Post by John Rabid on Jan 17, 2016 17:55:42 GMT -5
1.Judas At The Table
Film director and wrestling nerd, Max Landis, observed his carefully orchestrated film set through tired eyes and a coffee induced haze as the Chronicle writer and erstwhile director pondered his faltering mise en scene under the searing blanket of a sea of WCF studio lights. Those lights burned the exhausted man’s pupils red, and dried out Max’s parched larynx; a burden of money and time roadblocking his elusive inspiration. After a sip of water and a cough, Landis ran his hands though his curly black hair as he sighed, lungs heaving with frustration behind a baggy white Blondie Tee and a pair of drain pipe black jeans. Something wasn’t quite right about the scene. There needed to be more energy. More immediacy.
The set design itself was impeccable, a flip side of Leonardo Da Vinci’s the last supper, with Beachkrew dressed as a legion of debauchery drenched, battle hardened disciples; their wrestling attire smothered with the spoils of WseaF conflict; titles, women and recreational drugs.
Sitting calmly to the left of a booming anti-christ like Wade was Johnny Rabid; a snake lying in wait in the tall colorado grown grass. Rabid was pondering his next move while dressed in his civilian attire, a dark green suit with a neat blue tie. As always, Rabid was the outsider, the instigator of trouble; portraying this time the godfather of all misunderstood heroes: Judas Iscariot.
Judas Rabid’s face was aglow with a golden hue, clutching tightly onto his tag team championship strap that lay face up in his hands; representing his bag of tratious silver. His slip into entropy and ambition. Landis had asked Johnny to look more contemplative after a few takes, more troubled, as if the decision weighed heavy on his mind. Rabid nodded and obliged, but it wasn’t working; his performance seemed stilted now; as if his heart had become disenfranchised by the whole concept.
Rabid was throwing the promo off axis and time was ticking away on this massive undertaking; three units working simultaneously across the continent to cram as much raw footage into a slender window as possible. The Final Destination Promo needed to be cut and ready by this Sunday; to be shown prime time during hour two of Slam. By ten O’clock, eastern, it would then air daily on all the major networks as part of an unprecedented ad campaign designed to reel in the imagination of the viewing public back towards combat sports. Back towards the WCF.
But this Rabid situation was curtailing that; Max was an avid fan of the product. Had been since childhood, when a teenage Max sat with his father, John: director of National Lampoon’s Animal House and The Blues Brothers, in front row seats to see Hellz Angel win his first WCF World Heavyweight title after a traumatic WAR back in 2001. Max knew the stakes on the horizon and what they would mean to a Johnny Rabid; he’d seen his kind walk though the doors before. The ambitious ones; the ruthless ones, that would consider the impossible, in order to achieve the unthinkable. To win that WCF world heavyweight title; thy would do anything. To anyone.
Rabid was perfectly cast on set, the Judas at the title table of Beachkrew; all the other members of the faction knew this; there was always that sense of unease around him, having Rabid team with Wade Moor this week against K.L. Henson and Katherine Phoenix was simply the exclamation point on the whole affair. For weeks now Wade and Jared had used Kyle as a sort of internal affairs agent within their own organisation; getting close to Rabid, figuring him out. That first night, when Rabid superkicked Andre Aquarious off his feet, that was the night the battlelines where drawn. What Wade needed on Rabid was intel. What Wade discovered was a mystery that just seemed to deepen and deepen; and to cap it all off, Kyle seemed to be on Rabid’s side now; their tag team reign solidifying their friendship under that banner of ambition that was leading them all to entropy. One knotted around the other. An anchor dragging everything under.
Rabid looked up from the title belt and caught’s Max’s hand beckoning him over behind the camera. Wade observed the motion but said nothing. Simply watches as the two men walk away together and begin to talk.
Max Landis: John, can I call you John?
Johnny Rabid: John’s fine. Jason too If you like.
Max Landis: I thought their was an unwritten rule about real names. Someone like me, on the outside, using your real name. Isn’t that throwned upon?
Johnny Rabid: To some. I don’t prescribe to any of that nonsense. We don’t work in a carnival anymore, Max; let kayfabe die and we can all move on. It’s twenty sixteen, I’m just an actor playing a role. In the grand scheme of things, It’s all very harmless really.
Max nods; the kind of mirroring gesture you do when confronted by an imposing presence.
Max Landis: I get that, I get that. In my business though, it really is a circus twenty four seven; the tent is never brought down, and we’re always performing. I think that’s what I love about your sport; it’s like life without the pretence of realism. Nothing is real anymore, you know? Everything is a show.
Johnny Rabid: It’s a shame you feel that way, Max. I like reality. I like the idea that people can loose themselves for a few hours in our twisted little world, yet all they have to do is turn off their television sets and bang! They’re right back in the real world.
Max Landis: Right back believing that illusion.
Johnny Rabid: Quite a detailed illusion.
Max Landis: The best usually are. You know my father, John? He thinks he’s seen an illusion; a real good one.
Johnny Rabid: Really?
Max Landis: Yeah, he swears that he knows you; but that would be impossible, because he thinks he knows you from a Peter Seller’s party; back in nineteen seventy eight. You, him, John Lennon; drinking and talking about Marc Bolan. Sounds insane, doesn’t it?
Rabid takes a moment to answer. Decides to listen instead.
Max Landis: I wonder what it takes, to make a man’s heart fail? Or for a car to swerve and hit a tree. A mist, descending out of nowhere perhaps? Such a strange illusion. And yet, what if it was reality too? What if there was a man, who hid down though the generations behind our blind faith in science; wore it like armour. It made him impervious to harm, because the idea that he was real, well, it would go against everything we think we know about the universe. If he was real? We’d be lonely and scared little creatures; lost and directionless. Nothing left to believe in, except the dark, and the terrors within.
Rabid adjusted the tag belt over his shoulder. Smiled.
Johnny Rabid: Sounds like a very profitable dream, Max. Perhaps we can arrange a meeting with John Gabe about an option. Say, a three year deal to develop the project? Of course, you’d be paid for your script up front. Six figures sound reasonable?
Landis nodded.
Johnny Rabid: Good. Anything else you’d like to “pitch” to me?
Max Landis: It’s this scene; it’s not working .
Johnny Rabid: I know. It’s what you’re asking me to do. To be this Judas type. If I was such a man, if the only way to get what I want was to face down my brother for the title. Why would I be so racked with guilt? Surely it’s the perfect scenario? Beachkrew win. That’s all that matters. That’s the only equation that counts after Final Destination. We win. The plural over the single. Take this week for instance. It’s the perfect stage for a unified front; but also to demonstrate our individual prowess. Let’s be honest here; Wade Moor and Johnny Rabid against an Albino Glue-sniffer cum peroxide George McFly, and a teddy bear obsessed, period pained, cookie monster dimwit is a no contest win. Its nothing but a walk over for us. That gives our team space and time to shine as we demolish our superior talent. We get to entertain as we make balloon animals out of their flimsy internal organs. This week, #beachkrew get cheered out of the building because we know what we’re doing when the bell sounds and the roar of the crowd hits our ears like a wave of thunder. Look at him...
Johnny Rabid gestures to Wade Moor. Who’s sniffing a line of sweet china off Thursday’s breasts.
Johnny Rabid: He’s a complicated beast, isn’t he? Right now he’s acting out. Reveling in his time for the cameras; as he does every week on Slam. It’s a sham of course; right now he’s plotting and scheming the demise of each and every member of the roster. Including me. Wade Moor will systematically eradicate all threats with the kind of cold, impassioned efficiency reserved for time travelling robotic assassins. The Broseidon, Godnilla. They’re just names. Your “Kayfabe”. But if you take all that away, and just leave the man behind? What you have is a stone cold killer. Absolute evil wrapped up in the guise of a demented, sub aquatic preacher. Just look at him...
Wade is crash diving onto the table as drinks and drugs scatter, his Hawaiian shirt is unbuttoned down to his navel, revealing his Scarecrow tattoo beneath as he reenacts that fateful night.
Johnny Rabid: He wears his insanity like a shield. You look upon a Wade Moor and you think it’s all on the surface? When all this time, he’s telling you to beware of the deep. You never listen of course, because why should you? You trust your eyes, when you should be trusting your ears. Beware the deep. What exists beneath the surface. That’s where the true Wade Moor exists. The true monster. All this? All this is Jekyll; but beneath? Thats where you’ll find the Hyde. And never reach the surface again. Think a K.L Henson or a Katherine Phoenix are prepared for that? They’re too wrapped up in their own little mind games to fathom it. I wouldn’t be surprised if they turn up, and simply challenge us to a marathon round of interpretive dance instead. That’s where they’re heads are at. A pair of Schrödinger's cats chasing their tails, wondering if they’re real or not.
K.L. Henson; what exactly is he these days? He was stalking Preecha Kamon for five minutes until the peroxide in his hair burnt away that idea; then the blonde ambition tour decided to descend and swoop up Benjamin Atreyu’s old job and instantly ostricise management from talent. That little stunt this week, revealing the wage brackets of the entire roster though, “A leak”. This whole idea of paying people through cookie rations. It’s lunatics roaming though the madhouse. I get why Seth did it; he wants calamity so he can swoop in and fix it. He had hoped for the same outcome with #beachkrew. But to his absolute shock, we actually ran a tight ship. So now he turns to “Gemini Light” and his brand new babygurl to bring about a minor armageddon.
Seth on stage; screaming us down? It leaves me on a tightrope. I admire and respect Seth Lerch for the massive achievements he has committed to sports history over the past fifteen years. But #beachkrew business is MY business: what damages that, damages me. And I can’t allow it to continue.
Max Landis: Katherine Phoenix seemed nice enough on the phone. Very together. You don’t think that maybe.
Johnny Rabid: New leaf? No, I don’t see that. Let me tell you what I saw this past week and then you can make up your own mind.
2.The Teddy Bear Incident
Tuesday, 12th 2016. Slam Offices, Pennsylvania.
Rabid is on a hands free as he guns the engine of his DB9 while exiting his WCF Liaison parking space. One hand spinning the steering wheel with an assured touch as he slams the car into high gear.
Johnny Rabid: Yeah; I know it’s difficult Dorian. But we all have to understand that Mommy is a very busy woman right now....But this fashion show is important to her....We have her back for a full month....Look, I promise you we’ll go see--
BREAKKKKKKKK!!!!!!
Rabid slams his foot down HAWD on the break pad. He tilts his head to one side and observes--
A Gang Of Human Sized Teddy Bears.
People, dressed in Teddy Bear costumes; each with a tag on their fur that labels them with a number. Number: #1 leaps, and skims over the hood of Rabid’s vehicle. A moment later, and #7 and #4 arrive with lengths of wood, weaponized with a carousel of nails. They run across Rabid’s path.
Johnny Rabid: How very odd.
#7 stops, turns his head towards the DB9’s driver and just looks straight ahead at Rabid. The human bear is ashamed, but there’s no turning back now, it/he rejoins the pack and the chase for #1 continues.
Johnny Rabid: Dory, I’ll get back to you in a minute, okay?
Rabid turns the ignition as the engine drains of life. Johnny simply watches and studies the unfolding horror in silence as #1 is finally caught on a nearby hill by the other bears and beaten to a pulp with iron bars and machetes. Bear #7 takes the #1 ticket, who is then promptly beaten. This violent subtraction unfolds over the space of thirty minutes until one bear out of fifteen is left standing. The last bear takes the #1 ticket off the corpse at it’s feet and jumps up and down for joy, wiping a length of blood and snot from her nose; she’s now the frontrunner to win the coveted “Kat Phoenix’s assistant to the assistant job.”
“Later on I discovered they where all former Killer Instinct wrestlers You remember Killer instinct?”
Back on the Film Set:
Max Landis: You mean the new talent promotion?
Johnny Rabid: Well, that's what it was. Now, I think you can call it a mortuary. Stuffed with happyful teddy bears. All in a row.
3.Ambition.
Sunday 17th Jan. 2016.
Rabid swung the bat as it’s wood cracked off the incoming projectile. The violent echo that followed could be heard half a mile away as the ball soared into the sky, a violet white rocket that was lazer guided by a keen eye and razor sharp precision. Rabid’s target would know it’s presence soon. A playful act, but one that worked on many “levels”.
Half a mile away, Wade Moor sat alone in the WINE-abago; that world title rested, perched elegantly over his large shoulder, as it’s lord and master enjoyed the last embers of a dying blunt. It was unusual to see Wade in such a still, contemplative pose, the man had always been one second away from a twitch or a murmur; he was never still, as if avoiding the gaze of history; lest he be caught in the headlights of recrimination; past transgressions always one step away.
His rise was nothing short of meteoric; and yet, pieces remained missing. At One he had decimated Grayson Pierce; so much so that Grayson felt the urge to now change tactics and form a rag tag group of misfits in a desperate attempt to somehow combat the sweeping tide of #Beachkrew. It was a futile gesture from a broken challenger; Wade found the whole attack last week amusing, not least because it saw Rabid on the end of another loss.
Two in a row to be exact; that would be alarming if it wasn’t so...comforting. The man could be beaten after all. Perhaps it would take a falter by those around him, but he wasn’t unbeatable. He certainly
THUD!
Wade suddenly bolted from his chair as the baseball bounced off his window. While back at the diamond:
Kyle Kemp: Another hit, Johnny. I think you missed your calling.
Johnny Rabid: No, it’s right there, In that van. Wrapped around the waist of my tag partner this week.
Kyle Kemp: You know, this doesn’t help matters going into the show tonight. I told you what they think of you. The others. What I once thought of you.
THUD!
Johnny Rabid: Nice pitch, Kyle...Y’know, everyone sees me as some kind of Judas waiting to happen. But trust me, Kyle. I am the perfect opponent for a man like Wade. He’ll know exactly my motivations the second after I win Final Destination. And this week on Slam? He’ll know that I’ll do my part to secure a victory. I don’t hide or cower my intentions from anyone; they’re up front and plain to see. K.L Henson and Katherine Phoenix are the duplicitous element in this; not me. Not Wade.
THUD!
Kyle Kemp: So, you know what he has planned?
Rabid smiles.
Johnny Rabid: Always.
THUD!
