Post by John Rabid on Jan 10, 2016 17:30:12 GMT -5
METAMORPHOSIS
1. Love/Hate
December 27th - The night of ONE.
Johnny Rabid observed the master puppeteer at work as he guided and steered his monolithic creation known as the WCF. This monster, this juggernaut had the Staples centre in its thrall, and that wondrous achievement was (in the mind of it’s oh so illustrious leader) down to one man alone, a sweating and screaming maestro named, Seth Lerch. Normally, during a PPV, Seth would be in his skybox; observing the chaos down below with abject impunity, as if some later day Nero; feasting on grapes and displaying the thumb. But not tonight; for while he trusted his loyal army of feverish worker ants in the production office to perform their routine miracles. Tonight was not the night for trust; but for leadership.
ONE was the night that Seth Lerch lead his battle hardened squad from the front, utilizing their years of combat sports experience to splice and edit together the unfolding carnage with an increased vigour; this night they where in country, fighting against time delays for blood and the unrelenting pressure to succeed.
The editing room was a powderkeg on fire, while Seth and his team fought to contain the explosion. Cameras were going down. Feeds lost to important angles. It was a kind of beautiful hell in a way to watch, the struggle to create art as fate intervened. And yet all the while, Seth held the brush, for this was the grandest stage of them all, and no one was going to complete this particular agony and the ecstasy other than it’s rightful king; the glory would be Seth’s; as had been the case for fifteen years and counting.
Rabid was not stranger to such conditions, as the owner of his own federation he would routinely take the reigns of the editing process during important matches. Coming up was a match few in history could match; the world title on the line, Wade Moor V Grayson, sometimes Gemini Battle, Pierce.
Seth Lerch: Okay, okay...we’re holding the line tonight. Good work! Now, get that world title promo playing so we can take eight minutes out. Team one, cue up camera three and run tests for Gemini’s entrance. I want it spotless.
“It’s Grayson now.”
Seth turned and saw Rabid: an hour ago Rabid had competed in one of the most arduous Tables Ladders and Chairs matches in history. His body should be covered in welts; bruises and cuts. A roadmap for pain. But Rabid was known for bucking the trend for such aftermaths; instead he seemed a calm, freshly showered and neatly dressed man. That charcoal suit and red tie. His other armour.
Seth Lerch: Congratulations. What do you want?
Johnny Rabid: Nothing, just here to observe. I thought I’d take advantage of an unique opportunity.
Grayson Pierce was on screen during the pre-recorded promo; he was addressing the camera in his trophy room, as gentle, emotive daytime soap opera music fluttered above. The lense was soft focus, selling the “Wholesome family man beset by tragedy” angle to the hilt. Rabid smirked. The power of television to create a truth and run with it. In all honesty, was this really Grayson Pierce? Or just Gemini Battle, holding the cards once again and fooling the world by hiding under a human mask. The ultimate disguise for a twisted glory hound; the skin of a grieving father.
Johnny Rabid: That’s some nice camera work. Pity about the soft focus.
Seth Lerch: We had to cover up the scares, Gemini left his mark on Grayson’s face. Besides, this is the story of a man finding his way back home, only to be beset with the death of his son. A wrestler, fighting to win a world heavyweight title in his dead child’s name. It’s truth; and nothing sells tickets more than truth. Just ask FOX news. You want ratings? Raise the terror alert.
Johnny Rabid: Sounds a familiar story. Haven’t we just had one of those?
There where murmurs from the production team working the desk.
Seth Lerch: Johnny...
Johnny Rabid: What I mean is; doesn’t it come off as second place to Joey Flash and his oh so important martyrdom? Surely Mister Pierce deserves his grief to be taken as seriously as Flash’s? Perhaps a few weeks gap; allow the audience more time to process and decompress from Christian’s passing before diving into yet another tragedy. This could hurt the ratings, Seth. A junkie loses his child...
Seth Lerch: That’s not how we played it.
Johnny Rabid: I know, but that’s what Joey Flash is, a junkie. A junkie loses his son, and that’s sad. But who are the audience really going to feel sorry for in a few months time? Not Flash, not when his dirty little life ends up under the microscope and is exposed; he’s a mobster. A scumbag middle management thug, and a drug addict. Joey’s an under the thumb lacky to a psychotic wife that seems like one of those perfect little fantasies that teenage kids have during their first spurt; only she’s as culpable as he is. Mobsters...what a waste of fucking time. You’d think someone would have called time on this played out Goodfellers stick by now, but I guess no one has the spine to.
Meanwhile a child is dead.
...Joey’s son, he never really had a chance, did he? And if he never really had a chance, then why care? That’s when tragedy becomes a statistic, Seth. That’s when this whole “angle” backfires, that’s when the viewing public turns to you, Seth and asks” why are you hiring unfit fathers that allow their sons to die?” And poor Grayson Pierce, he’ll be swept up in that tsunami along with Joey. Trust me, you’ll lose both if you don’t let one go.
Seth Lerch: Don’t tell me what to...
Johnny Rabid: You’re pushing it too hard, Seth. Your trying the anchor around your leg and throwing it overboard. Grayson has a medical condition; he’s a schizophrenic. You can sell that, I know you can...just hope nobody brings up repetitive brain injury and run with it.
Production Assistant: Live in five minutes.
Johnny Rabid: Turn the volume down on Joey Flash. Let the Malignaggi boy rise up to the heavens as a saint before anyone out there starts to question why where allowing smacked up pony boys to rule the roost. If we’re lucky we’ll get away with it. If I where you Seth? I’d oversell your love for Joey Flash, completely go overboard. That way, if the press do come knocking, you can act betrayed by Joey’s past; rather than implicated by it. Just another fan caught up in the fever of the moment. You let your judgement be clouded. It’s understandable.
Seth Lerch never took his eye of the monitors as he pondered Rabid’s suggestions. Seth had everything pinned on Joey; he was the new Torture, the next Fly. But what if Rabid was right? What if the success that Torture and Fly brought the company could be unravelled by a Joseph Malignaggi? The WCF had existed though shades of grey for most of it’s existence, that was it’s regular M.O, to hire wrestlers from the supposed “wrong side of the tracks”, but perhaps there was an accumulative effect? One too many, and the bow could break. Fly had charisma, the kind that made a world fall in love with Frank Sinatra. But Flash? He was a gutter rat with his back constantly against the wall, a jittery, vile man always. He wasn’t charming. He had no friends; only vultures in Occulo and Howard Black hanging onto his coat tails like a pair of ovulating mean girls, hoping their wrestling God cum ultimate blow job, Joey Flash can repair their damaged reputations. So, what happens when the grieving period wears off, and the public begin to blink and open their eyes; realising they’ve been cheering Joey fuccin’ Flash all along?
What happens then?
The Public will feel used, and the public never like that. The trick in this business is to look and sound as if you’re listening, rather than programming your audience. When you lose that trust? When you find yourself on that slippery slope to nowhere? Then you have to hotshot angles, provide dramatic returns. That’s when the legends smell money and begin to ask for higher and higher cuts to go along with their more sporadic appearances. It’s a vicious circle. And the only direction is down.
Johnny Rabid: Joey will turn on the audience; that much is always certain. He’ll turn on everyone and everything that has even a base idea of trusting him. He’ll sense he’s losing the public and when that happens? The facade will slip and the true Flash will return. He’ll bury that hurt he carries deep and embrace the hate the way he embraced a heroin needle. It will be easier for him to stomach the future if he relives the past, Joey can pretend it’s like the old days. No dead child. A loving wife. Grime. The world crying at his feet wondering why he’s such a cunt. He can pretend he likes this new world that he lives in. For thirty minutes at a time. Then the bell sounds again, and the hell returns. The nightmare between matches that never seems to end. And in that self loathing madness, Flash will pretend he’s on the up, that he can pick up the pieces and stitch it all back together. But he can’t. Because it’s broken. And sometimes, that’s just the way it stays.
Tonight, Joey lost to Dune; it happens. The future will see Flash pick up victories, that much is certain. And yet, that happy ending of beating the monster, of destroying Dune. What if it slips further and further away, Seth? What then? What if Joey chokes again? Where’s the money in a washed up try hard that gets so far then loses the plot? It’s almost enough to make you believe in Aliens.
Production Assistant: Live in four minutes.
Seth Lerch: Fine. Nice speech. I’ll have Odin rate it for freshness.
Johnny Rabid: Flash will let you down. He’s the antithesis of a detergent. You won’t get that joke. But it’s a joke. Well, a pun actually.
Seth Lerch: Good, good. I’ll take it all under advisement. You really don’t like him, do you?
Johnny Rabid: Who?
Seth Lerch: Flash. Malignaggi.
Johnny Rabid: He’s a good wrestler; that’s a positive. You want me to say he’s a good man? You’d have to show me proof. He’s ambitious, but he’s stupid. He gathers all the egos into one room and calls them “imperium” and he somehow expects that to work. Only that apparently wasn’t the game plan all along, was it? He instead, actually, but you never guessed, wanted to decimate the upper card to allow himself though, apparently that was the made up on-the-fly aim all along. It is, of course, a total lie. But just to consider making up that lie at least shows a single mindedness I can admire. Not sure how your wallet feels about it though, Seth. Tell me, what exactly is happening with all those ICE Beckman shirts?
Seth Lerch: Ice was a precocious child. He was always just another Polar Phantasm waiting to happen. I loved and hated Ice in equal measure. But he had too many hangers on; too many masters in Buddy Roman and that bitch, Chelsea Armstrong. She got what she deserved tonight; her destruction by Mikey eXtreme. It was...beautiful. Elegant. Although, I can’t understand how she became so reckless all of a sudden. It was as if Chelsea wanted Mikey to end her.
Johnny thought about the deal he had made with Chelsea. ONE last chance to see her son. All deals come with a price, though. Tonight, Chelsea paid hers in kind. And with the Blue Lady’s passing, another piece was taken off the board, another obstacle never to be seen again. Johnny Rabid had ended the career of Chelsea Armstrong. All he needed to commit the crime was a gun, a chamber and a trigger. The gun was Mikey, the chamber was ONE, and the trigger was Chelsea’s guilt over what had happened during the deal. What price had to be paid for her to see her son one last time.
It drove her over the edge. And that was just fine by Rabid. Let her fall, as hard and as fast as Scarecrow did. Because Rabid may smile at you and commend you over a hard fought match. But in truth? If you’re in his way? He’ll rip you to shreds, go home, and fuck his wife while thinking about a good days work. He had done it before, with those that had considered him their friend. With those that had called him a tag partner. His history was a circle of power and betrayal. Even here, on the shores of the new world, the cycle would inevitably begin again, and Johnny would feast once more upon those succulent riches.
But now was not the time to brag to Seth though. While the brownie points would look good on his resume; Johnny didn’t want to come across as too over eager. After all, no one likes a suck up. It makes others jealous, they get antsy, they want to bring you down a notch. Get under your skin. Johnny’s epidermis was ice cold. It froze to the touch. Right now he imagined all manner of odd, strange ideas where going though his opponents mind. Their fear of him projecting a cavalcade of lies and half truths. All the nightmares a megre, modest mind could manage. Spewing up stories about what kind of monster he was. Lost in their on fear of him. Good. That was the Rabid way; show his enemies a slow decent into hell. Enjoy the fires as they burn, and breath in their charred flesh.
Johnny Rabid: I imagine that the emotion of the moment just got the better of her. Another grieving parent swept up in her own loss. You’ll have to be careful with that Joey Flash, Seth. The same fate might occur to him.
Production Assistant: Live in two minutes.
Seth Lerch: Sounds like a threat.
Johnny Rabid: I don’t threaten, just advise. After all, I don’t lead #Beachkrew anymore. I don’t weld that big stick. Just whisper and point and mention ideas from time to time. If they take those ideas on board? Good for them. If not? Well...all good things and whatnot. I lead them to a world title and a tag team title. Both I can guarantee will be defended and kept tonight. On your “grandest stage of the all” I might add. That’s my doing, whether some would like to admit that or not.
Production Assistant: Live in one minute.
Johnny Rabid: I don’t yell from the front. Just a nod and a point gets things done. Kyle had his doubts about me I know, but now they’ve been alleviated. Wade isn’t the type to share the spoils. And that's fine. I only need him to be a champion, not a humanitarian. His ego is earned. Mine can never be tainted. I don’t allow such things as ego to tarnish the goal. I stay on point. I strive to win. The rest that haunt these halls? The Bonnie Blue’s The Gemini Battle’s. Well, I simply allow these lessers at my feet to squabble and castrate themselves over their petty plays for power. Destroying themselves for a shot at a title. Not thinking about the long term goals. Just burning bridges as they come to them. Because in the back of their minds, they know, they’re just not good enough to build themselves a true empire..
You take a Joey Flash, and you put him anywhere, and all of the above will happen, because he can’t help himself. He’ll never build you a home that he won’t secretly desire to tear down behind your back. The wolf is the pig all in one; he’ll huff, and he’ll puff, and he’ll blow himself away. He can’t believe in an empire or a lasting legacy because he was born to be a soldier, not a leader. Born to be a servant and a slave. He’s a worker ant, Seth. He dreams of bigger things, but the truth is, he’ll never achieve any of those dreams. Because, well...how can you, when you can’t even get the job done? When you can’t even beat up the man that killed your son?
“Such a poor show. Pathetic really.”
The World title promo ends with Wade holding up the championship to the camera. His eyes are alert with madness; his face grins with a manic energy that could light up a city. He truly believes in his “work”. Part wrestler, part preacher for a sub aquatic docrine. Wade’s time is now; the tide will remain high this night. Oh so very high.
While on a smaller adjacent set up, out of the view of the main action, Rabid could see Bonnie Blue comforting Chelsea Armstrong s she was being tended to by a crew of EMT’s. Chelsea leaned forward, all her pain and anguish written across her face, clutching tightly onto Bonnie slender hands with both sets of broken fingers; whispering something into the daughter of time’s ears. The sound was muted...
...But Johnny can read lips. He exhaled; as unnoticed, he turned off the monitor. Banishing whatever evidence was on show into the void.
With that, Rabid turned his attention back to Wade.
Johnny Rabid: Wade Moor will win, Seth. Look at him. Look at that insanity. It’s infectious. That’s going to sell you Tee shirts if you brand it right. Trust me on this one. He’s the future.
Seth Lerch: And you? If you got your chance to face him for that title. Would you take it?
Rabid smiled.
Johnny Rabid: Of course. Wouldn’t you? After all. Your best enemy is always the man that calls you friend.
2.My Best Fiend.
November the 5th.. One year ago. Kingdom Pro Wrestling presents: “The Inferno” PPV.
Guy Fawkes night in the capital. It’s the Royal Albert Hall, and the ring is draped in a deep, red hue as standing over a fallen Tommy Fiend is his tag team partner, and sole owner of, “The Kingdom”, Jason Rush. AKA Johnny Rabid. Rabid has a chair high above his head as he decides to bring this particular show to a controversial close. Rabid swings the chair like an executioner’s axe. Bringing it down hard onto the back of the skull of Fiend. Fiend collapses back down to the mat as blood begins to pour from one of Fiend’s eyes. It’s at this moment that the onset of haemolacria sets in; the end of his career, all at the hands of the ripper.
All around Rabid the crowd boos. Martin Tyler and Rollerball Rocco on commentary, they call the C.O.O of the company,“an absolute disgrace”. Just as it was scripted by Rabid before hand. Rabid drops the chair, and looks at the crumpled man he once called friend, as the world called him “Fiend”.
That was the joke. This circus looking freak; face painted with corpse markings. Ring attire like a Lewis Carroll nightmare. He was Rabid’s most marketable creation. But in success, there lied betrayal. Other Federations had put the feeders out for Fiend. He could sell Tee shirts. He could be a face or a heel, if management so wanted to play it that way, all nice, safe and scripted. Fiend’s future was bright. The “Stillborn Nightmare”, was a hit. And that, made him a dangerous commodity.
So, Rabid had to put a stop to it. He knew what he was doing as he brought the edge of that chair down once again. He would destroy what he had fought so very hard to create. This face painted clown would learn that when your strings are cut? You fall down.
“The Young Lions”, blonde haired, housewife’s favourites; didn’t question, they just seized their newly won Tag Team belts and scarpered as fast as their clean cut images could take them. The Lion’s where the People’s Choice, “The heroes”, of their territory, but also not naive. They wanted no part of this. Rabid paid the checks, and that was the end of that.
Fiend looked up from the mat, and locked bloody eyes with a tall, svelte raven haired young woman standing to one side outside the ring. She was dressed head to toe in tight leather. Early twenties. Her cute face slapped with thick white makeup to fit in with the overall esthetic. Her name was Rebecca Aims. A valet of sorts for the kingdom. Not a wrestler par se; but decent on the mic nonetheless.
Which Fiend was not.
As Rebecca looked on; realizing what was happening all too late to do anything about it. She had learned her lession. Everyone in that locker room had. Rabid didn’t give anyone a warning or a sign; he just exploded with calculated fury. No omen’s to read upon the wind, just a hammer of retribution out of nowhere.
That night, Rabid told Rebecca backstage that she would be returning to her original task of looking after his son; Dorian. That her flirtation with the business was over, and that she should count herself lucky that she wasn’t blind.
3.The Plaything.
Present Day. The Rush Estate.
Rebecca Aims stroked Dorians hair as he played with his WCF dolls on his bed. That Christmas had delivered a bountiful amount of toys to young Dorian’s feet. Rabid would always shower his only son with gifts whenever he could; the child was strangely not spoiled by all the attention. That cold, distent demour seemed to be a buffer for such corruption, an affliction running through the genes of the entire family, Rebecca surmised. Although, Dorian did have a sweet side, especially with the new pet. That black mongrel that Rabid had brought home with him a few weeks ago. The one with the tragic past. It was obedient to a fault that one. As if terrified to be otherwise.
Dorian held a Gemini Battle doll as it fought a valiant, yet ultimately futile struggle with Wade Moor; its plastic face was warped and twisted as it was thrown from the bed to the sound of a BOOM, CRACK! From Dorian. Rebecca sighed, bent down and picked up the toy; she scowled as she discovered it’s burnt features, the thing was a collectable damn it! Rebecca tutted, adjusting her neat trouser suit as to signify that she was none too pleased with the “face lift”.
The year had changed Rebecca much. Alone now in another country; her demeanor was more reserved, less outspoken. She didn’t hate America. She just felt like she was on another planet here. That, and the ghosts of Guy Fawkes night in London still haunted her. Why did she agreed to stay on? She should have just walked, but her legs felt like lead at the thought.
“The boy would have been alone”, Rebecca told herself. Dorian’s mother, Emma; was once again away on business. Modeling lines in New York this time, always someplace else. Never home. Always running. Emma’s constant beline to escape proved to be the worst sting in the tale for Rebecca; for Rebecca never thought she would be jealous of an absent mother. Not in a million years. And yet, here she was, being just that. Craving escape.
Rebecca Aims: What’s happened, Dorian. The doll’s face?
Dorian: I’m sorry Beccy. I just wanted to see if Grayson Pierce was underneath. But he wasn’t. It was just more Gemini. I thought he was supposed to be there.
Rebecca observed the face of the doll once more and thought about Fiend. Fiend had become lost in his role the last few months. He stayed in character for weeks on end; as if the man he once was, was gone. No more Thomas James; burnt away, like this Gemini doll. With nothing left underneath.
Exposed for what he was; a shell. Rebecca wondered if that was really the point of that night back in London. Rabid wanted to show the world that he could mold a nothing into something and then back again. The magic trick of the century.
Rebecca Aims: Sometimes Dory, there is nothing underneath. You can take a man, say like this Grayson Pierce fellow, and strip away what makes him, him. And there, beneath...there’s just nothing.
Dorian: I don’t get it. Is that why Father hates Gemini? Because there’s nothing beneath?
Rebecca Aims: What I mean is; sometimes you’ll meet someone that is playing a part. Like on television. When the cameras are turned off; you’ll expect that actor to be who they really are. But they’re just the same. The act is real. They never stop pretending.
Dorian: Is that what happens when you play too much?
Rebecca smiled.
Rebecca Aims: Yes, I think so. You might be onto something there. This Grayson Pierce. You think your daddy hates him?
Dorian: Yeah, I’ve heard Daddy talk about him to Kyle and the others. Daddy thinks that Gemini is the real man; and that Grayson is the fake. That you don’t come up with an act like that, and play it out far away from home when you have a real family waiting. Not if you really care about them. Daddy says that Grayson is lying if he says he cared about them. Because if he did, why invent Gemini? Why push them away?
Rebecca stroked Dorians hair, she could tell the boy was getting frustrated by this curious man.
Rebecca Aims: Gemini Battle: sounds like a free to play app. Maybe this, “Grayson” is just embarrassed?
Dorian: Daddy has a made up name. He’s not going to--
Rebecca Aims: Hush! Your father cares about you very much. That is one thing your father would never do. I don’t know much about this “Grayson Pierce”; but I do know that he ran away; he created a persona...you know what--
Dorian: Yeah, I read.
Rebecca Aims: He created this persona, to hide from his responsibilities. To play biker, to pretend to be gay to annoy a father that wasn’t worth the trouble. To dress up like a clown and have wild fantasies of living the life of a master criminal. Grayson wanted to be a Despicable Me villain rather than an actual, grown up adult. So he squandered his time with his family. He threw it away; and now he can never get it back. Your father is not going to make that same mistake. I know him. As well as anyone, and I know that he loves you very, very much. He fights for you, Dorian. I heard him whisper your name before a match. Just to remind himself why he has to get up off that mat and win. It’s you, Dorian. He has you to fight for.
Dorian picked up a Rabid doll and inspected it; he shrugged.
Dorian: You sure, Becky? That doesn’t sound like daddy.
Rebecca looked into the dead eyes of the Rabid doll. She wasn’t very good at telling lies.
Rebecca Aims: You want the truth, between us?
Dorian nodded.
Rebecca Aims: When your daddy sees the face of a man like Gemini; he sees the face of an old friend he once trusted. Your daddy; he sensed that this old friend was going to betray him. So your daddy hurt this man, hurt him very badly.
Dorian scurried off the bed and rummaged though his shoebox of figures; a moment or two passed before the he returned with another Gemini figure; this time the face had been colored in with a set of magic markers; one black, the other white. On the forehead of the doll was the word, “Fiend”.
Dorian: This man?
Rebecca looked at the plaything. It ws so tiny in her hands. The scale seemed to suit the situation.
Rebecca Aims: Yes, that’s him. Your father doesn’t let go of things once he has them, Dory. He keeps them close. Until he’s used them up. That’s the difference, your dad...he never lets go.
She compared the two dolls in her hands and wondered if this was how Rabid saw the world. Just a collection of dolls in his hands that he could squeeze and disfigure. It wouldn’t surprise her.
Dorian: Daddy has a list.
Rebecca Aims: He does?
Dorian: He says that Flash is at the top.
Rebecca Aims: Yeah, your dad told me. Flash made himself sick on this...medication he was taking, it was--
Dorian: Smack, right?
Rebecca Aims: What? Who taught you about heroin?
Dorian: School.
Rebecca Aims: School? You’re seven years old.
Dorian: Yeah, but pushers, they don’t care. They pick on the weak. Like this Flash. He was weak.
Rebecca Aims: Yeah, I suppose he was. And that weakness, it blighted his entire life. You know what blighted means?
Dorian: Beccy. C’mon. HBO?
Rebecca shrugged and tucked Dorian in; kissing his forehead goodnight. While outside, on the edge of the estate; a monster patrolled the grounds with a new face, searching diligently for Owls.
4.The Shoot.
Rabid, Kemp and Beaver had spent most of the day at the Wicen Shooting range. The death of Rico Rojas was still fresh in their memory; that five minutes, fifty three seconds of go pro footage was clear, but elusive. It didn’t show the perpetrator; just the result of the attack; and while the footage was pixilated in places for network consumption; an email from an unidentified source was proving difficult for Mosley to trace, an email that contained a full; unedited verson of the attack. The final cut was brutal and effective.
The message was clear.
So #Beachkrew reloaded their Smith and Wessons and aimed true at the paper targets. They concentrated their fire on hitting bullseyes and making their shots count. For months now they had been the aggressors. The instigators of terror within the WseaF. They had ran the roost and ran it well. Perhaps too well; for it seemed even Seth Lerch was looking to take them down a peg or two. His claim that he was losing money seemed like a desperate ploy. A dead man’s hand. Just another problem pointed their way to unravel at the end of a bullet. Just another obstacle to overcome on Slam as they fought to Keep the Sea-V title in #beachkrew's hands against the metamorphosis: Flash, Grayson and Blue.
Kyle Kemp loaded his 38’ and aimed.
Kyle Kemp: So, she says she’s a clone. From the future. Of a man who stole a magical bell that can control time. And the reason she’s not locked up is?
BANG! Deadshot, right in the heart.
Johnny Rabid: Well, her delusion is quite detailed. A troubled past, the weight of past transgressions weighing on her young shoulders as she attempts to put right what once went wrong. The whole Quantum Leap deal. And children, they love that. Very young Adult. She posts her blogs on the “datasphere” to the entire world; and that fires the imagination of a lot of four to twelve year olds. It’s money for Seth. Think about it, apart from Teo Del Sol; who else can sell tickets to the kids? Look at us, we’re not kindergarden. We never will be. But Bonnie Blue is perfect for that market. Personally I’d push her to the moon.
BANG! Rabid’s aim is true.
Dustin Beaver: But she’s nuts! You can’t have an insane woman, running around believing this crap close to children. They’re laws. I’m sure there’s laws! I like my job, I like my title! Imagine it around her waste. What does it become then? The Sea -V...to what? The Lightweight Nerf Challenge? The Kenan and Kel happyful invitational? Saved by the Timekeeper’s Bell? It’s bullshit! I won’t fucking stand for it! I’m Dustin Beaver! I have a beer! It tastes good! What does she have? A ONE win with a face full of shit! That’s a champion in the making? You’d push that to the moon?
BANG! Headshot. Clean Kill.
Johnny Rabid: Well; there’s no need to put a title on her. I’d have her wrestle...CGI. Or perhaps good animatronics. It might cost, but the market would embrace it. She has a talking dog I think. Always a good angle that, a talking dog. Disney XD are riding that Star Wars train, but they’re a sucker for animals. I might have to make a note. See what Gable can cook up. Arrange a meeting. For the good of the company of course. Aa you say, Dustin. Her on the main roster makes no sense. She’s a novelty act at best. A fully grown midget sideshow in between main events. She smiles and waves and shakes the hands of all the Warcraft geels at ringside; she's the reason so many of them think they still have a shot at girls. She’s the reason why an Andre Jenson turned evil, his body discovered hormones and couldn’t take the change. A shame really, she can actually wrestle. But her mind lives in cloud cuckoo land. I imagine she’ll make some fanciful claims down the wire. Probably take Thuggin’ to heart, like so many idiots do. Allowing his claims to worm their way into her mind. There’s so many like Bonnie: The weak. The stupid. They all see #Beachkrew as something it isn’t. The galactic prophesy. The Satanism. It’s all just esthetic. But the funny thing is; I keep hearing the Greybeards of this world tugging on the hook. They buy into it.
BANG! This one’s gonna bleed out.
Kyle Kemp: But that’s what we do, Rabid. We’re #beachkrew. Even when you think you’ve got us all figured out? We have you. We own you. Because when the idiots run around town, joining up the strange lights in the sky, all they really have are constellations. Nothing more. Nothing but our laughter as we point at the crazies and the weak. Those that want to believe that a middle aged slovakian huckster is a master alien dictator. Because it’s easier than the truth. And that truth? We’re simply just better. We‘re simply just better than you, and we wanted to piss in your cornflakes while being better. Just to fuck with you. That’s why this Bonnie Blue is such a fucked up mistake. She’s jacking into our joke , but actually believes the punchline. She’s a nutcase that thinks she’s an actual time-traveller. Sure Rabid, make that call to Gable; see if you can get her a deal on a network right next to the midnight garden and the regular show. Just do us a favour and clean up our Slam. Have a giant claw reach down and pick up the Greybeards and the Andre Jenson’s and the Bonnie Blue’s of this world and extradite them all to an island of lost children so they can play in their safety pens, and be of no further harm to our business, or themselves.
BANG! It’s a mercy killing.
Dustin Beaver: Rabid?
Johnny Rabid: Yeah?
Dustin Beaver: When are you gonna cut an actual promo? You never seem to do that.
Kyle Kemp: Man makes a good point. When are you?
Rabid unloaded the final few shots into the paper target; obliterating it with his antique revolver.
Johnny Rabid: Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps its time. After all; when you time arrives. You should have something to say.
Kyle Kemp: Time?
Rabid didn’t answer. He just thought about Seth and his question. About the World Heavyweight Title. And the sequence of events that would have to come next to make that a reality.
Bang.