Live. Bleed. Die. (Part One)

[John Rabid]

PROLOGUE: THE SILENT GOD, LAUGHS.

Now:

F15teen
01/31/16
Live from the Wells Fargo Center in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania: only on WCF.COM.
Address: 3601 S Broad St, Philadelphia, PA 19148, United States of America.
Capacity: 19,500

A skybox will contain one man, Seth Lerch. The ring will contain six men and one woman.

The Match: For the first time ever in WCF history; a “Final Destination” match. Winner has a one year cash in on the World Heavyweight title. A finger on the button for twelve months. Twenty Sixteen will belong to this winner; the spectre that will never go away. The race that cannot be outrun. If you’re champion this year, until the button is pushed? Then you live in fear. Until that button is pushed, the question will remain unanswered.

Can Johnny Rabid be what he claims; can the man known as the ripper, a man that has never been pinned inside a WCF ring, do what he claims he can do. Can he be the next WCF World Heavyweight Champion? All these facts; all these hopes and dreams, and yet, when it comes to the truth under his nose? Johnny Rabid only has splinter’s, moments. But the big picture? About Seth Lerch? About the WCF? The conspiracy that has existed for f15teen years and counting?

That’s a secret that's never been uttered. A whisper that’s never been heard.

Rabid is close. So very close now as he sits in the dark. The gun heavy in the ripper’s hand. Next to him, a lampshade remains idle as Johnny embraces the darkness and wonders about the future, would it be anything like the past few days? A waltz across a knife-edge of revelation and danger, or would his destiny finally be fulfilled? Would glory be his at F15teen? Would his tribute be enough to appease the silent God that wore the face of a man named, Seth Lerch?

The latch in the door, turned. A figure entered the modest; eclipsed hallway of the cramped apartment. Outside the building, a neon red light for a drug store across the street blinked a metronomic pulse that gave the world an eerie red, then nothing, landscape. Somewhere among all of that shifting dimensions, the entering figure recognised Rabid’s figure and paused. Rabid pulled back on the hammer of his antique pistol and readied to fire.

Hell of a way to end a friendship.

1. SOMETHING ABOUT A GUN.

Then:

Final Destination loomed. A one of it’s kind wrestling match that barked it’s orders like an angry, black dog. Those orders had echoed down from a Pennsylvanian mountain top fortress, booming from the lungs of the megalomaniacal overlord that decreed them; Seth Lerch’s masterpiece, seeping like a drug into the veins of seven, desperate competitors. Actually make that six desperate; and one assured.

The assured one stood to one side as these athletes (as they where occasionally called) fell into neat boxes of classification. Some were “legends of the wrestling community”; the exalted ones, Logan, Orbit and Digger: searching for one more elusive run to reaffirm their fracturing legacy. To silence the voices of doubt that were heard out in the wilderness between title runs; out in the dark, where all of this matters less.

Others among the starting gun were the ne’er-do-well’s, the almost champions that had once tasted a tantalisingly brief moment of fame, the Spencer Adams and Benjamin Atreyu of this world, they where so close to the glory, yet for some reason, they allowed the race for the prize to slip carelessly through their brittle fingers. And off the World Heavyweight Championship sailed, for pastures new as the next big thing shoved those ne'er-do-wells aside and edged them out. Climates can change rapidly in this business. It’s easier than you think to lose a footing and freeze at the bottom of a card. The slip isn’t graceful; the damage always severe.

They came close, but close is never far enough.

Another was an echo of a Champion named Bonnie Blue, she had guts and determination, but she was easily manipulated. A saint in a pit of snakes was Bonnie Blue. Johnny admired her; but as a useful commodity he had his doubts. While Johnny Rabid himself? The assured one? Well, he was the wild-card in the deck, an enigma standing upon the battlefield like a living mystery. The human question mark, feeling the burn of a galaxy’s gaze as it fell heavily upon him. A world unsure on how to classify this newcomer, this anomaly that had strayed with haunting purpose into their midst. More than a guest, yet less than a friend. No one could call him, or quantify him. They skipped around the issue; but all had the same pause in their voice when Rabid was mentioned. The same stutter as words failed to materialise.

What did the world know about this Johnny Rabid? Facts existed among the supposition. He won his first match, then gained a tag team shot with his second. By match three he was the WCF tag team champion of the world. That made him a target that proved to remain elusive even as his stock continued to rise.

What was known was that he earned over a million a year. He was British, but also...displaced; as if no one nation held sway over his heritage. He was an outsider, an alien. And comfortable with it. This wasn’t a man knocking to be let in. He simply wanted what he already considered his property; and once that World Heavyweight title belt belonged to him? Well then, you’d have to find him to see it.

So, to hell with the rest of the world then....

A cell phone rang, and shocked Rabid out of his daydream. The punching bag in the basement of his large estate echoed no more as he read the text and motioned for a clean set of clothes. There had been a breakthrough in the Rico Rojas case. Agent Donald Mosley had the 411 to deliver to #Beachkrew personally, but wanted to handle it through Rabid first. That seemed logical; but not FBI procedure.

Something was up.

Rabid checked the text again as he peeked inside his child’s bedroom to see Dorian fast asleep; a small shock of black hair concealed a tiny figure clutching tightly onto a Colin Marshall TMNT doll; Dorian once asked his father if Colin copied his look off of him, or visa versa. Rabid simply patted his child’s head and promised to look into it. Rabid smiled now as he saw that Dorian had changed the name tag on the figure to say: “Johnny Rabid: Champion.”

That made Rabid proud: although the sensation was somewhat lost on the ripper. As most expressions of humanity where, fleeting. Interesting. But not part of the DNA that made Rabid what he was. He used emotions like a chameleon to blend in. To walk among us, concealed and safe. But his interest in them were merely scientific in nature. He’d store this one for future study; kept on a shelf in his mind for further examination. Nothing more really.

“Johnny...”

A voice behind Rabid jolted him around. Facing him was Rebecca Aims; dressed in a flowing velvet red nightgown as the light from the hallway bathed her slender image in a halo of orange and blue. She was exquisite, but tainted...damaged. Tommy Fiend; Rabid’s “weaker shadow”, the ghost faced terror of the kingdom had seen to that. Rabid had warned Aims about Tommy on multiple occasions, about how unstable he was. He told her of the things he was capable of committing; the battery acid, the blinding. He informed her of the cover ups and the recriminations that disappeared because of Tommy’s chief justice grandfather. A useful man to have in your corner when prying eyes where upon you, but psychotic and dangerous none the less. Somewhere along the line though, that whole warning came off like a threat, so Rebecca ignored Rabid’s pleas to keep her distance, and paid the cost for it in chemical scares to her back and abdomen.

Months of agonising rehab followed, then the quiet words in the doctor’s office, the sobbing. The suicide attempt.

Now the only child Rebecca could raise was Rabid’s: a client’s child. Someone else’s child. Johnny tried his best to make sure Rebecca felt like part of the family. A selfless act he was succeeding at too, apart from this lingering feeling, a cornered animal in the back of Rabid’s, cold analytical mind; an odd misfiring circuit that harbingered foul moods and introspective thoughts.

Was this remorse? Such an odd feeling this. Interesting to behold; difficult to contain. It requires further study.

There seemed to be a confession hanging off Rebecca’s lips as she stood there; as if waiting to be prompted. Rabid was never quick on the uptake in such situations; she gave it a few more lingering seconds before taking the lead.

Rebecca Aims: It is him?

Rabid never lied when asked; he was straight and true on most things. He only ever told the truth; It wasn’t his fault if the world kept asking the wrong questions. This time however; the only answer was a simple--

Johnny Rabid: I don’t know, I need to go now. Keep the door locked and don’t answer the phone unless it’s me on the secure line. Understand?

Rebecca Aims: The gun?

Johnny Rabid: The snub nose 38’ is in the basement, locked in the cabinet with the others. Last resort only.

Rebecca Aims: Should you call, Emma? Tell her about--

Johnny Rabid: About what? I’m not going to wake her in Paris, tell her to fly halfway around the world because the FBI called. She’s safer there anyway. I can handle this. You know that.

Rebecca nodded. Johnny often terrified her; but there was a strange sense of safety tonight, as if that terror somehow empowered her now. Rabid’s sights were trained on others, those smaller, less dangerous Alpha’s that tried to bask in his shadow. Rebecca had become part of a family that had at it’s head a force of unspeakable dread. A force now firmly on her side it would seem. And God help those that stood in Rabid’s way.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

Dawn broke over an innocuous, disused farm house. Hunter’s Brook was sixty acres of lush, green heaven that lay dormant waiting for a buyer. It was not uncommon for the F.B.I to rent out such property to mount sting operations and conduct manhunt’s from such locations; the property had been on the books for several months now; a simple call to Washington secured the lease and the meeting was arranged.

Special Agent Donald Mosley brewed up a hot cup of black velvet that greeted his nostrils with warm beauty. The coffee was a delicate creature picked up from a Coffee Convention in Los Angeles about a month ago by an old friend on the LAPD; shipped in an airtight container, and delivered by hand to Mosley’s current local; a large, silver Volvo estate, usually parked a mile down the road from WCF Towers.

The shabby, slightly world weary man sat back in his kitchen chair and enjoyed a quite moment. The Special Agent’s life was so full of violence now, that the simplicity of a steaming cup of black had taken up greater significance. Once upon a time, Mosley had collected nineteen fifties and sixties monster movie posters; but that fizzled out when he hit the road hard. Now there was sunrises, the ocean, and a good cup of coffee. Nothing more or less. Just the essential things in life to keep his perspective sharp.

A moment later, and Mosley gazed over at an impressive array of security camera’s that had the outer perimeter of the farm house constantly scouted. As Rabid’s Jaguar drove up the driveway; Mosley buzzed him in, loaded his Glock 17, and awaited Rabid’s arrival while that coffee simmered sweetly in his now shaking hands, the Agent unsure of how his strange guest would react to the news.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

“Ballistics came back with an answer, but I think from the look on your face, Mister Rush. That you already know the results”.

Mosley sat back in his chair and sipped on that Coffee; he was going to change to tea, in line with his current guest; but he’d be damned if he was going to die without a decent blend in his grasp.

Johnny Rabid: I suspected. He’s here, isn’t he?

Special Agent Donald Mosley: Special Branch has the borders covered as best they can. The security services suspect he’s back in--

Johnny Rabid: Tommy won’t head home to England. He’s not finished here. Besides; he’s on the run now. Killing Rico? That wasn’t planned. It was a reckless move. It exposed this plantagenet to the media. How are they playing it now? Skull and bones for rich fanatics and playboy psychopaths? No wonder the Owls came after #Beachkrew. They see us and think we’ve snatched their gimmick.

Special Agent Donald Mosley: A super rich Plantagenet that answers to no one? There’s more to it than that, right? Let’s not play hide and seek with the truth, Mister Rush. Who is he, this Tommy Fiend? And just who in the hell is Johnny Rabid?

Johnny’s eyes glanced round the kitchen, searching for a footing. Mosley had been here a few days, Rabid could tell by the coffee rings around the cups that were litted here and there. Mosley had made himself at home; a corkboard on a nearby wall cemented this fact: it had photocopies of internet headlines and cut out sensationalism from the local newspapers. “SCARECROW ALIVE!” “THE GHOST...NOW WALKS!”,

Johnny Rabid: So this is about the pendrive. Look, Agent. Bonnie Blue is a very excitable child. She has ideas, notions about the real world that are based upon a sheltered existence. You need to read between the lines with this woman. Think about it, Mosley. She hires a private detective, she gets herself some local dick with a fervent imagination to follow me around and dig up some nonsensical Twilight Zone crap and it goes viral because people on the internet are fuccboi assholes that believe in anything. So what? Does the FBI trust in the supernatural now? Think it through, man! Bonnie Blue claims to be a clone that grew up in a space cage that was ruled over by a megalomaniacal Time God. Take a moment, and think about how utterly stupid that sounds. Now do the profile, Agent! What does that sound like to you?

Special Agent Donald Mosley: Go on..

Johnny Rabid: Fine, I’ll do it. It sounds like Bonnie was kidnapped at a young age, it sounds like she was raised in captivity; feed line after line of bulshit about the real word. She escapes and turns up on our doorstep with a head full of science fiction. Now we have this Scarecrow guy, convincing the world that Zombies exist and suddenly everything is open season. So tell me, Agent. If you believe in everything, how are you ever going to trust in the truth again when you’re blind to it and everything else? How are you going to discern what’s real and whats fiction?

Special Agent Donald Mosley: A lot of people are asking the same question. There’s “ Crow Cults” springing up all across Europe and North America. They think he’s a messiah or something. It’s dangerous out there. Someone like you, branded “different”, that makes you dangerous too. That’s why when I ask for answers from you, I need to hear the truth. So tell me, are you some kind of occultist?

Johnny laughs. Its an actual good impression of laugher; it even has a guffaw.

Johnny Rabid: You talkin’ LSD with that tar, G-Man? What do you think I am now? Mandrake? Doctor Strange? Do I look like fucking Criss Angel to you? You need to speak to Lucy Starr, there fella. Or better yet that Seifer Black Armstrong if you can find him. I am no demon, Mosley. I don’t need an exorcism. What I need is a time and a place for Tommy Fiend. I need to know my family is safe. Now, are you going to provide me with those answers? Or do I have to go searching for them myself?

Special Agent Donald Mosley: That’s not how the agency--

Johnny Rabid: You live in a car, Mosley. Know what that tells me? It tells me that you’re an outsider now. A fringe player. You invite me to this farmhouse and you’re the only agent here. Why? Because the F.B.I won’t spare manpower on a lost cause. They’ve been warned off. They’ve been got to. Everyone has, except for you. I’m it, Mosley. I’m the only hope you have, and you know it.

...Now, time and place. He’s contacted you, hasn’t he?

Special Agent Donald Mosley: Twelve. At the Philadelphia Museum of Art. He’ll be standing by “an old friend.”. He said you’d know what that means.

Johnny Rabid: and I’m to come alone, correct?

Special Agent Donald Mosley: I spoke with your tag partner, Kyle Kemp. Seems like the perfect kind of arrogant bastard for your business. Kemp said that he never feared anyone before he met you. He said you put the fear into people. Like hooks under the skin. I once thought that Oblivion could get the job done when it came to the owls, but perhaps it’s you. Maybe what this war needs now, is a man who wears a face like a mask; rather than a mask like a face. One devil, against another.

Johnny Rabid: And they call me strange. You really think I am the devil, don’t you Agent?

Mosley takes a moment to answer. Not sure how to react. That Glock 17 has the safety off.

Special Agent Donald Mosley: Well, are you?

Johnny Rabid: Oh Agent. Trust me when I say this. The devil? No. No...not me. I am much, much worse.

2.THE WALL IS WATCHING.

Seth Lerch’s vision was a cloudy haze as he paid the taxi fare and stumbled from the cab; his eyes blinking into sharp focus as the overcast sky did a resounding job of bouncing the sun directly into his eyeballs and burning his cornea. Once that nightmare concluded; the door to the WCF offices became finally clear as Lerch took a few moments to remember how a revolving door functioned before attempting the procedure. After a few false starts, Seth stumbled inside. It was his usual procedure on a Thursday morning. In fact, call it most mornings.

To the right hand side of the lobby was a reception area manned by an intern of the day. As was the case for the past few weeks; that intern was wearing teddy bear ears and face paint. “Reception Bear” was a mid twenties woman of pale complexion and otherwise smart appearance who was currently dying inside. Seth double took as he saw this half human creature behind the mahogany desk wincing with embarrassment.

Clearly, the drugs were not working anymore.

To Seth’s left stood a monolithic VIDEO WALL; Lerch stole appropriated it from a metal club a few years ago on the eve of it’s closure and never had the bank balance heart to replace it. It might be 2016 to some; but it would always be 2001 to Seth Lerch. That odyssey would never end.

Upon the wall ran a video for the upcoming Final Destination match: It was cut to Lorde’s rendition of “Everybody wants to rule the world”. It featured a selection of fast edited imagery that depicted scenes of the seven competitors:

- Gravedigger taking off his microphone mid bout and stepping away from the desk in slow motion.

- Steve Orbit; tending his Oakland bar: it’s suffered some kind of post apocalyptic damage. A worse for wear pole dancer with ripped fishnets and dark, hollow eyes has the World Heavyweight title over her shoulder as she works the stage like a zombie. Orbit double takes. Leaves the bar with long, purposeful strides as he flings on his fur jacket and pimps up.

- Spencer Adams on a hillside with a lit torch at night; behind him is a huge, dusty, damaged hording for a “People’s choice” ad campaign. Vic and Teo disappear; only spencer remains, that title over his shoulder.

- Johnny Rabid, clutching tight onto that Tag Strap as #Beachkrew reenact the last supper; the strap flickrs in his hands: from tag to world. Johnny looks up at Wade moor sitting next to him and thinks about the future.

- Benjamin Atreyu: calmly adjusting his director of Talent relations shirt and tie, while his demented reflection screams back at him, ready for combat in wrestling tights.

- Bonnie Blue: standing in front of a World Heavyweight Championship strap contained behind a cage of plexi glass. The camera rack focus back to her; a flicker as her reflection switches again from Reb to Bonnie and back again. The past never letting go.

- Logan, standing outside WCF towers; that huge statue of him; minus it’s foot. The amputated appendage replaced now by a selection of rotting tins. Logan scowls as the clouds roll by. Human sized teddy bears dance around a fire that serves no narrative purpose: Katherine Phoenix’s apparent addition to the editing process. Reason? None given.

- Back to Spencer now as he lights up that large hoarding. It’s acting now like a beacon as Spencer looks down and sees a snake of vehicles making their way up a mountain pass. Approaching at speed, cutting each other off.

- Bonnie Blue weaves the ranchero past Rabid’s Jaguar, who floors it and overtakes Blue once again while Steve Orbit’s pimp mobile veers to avoid a Benjamin Atreyu collision.

“Everybody...wants to rule the...everybody, wants to rule....”

The fires burn as the seven gather in a circle. They’re joined by Seth, as he hands each competitor a ticket and grins manically under the amber flames at night.

“Everybody wants to rule...THE WORLD”.

FINAL DESTINATION: F15TEEN: 31/01/16.

The promotional video should replay on a loop, but the feed it cut short. Rabid appears. Face booming over the lobby like an orwellian big brother.

Johnny Rabid: I’m not one to play critic on others too much: I don’t usually do Siskel and Ebert on the weak and the impoverished that I find here, those intellectually malnourished souls that haunt these halls like Dickensian ghosts. It’s not my nature to condescend and snipe; but....that seems to be the way of things around here. In the few short months I have worked under the banner of the World Championship Wrestling organisation, I have discovered a few quite damning home truths that appear to be carved in stone. I’d like to share them with you now If I may be so bold.

They are as follows:

1.Everybody barks like a BITCH.
2.Wrestlers think their dead children SELL tickets.
3.The insane ALWAYS get a free pass.
4.Seth Lerch DOES NOT know what he’s doing.
5.#Beachkrew SAVED this company DESPITE itself.
6.The fans are CONSTANTLY screwed by an INEPT management structure.
7.The past NEVER seems to go away.

Seth Lerch: The fuck is this?

Johnny Rabid: Seven reasons why F15teen is a miracle that will never be unravelled; you think this is a gripe, don’t you? I know what you’re thinking, your thinking, “If that limey bastard thinks so little of the WCF, then why doesn’t he just fuck off back to England and shove a muffin up his ass!”; If you are thinking that by the way...then your name is probably Adam Young and you should go kill yourself with a shotgun blast to the face. If you’re thinking that, and your name ISN’T Adam Young? Then you should still find said individual, blow his brains out with the first bullet, then do yourself with the second.

Seth Lerch: Why kill Adam Young?

Johnny Rabid: Why kill Adam Young? Because the cancer in this company starts at the roots and works it’s way up. We put up with an Adam Young taunting the bottom of the card with his uselessness because at the top tier? We have buzzards circling made from the same shit. Thank God for Wade Moor and #Beachkrew. Thank your God they exist; the alternative is a crying Grayson Pierce having a grief -off with Joey Flash over whose son died better. Or a Dune, crying sand tears into a mug printed with a coma pic of his missing Pinky. It’s all fucking pathetic.

Seth Lerch: Prey for Joey. Prey every day.

Johnny Rabid: Why do I feel this way about the WCF? Why the sudden outburst of anger? Because I care. Because this is my home. I travelled a long way to get here; I did the Mayflower route and landed on Plymouth Rock with feet suspended above that deep blue Pennsylvanian sea with tears of joy. I dragged my family from a life of luxury and safety to be here because I knew it was the right thing to do. I spent months training along the west coast getting ready for the call up because this is all I’ve ever wanted. And when the call finally arrived? I was instantly met with controversy as a company I idolised sneered at me and called me a monster.

Such has been my life so far, no regrets from me. It’s your problem after all, not mine.

Let me be clear about a few things before we go forward. When I super-kicked Andre Aquarius in the face three months ago, I did so because Jimophy Thuggin’ wanted me to give the kid a wake up call; Andre has all the talent in the world, he’s such a wondrous kid, and one day soon he’s going to show each and every one of you close minded bastards just how much talent he has. Aquarius is more than a stupid rap battle; he is a legitimate title contender, and a world class athlete. You think I’m blowing smoke up your ass, I can tell. No matter; six months from now you can stop me in the halls and tell me how wrong you were to ever doubt my words. I’ll nod, and listen, and forgive you for your inbred ignorance, It’s not your fault after all to be this stupid; it’s just your nature. You’re close minded. Small. A birth defect that comes with the continent I suppose.

Seth Lerch: God bless America.

Johnny Rabid: I’d like to add, God Bless America to that last sentence.

Seth starts looking around

Seth Lerch: Can he hear me? Is this live?

Receptionist Bear ducks under the desk and hides.

Johnny Rabid: Why did I super-kick Andre Aquarius? I super-kicked Andre to wake him up to the possibilities that where passing him by. I gave him something this company seems incapable to doing; I gave him a purpose. Everywhere I look today within the WCF, I see that sense of purpose being snatched away. I see hope crumbling. I see a Katherine Phoenix turn this companies reputation into a joke just to please her babygurl, Logan. I see a Benjamin Atreyu running away from the responsibilities that could have saved so many from her ineptitude. I see a Gravedigger forced by his pride to take part in a match that could conceivably kill him. I see a Spencer Adams tricked by the WCF hype machine into believing he actually has a chance against me. I see a Steve Orbit bleeding this company dry of it’s sporting reputation by ousting those more worthy of their rightful spot and slumming it in a match he has no right to be in.

I see chaos. I see anarchy. And yet, I still see hope. I see that island of excellence that guides me home. I see that lighthouse guiding me through dangerous, stormy waters. I see that #Beachkrew WINEabago and thank my stars for their existence. For our brotherhood.

Standards. We have it. You don’t. We cultivate it; you can’t spell it. Back home we called it class. Here it’s simply known as winning. And winning is something we in #Beachkrew are very, very good at.

Think recent results say otherwise? Of course you do; your clinging onto the wreckage of the past hoping a Steve Orbit or a Logan is going to save you when they’re the very cancers wrapping themselves around your throat and squeezing you blue. We are your only hope. Only #Beachkrew can save you now; not some half promise from a Buddy Roman or a flippant comment by a Spencer Adams. Embrace us into your heart and soul and you will find friendship and solidarity. We are a brotherhood that loves and honors those that are loyal to our ideals.

Cross us? Well, that will lead to penalties.

During this match I represent #Beachkrew. I am the banner. I am the standard. You challenge me when you step foot in that ring. I have won until you prove the world otherwise. A task none of these six have a hope in hell of completing. I am not side by side with them, that would be absurd. I know my calling now. I understand this blessing. I understand the mountain I must climb for I am the alpha forced to teach omegas how to conduct their business. It should sicken me; revulse me, but I draw inspiration now from another legendary figure other than my own, that mother Teresa of Calcutta. She gained sainthood for her tireless work with waifs and strays. She sacrificed to enlighten the retarded and the mongoloid. Why should I shirk such commitment? No, this Sunday I will enter that ring and teach. Teach until the message is understood. Kill or cure. That is the only true course now.

Gravedigger. Logan. Bonnie Blue.

KILL OR CURE.

Steve Orbit. Spencer Adams. Benjamin Atreyu.

KILL OR CURE.

Inoculation's begin this Sunday; I would like a prompt start please. I don’t have all day. I have a title challenge to mount so lets not keep the world waiting. It bleed enough; don't make me bleed you all dry in that ring. I’d like to make your treatments as “clean” as possible. Of course they’ll be exceptions. Such as a certain Steve Orbit.

Oakland Mack...Steve Orbit....that Oakland tide that washes bad Snoop Dogg impersonations, transvestite former champions and matricide upon our shores every so many months, then disappears when Orbit realises he has to treat this like an actual job. You don’t have to be a genius to see why he’s crazy mad to be in this match. Just like his Danish girl, Logan, and our esteemed wheezing commentator, Gravedigger. Orbit sees the dollar signs, and the air time, and he licks his lips. He thinks it’s easy money.

He thinks...

If Orbit wins this Sunday at F15teen? Then Steve has a lightning bolt strapped to his ass; he becomes the most dangerous man in the company. The Champion in waiting. If this was 2014, that would be fine. He would be the Steve Orbit of ‘old that earned it; the Steve Orbit that beat Nathan Von Libert for that U.S Championship; that reinvented the sport through Genesis and Pantheon. That Steve Orbit, that one time World Champion Steve Orbit? He would deserve the shot. No complaints. But twenty four months have changed this man. Maybe because Steve Orbit burned himself out and never got the fire back; or maybe it was because Steve was surrounded by his betters, like Beckman and McMorris, who just couldn’t stomach carrying Orbit around any-more after realising that Steve’s just a played out gimmick that deserves to die. Either way, Steve Orbit: 2016, with a shot at the main strap? That’s a disaster. A slow death for the WCF. It’s a fucking catastrophe I cannot allow to happen. It would be like wearing blinkers and turning my back on the bridge while the ice-burg hits.

I am the Captain of this ship now; I bear the responsibility of the WCF. Whether you like it or not; I am the present. Not some distant future that will never arrive like a Spencer Adams; or a fading echo of the past like a Bonnie Blue, Gravedigger or a Logan. I am now. I am the man in charge with the balls to accept that responsibility, unlike say, a Benjamin Atrayu who breaks his water at the mere mention of responsibility. Deal with it, people: and trust me here: Steve Orbit winning Final Destination will not happen, not on my watch! My responsibility to the fans will not allow it. I cannot allow it!

I will not allow this abomination to occur. If Orbit wins this Sunday, what do we get? We get a bloated former pimp, turning up for one night a year and squeezing out a half decent match with the embers of what little talent he has left, that last meagre ounce of heart he has, dragged out over thirty excruciating minutes of mediocre damage. And then what? Nothing. Because no matter what happens this Sunday, Steve Orbit’s tank is empty. He’s done. The well has run dry, and what’s left behind is a fucking mess.

Think about what a world with Steve Orbit at the helm would be like; contemplate it; Orbit shows up this Sunday, wins the match. And then what? He sits back and fades away until Orbit needs those benjamins causing mischief in his back pocket again, then it’s cash in time. And what do we have then if Orbit pulls off a miracle and takes the title? We have a lazy Champion who sits around in Seth’s office with RC helicopters buzzing Lerch’s ears while Orbit sneaks in yet another lame excuse for ducking out of a title defence. The days of Steve Orbit: the fighting U.S champion are over; this Steve Orbit? He’s nothing but a lazy fuck.

LAZY. FUCK.

Seth Lerch; That’s strong, Rabid. Even for you.

Johnny Rabid: Lazy arse Orbit; no commitment to the craft, just a fat check twice a year to roll and snort shit through. Just another “guest appearance” before he becomes a ghost that hangs around like a bad fart; chiming in with a nod and a wink to the crowd every so often as he fucks them over, and over and over again. Steve Orbit, dragging the concept of the work rate over hot coals and taking a shit on this business.

Orbit pimps his past like he used to pimp his bitches before she sold them off to a bunch of Lithuanian sex traffickers for a Logan eight by ten. Steve Orbit, a bloated lazy fuck. Steve needs to make a choice, a very real choice, either turn up and PERFORM week after week and be a wrestler? Or just fuck the fuck off and get out of our way.

Prey to God he chooses option two. PREY.TO.GOD.

Seth Lerch; I’m right here.

Johnny Rabid: Prey, and I’ll answer. After all, that’s my job now; my role in this particular narrative: to eradicate the weak and the lazy. Those sloths that slither like parasites around this company. That’s my task. MY mission. Everyone wants to know what’s killing this company, why the ratings are on the slide. It’s because all we get from these so called “legends” like Steve Orbit is the big return, the big “oh my gosh, ‘ere comes Steve Orbit!”, then what? Nothing. Buddy Roman was right about Orbit; the vapour king is dead! Long live the Oakland Queen! Jonny Fly’s Legend of Bagger Vance caddy, holding his brother’s’ New Yawk thick over the piss bowl and wiping it clean with his perfect pimp smile.

Orbit might believe he’s Fly’s brother, but in truth he’ll always be Fly’s galley slave. That’s how Fly sees Orbit, that's how the world sees Orbit; the Jonny Fly sidekick. The echo perched on Fly’s shoulder. Steve Orbit, the Jonny Fly punchline. Steve Orbit, the man who used to be a world champion, but fell into line when Ice Beckman arrived, because he knew he’d have to work if he was going to beat ICE; and work and Steve Orbit are not good bedfellows. So, that’s when Orbit stood back like a good little Snoop Doggy and fell into line. Orbit drank the cool aid and became a Vapour king and held those tag straps again for a second time.

A second tag reign...for about a minute and a half, a second run before they ended up back around the Poondocks waists. For all their huffin’ and puffin’, the Vapour kings were no Home Grown Playas when it came to longevity and tag straps. Orbit would like you all to kindly fall into line and believe otherwise so he can beat up his next hoe with a new set of shiny gold rings, but that's the truth. Steve Orbit saw Ice Beckman and was afraid. He felt real fear as his pimp pants filled up with pimp poop. So he scurried off behind the sofa and waved a little white flag and shoe shined Beckman’s boots, licked them all nice and clean for a year instead of being a man and challenging for the strap on his own.

Steve Orbit, you fucking worm.

But that’s okay, because his owner, Jonny Fly won’t let anything truly nasty happen to gimp slave Steve. After all, they’re brothers, remember? And what do brothers do when they find out they’re blood kin? Why, they go off and kill their mother of course.

This right here, this is what happens when a gimmick character, a nothing cardboard cut-out fool like Steve Orbit, tries to “grow up” and act responsibly. They flake out and turn Oblivion insane. They make the same Ice Beckman like mistakes and prance about being serious about issues they would normally never give a flying fuck about. If Beckman wasn’t facing Dune; his friends death would instead have been nothing more than a jaunt of whimsy through the afterlife, with God and Buddy Roman arguing over bad Jewish v Christian jokes for ten minutes. Then everyone would have gotten wasted on forty, so Seth would have gotten the joke and Beckman subsequently wins the promo of the month of WCF.COM. They’d be a stupid Buck Fucker gag in their somewhere, and things back at Foam Lake would conclude with an epitaph of smiles and rainbows. Cue bad canned laughter. Cue those end credits. Cue the end, with shit four panel cartoons that look like they’ve been drawn by a blind man with final stage Parkinson's.

“Oh, draw me next, Beckman! Draw me next! Draw me like a three year old spastic child would!”

Seth Lerch: His rendition of me was perfect! What a crock!

Johnny Rabid: Instead of the usual shit however, we get tortured Beckman, a Beckman on his knees, a laughable display that makes Tommy Wiseau’s performance in “The Room” seem Oscar worthy by comparison. Think Steve Orbit is above making the same mistake? Think again true believers. This is Steve Orbit’s future. It’s carved in stone, and nothing he can do will avoid it. He’s a laughing stock waiting to happen.

“Dune, you’re tearing me apart!!!”

Seth chuckles.

Johnny Rabid; Steve’s last half-assed run was all this, it was all bad soap opera. For about a month and a half, Steve Orbit became as nonsensical as Oblivion and Katherine Phoenix shaggin’ up trying to make us believe that killing his own mother was the right thing to do. Now, imagine what a Steve Orbit would do if he went up against a Wade More or a Dune today? How far would he sink? How would a 2016 Steve Orbit fair up against, say, a Joey Flash? What would he do? Would he pull the trigger on that Russian Mafia deal he’s got brewing and realise he’s made a terrible mistake selling women...let’s think about that last part again: He. Sold. Women: to Russian gangsters, who have, no doubt, raped and brutalised those women. What would he do? How would he play that card against his betters? A desperate roll of the dice as he hopes for the best, would he do that? Would he use his life that way? Sure he would. He would use his real life for internet hits just like everyone else does.

Picture the scene: Steve’s sitting in the dark of his Oakland apartment as the camera’s roll; contemplating his broken hoe’s horrific fate. Orbit has his coke needle stuck in his arm, courtesy of chief bitch: Valencia, because that’s drama people. Off in the distance; as Orbit’s coked up mind swims, we hear angry phone calls echo on his answering machine, a delude of misery playing in the background as crying women and boys (only on request mind, it’s how Bill C. Likes it) , confess that they are now riddled with HIV after the Russians forced them to attend a Charlie Sheen birthday bash. The next week on Slam, Orbit can’t wrestle this week because he’s a changed man, we’d get the “Good-father”; routine of a man searching for redemption. Don’t worry WCF galaxy; I’ve already ordered twenty thousand plastic buckets, so no one has to throw up on their boots when they eventually hear his shit. And let’s be clear about this, this is the future if Orbit wins. A man making excuses for not wrestling. A man in a holding pattern until he gets an “easy shot” at the belt and pounces. Well maybe not pounces, that would take effort; more like hobbles up to the plate and swings with arthritis hands.

As the crowd boos Orbit’s pathetic display; 300 violins plays, and out walks Orbit’s eternal dance partner, Jonny Fly, to soak up some of the heat; he turns on Steve and makes another match between them for the one millionth time. Just to get the crowd back on Orbit’s side. Just to spare his brother from the embarrassment of it all. While the rest of the roster dies just a little bit more backstage as they have to wait their turn, and wait, and wait. For a spot that should have been theirs months ago.

Seth Lerch; Okay, I’d admit to booking that match once or twice.

Johnny Rabid: Steve Orbit and Jonny Fly on the same card; when was the last time that wasn’t the case? It all makes sense now, why that ridiculous Fly V Black match is happening; Fly has to be around to hold his brother’s hand. They’re like Dean Martin and Sammy Davis; holding up the bar, rolling around for few rounds, singing a song or two...and then what? Will we see them next Slam? Next PPV? No, because they’re a pair of fucking incubus that like the big pay off, but not the weekly chore. Ask Joey Flash about his “tag partner”, and watch his face sink lower than Christian Malignaggi’s. Ask Fly why did he throw that match with Teo Del Sol? And he did by the way. Ask the fans what happened after Ultimate Showdown to Fly and Orbit, after Asesinato De Mayo? After One 2014? Orbit wants to work a reduced schedule, fine. Let him; but there has to be a limits on how high his aspirations can take him. He has no place in this match. None whatsoever.

What does having Orbit in this match say to the rest of the locker room? This is what you should aspire to? Just be a pair of fly by nights who flutter in, say some irrelevant shit about how you used to be special once when you last gave a shit, then dissapear? What’s the point of breaking your back week in and out, if all you have to do to get your dream match is show up twice a year and pretend you’re still revelent? That’s a fucking crock, and Orbit knows it; which is why he’s here. He became a pimp for the same reason all pimps pick up the cane, so they don’t have to work a day in their life.

This company is not his bitch, we are not the final days of WCW. This Sunday, we cull this chaff from our system. And that’s exactly what Steve Orbit is: chaff. Chaff cut from the wheat. Steve Orbit, a once great competitor no doubt; but the sad ‘old mack has to go; it’s time for him to finally hang up his Godfather gimmick and fade away into a Philadelphia sunset. Pimpin’ is easy. Wrestling is difficult. Go away, Orbit; you’ve ran out of good graces over past exploits. This company is about the work that’s being achieved now; not a year ago, or five.

Work, Orbit. Something you don’t know shit about.

This Sunday I’m going to rain a blitzkrieg over Steve Orbit’s cartoon world. I’m going to drag him his sorry arse from bell to bell like a fucking rag doll and prove to the world you can have a five star match with a mop stick. Dave Meltzer will call it, “ the miracle of Wells Fargo arena”. Nineteen thousand screaming fans watching on in disbelief as they see Steve Orbit, a man who has somehow miraculously recovered from having his stomach slip open by Corey Black’s machete at XIII, move across the ring like he actually remembers how to be a wrestler. A miracle indeed.

Performed by your God.

Seth Lerch; Still standing right here! No forty in my hand! Isn’t somebody going to fix that?

Johnny Rabid: Last Sunday, Orbit slapped my face. He slapped the face of the next World Heavyweight Champion with that idiotic move. The love tap that tickets like a bag of feathers. I’ve decided, I’m going to take that move and smother him with it. Suffocate his face and throw a water fountain through a wall and escape the asylum of the mid card. I’m going to put Steve Orbit to sleep and save a modicum of his legacy of the incinerator. Not because I care. But because sometimes good things happen to bad people. Its a fair trade, after all. I get to say I was the one that ended Steve Orbit. That’s a humanitarian of the year award right there. That’s a noble peace prize for service to professional sports and I’ll deserve it too for the eradication of Steve Orbit; it’s right up there with small pox inoculation. Think about of all the kids on those cancer wards, whose flickering lives I would have saved from hours of Steve Orbit promos where he’s babbling on about how my teeth are bad, about how I’m a immigrant; not like those Ellis Island folks oh noes; how I’m...oh wait, Orbit has to wait for the Autocue to discover what else a 2006 WWE promo writer has to say about me.

Humanitarian of the year award in the making; no doubt.

Steve Orbit. What a fucking prick.

Seth Lerch: Yeah, he is..kind of.

Johnny Rabid: The worst part of all, what truly sickens me about Steve Orbit being in this match is that he apparently is a step ahead of an Andre Holmes or a Dag Riddik, hard workers who somehow haven’t done enough to be included. Yet a Steve Orbit or a Logan somehow has for no reason other then they used to be something once; these dinosaurs now, these fossils living off those golden years as they look sheepishly on when the mention of cardio is brought up. These are our your betters WCF 2016. These has been dinosaurs deserve the strap above you.

What an absolute fucking joke.

Seth Lerch: Just count your lucky stars I didn’t put Torture in this match, then you’d really have something to cry about! Damn it! Still no forty?!

Johnny Rabid: This Sunday, I turn Orbit’s and Logan’s past gold into lead. I’m going to weigh these dinosaurs down with actual wrestling talent and sink them six feet under. I’m going to drown the legend that is Steve Orbit stone fucking dead. DEAD! Then, on the following week’s Slam? I’m going to do what Steve Orbit finds impossible to achieve.

I’m going to show up.

3.ARRIVAL.

Rabid arrived at The Philadelphia Museum of Art a good ten minutes early. Unfortunately there was no time to sneak in a handgun; or arrange a dead drop. This would be a meeting following instructions as per requested. And while that sickened Rabid. He had no other choice.

The “old friend” hung up upon the wall and glared down.

Beethoven. Ludwig Van. Stern, all knowing. That allegro bleeding sweet symphony number seven into Rabid’s burning ears as he felt the tip of a revolver bury itself with urgency into the base of his spine.

Tommy Fiend: Hello, John. Please don’t turn around. It’s safer that way.

To be concluded.