Mullin’s Senior might be gone; but Occulo is still running that race with his dead father. Trying to prove he’s worthy of the family name. That light of pain burning deep into his psyche over years of abuse, so bright, it’s blinding.

Kyle Kemp: Like Flash I suppose; running a race against the ghosts that haunt them. Howard, never feeling worthy of his faith. He tortures himself; breaks his back for his precious God. Constantly second guessing himself; always the do gooder. You know what Rico would have called him?

Johnny Rabid: “Puta Bitch”

Kyle Kemp: A bitch that is a bitch no matter which way you look at them. That’s what that meant. Rico, he wanted to print that on tee shirts, did you know that?

Johnny Rabid: Always an eye for business. So I’ve been told.

Kyle Kemp: Howard Black, I think I need to thank him.

Johnny Rabid smirked.

Johnny Rabid: Why?

Kyle Kemp: Because he’s the one that couldn’t help, but get involved in your business. If it wasn’t for him. You would have been partnered still with that fucking lump, Billy. Toilering over difficult win after difficult win. Dragging you down like an anchor to the midcard. Maybe you should send him your regards?

Johnny shook his head.

Johnny Rabid: Perhaps I might. Once I lift Howard's dazed carcass off the mat for the destroyer. This sunday we win this match, for Rico. Then, we bury us some monsters, for us. Someone need to sound the horn, for the hunt has truly begun.

Off in the distance, just beyond a layer of all encompassing mist, there patrols a looming force. Unstoppable. Unwavering in it's pursuit of Owl blood. His mangled hatchet cries out for sustenance, while his mask once belonged to an old, dearly departed friend. Such sights that mask will now see; gifts to please the eyes...of a monster.

FIN.