How to Be a Successful Leader
Feb 17, 2016 3:04:51 GMT -5
Joey Flash, Stuart Slane, and 7 more like this
Post by 6ix God on Feb 17, 2016 3:04:51 GMT -5
The art of leading a group as dominant and full of bravado as #BeachKrew is a delicate art. In the 19th-century, “Great Men” theory dominated thought: that on occasion someone of incredible wit, charisma, and intelligence could organize and lead effectively enough to create a global impact. But all the great leaders of the history followed a simple enough formula.
The bell rang. The match was over by count-out. On his way to the back, Jared stepped over the broken body of Spencer Adams, victim of a terrible fall from the top rope and an awkward landing. It wasn’t a show of dominance – Jared didn’t beat Spencer like a dog or humiliate him before the world – but it was precisely as the Six God had hoped it would go. As cameras flashed and the audience held their collective breaths, their hearts and thoughts on the unmoving form of Spencer Adams being attended to by paramedics, Jared Holmes left the ring with another burning career snuffed all too short by his machinations. The list of heads which Jared had laid to rest increased; the #FuccboiGenocide continues.
The mood in the WINO-bago was quiet and tense as the lumbering party bus left the parking lot of the FedEx Forum in Memphis and began its crawl back towards the high-way. As Rabid, Kemp, and Beaver tended their wounds, eyes on the now empty trophy case in their bus, Jared sat watching them with his arms wrapped around Thursday, who sat curled in his lap like a house cat. In the blink of an eye – in one night – the stable had pivoted, and none could say what would come next.
The mind of the Six God whirled in his brain like a mighty hurricane, the events of the evening playing themselves back once more in vivid technicolor as his brothers and sister tended hurt pride or bruised egos. Spencer Adams, public enemy and untouched adversary who had been a thorn in Jared’s side since his debut, was gone. Dag Riddick, the new annoying pup nipping at the group’s heels had been given the kick he deserved. The Family had asked to play ball, and the first score had been tallied:
#BeachKrew – 1
The Family – 0
There were no such things as moral victories in this business. Nothing besides a win could be considered “feel good” when domination and control was on the line. A loss by Dustin in the battle royal to Benjamin Atreyu had been unfortunate. The stripping of the Tag Titles was further bloodletting, but once upon a time, bloodletting had been considered cleansing. Indeed, a casual look exchanged between Johnny Rabid and Jared Holmes ensured both men that they were on the same page – the Johnny Rabid era had truly come to an end. Over was the raw pursuit of championships and accolades, now came the era of total war. The loss of the final belt and the pinning of the new enemy was a final knell of Rabid’s values and affirmation of Jared’s vendetta. If championships came, then they came. What mattered most in the eyes of the King in Yellow was instilling fear.
Thursday climbed from Jared’s lap as he stood, his hands falling to his sides before clasping together behind his back. All eyes in the room fell upon him as he stood, a faint smile on his lips contrasting with the looks of defeat upon the faces of his brothers. It was a two-fold action on his behalf: the calm confidence a leader needed to maintain to instill morale while telegraphing that, just maybe, everything was going according to plan.
Jared Holmes: My bros. It seems we’re upset.
Kemp frowned, his voice raising in frustration as he displayed an uncharacteristically tense show.
Kyle Kemp: Fuck yeah, I’m upset. You see that shit?
Kemp pointed to the empty trophy case.
Kyle Kemp: How the fuck am I supposed to be happy when we’re back at square one?
Wade Moor: Kemp, bro, chill.
Kyle Kemp: No, this sucks! We fucking lost. You expect me to just be okay with that? I dropped the ball. We dropped the ball.
Jared’s smile remained.
Jared Holmes: Kyle. I feel you. Really.
Dustin Beaver: You don’t seem too pissed. We’re supposed to be on top. I got a fucking wrestling school to run, and losing doesn’t get excited sign-ups.
Kyle Kemp: I thought we were starting out with a “bang” under your leadership, not mixed results. This isn’t exactly encouraging.
It was Wade’s turn to frown, his eyes locking on Kemp as insult fell upon his brother.
Wade Moor: Watch it, bro.
Kyle Kemp: No, you watch it! What is this shit? Someone has to be feeling how I do, right?
Kemp’s eyes looked to Rabid, seeking validation. Rabid’s eyes stayed on Jared Holmes, Rabid’s own hands folded before his face and his mouth resting against them. His response was measured.
Johnny Rabid: Jared? Your response to these grievances?
Jared smiled, giving Rabid a nod before turning to Kemp.
Jared Holmes: Two weeks ago, at F15teen, the Family stood to take us to task. Did we not agree that their dismantling would be our priority? That adding them to the list of graves which the #FuccboiGenocide had dug would come first? Wade, what did you do this week?
Wade Moor: I fuckin’ murked Fag Riddick.
Jared Holmes: Objective complete. In the coming weeks, we will have more opportunities.
Jared closed his eyes for a moment, his smile widening as he opened them again and locked eyes with Kemp.
Jared Holmes: Are the whispers getting to you, Kyle? Are you starting to believe idiots like Grayson Pierce and Charon the Fairy Man that a few losses means the end for #BeachKrew?
Kemp’s frown faltered.
Kyle Kemp: Well, like, n-no! I don’t mean that; they’re full of shit.
Jared Holmes: We’re all still here, are we not? The best of bros more united than ever, as their sandcastle is licked away by the tide? Will you allow a few losses to validate them?
Realization crept over the face of Kemp as he shook his head, as if to dispel the thoughts from his head. He looked down, his voice quiet but stern.
Kyle Kemp: No. Fuck no. Not after all we’ve worked for.
Light flashed in Jared’s eyes like a cobra’s charming stare before striking.
Jared Holmes: Dag Riddick is beaten. Spencer Adams is gone. Next week, we continue this precedent and forget about losing the Tag Titles – they’ll be ours again soon enough. What sort of memory does a quarterback need, Kyle?
Kemp looked up, a slow smirk creeping over his lips.
Kyle Kemp: Short term memory.
Jared Holmes: And what separates Brian Hoyer from Tom Brady?
Kemp now grinned.
Kyle Kemp: Tom Brady doesn’t let one interception mean he’ll throw another. He keeps his head on.
Jared nodded in approval before turning to the window, the world rolling past his eyes as the WINObago pulled onto I-55 S.
Jared Holmes: The wheels still turns. The party doesn’t stop.
He turned back to the group, his eyes going from person to person.
Jared Holmes: If we have any objections, speak.
The room was silent. Jared locked eyes with Johnny Rabid once more.
Johnny Rabid: I meant what I said. If you lead, I will follow.
Jared smiled, turning back to the disappearing view of Memphis.
Jared Holmes: Then let’s keep the party going; the one we’ve forgotten. We’ll be home in less than six hours.
Wade and Andre looked up in unison, smiles stretching across their mouths.
Wade Moor: Home? You mean –
Jared Holmes: Yeah. Mardi Gras, bitches. We’re going to New Orleans.
The city of New Orleans was a pulsing mess of sweaty skin and poor life choices. The old apartment in the French Quarter, which Jared had continued to own despite having moved out of New Orleans years ago, had been turned into the de facto #BeachKrew headquarters, though it less resembled a party pad and more closely resembled the barracks for Project Mayhem. Bunkbeds filled the loft apartment, and a single curtain partitioned the room in half. Of course, this accommodation wasn’t meant to be a party pad – it was chosen entirely for its location.
From the modest wrought-iron balcony, Jared, Wade, and Andre looked down at the miasma of color and revelry in the streets as they passed a Blue Velvet spliff back and forth. After taking a long drag, Wade passed the spliff to Andre and chased his cotton mouth with a sip of his hurricane. He smiled drunkenly at the two men sitting across from him, memories of college decadence filling his inebriated head.
Wade Moor: Feels like almost yesterday we were sitting here getting lit, huh?
After that #PuffPuffPass Andre handed the spliff to Jared.
Andre Aquarius: Bruh, I feel ya. I was missin’ this shit.
#PuffPuffPass and the joint returned to Wade, Jared turning to the exterior wall of the building and running a finger across a faint but still visible Sharpie marking: “#BeachKrew 2013 Jared Wade Andre Hunter”.
Jared Holmes: This is our roots. Fukken aye, Mardi Gras is practically the most sacred holiday on the #BeachKrew calendar.
Wade Moor: That and Drinko de Mayo.
Andre Aquarius: And Fourth of Jew-Lie.
Jared Holmes: Well, yeah, but it all started here, didn’t it? Four buddies carving up the world and stamping their name on the town. I bet we’re still black listed in a few bars on Bourbon Street.
Wade laughed.
Wade Moor: I should call up Alyssa and get them Sazeracs with her again.
Jared Holmes: We just got old school Aye-Eff.
Andre Aquarius: Damn bruh, you’re referencin’ some throw-away promo flashback shit from months ago.
Wade cocked an eyebrow in confusion.
Wade Moor: What the fuck does “throw-away promo flashback shit” mean?
Andre coughed as he offered the now-roach to Wade, his fist coming to his mouth as he dryly hacked up smoke before taking a sip from his own hurricane.
Andre Aquarius: You ever, like, get the feelin’ that your shit’s being broadcast to the WSeaF? Like even your memories and shit, but maybe everyone don’t watch ‘em so some people don’t get that call back?
Wade stared.
Wade Moor: You’re high as fuck.
Andre shrugged.
Andre Aquarius: This shit hits me hella weird. Start seeing aliens like a motherfucker.
Wade smiled. Turning to Jared, he spoke without opening his mouth.
Wade Moor: You think he can do it too?
Andre Aquarius: Yeah, I can.
Wade jolted and turned back to Andre, his mouth falling slightly open. Andre smiled slyly.
Andre Aquarius: Niggas act like I ain’t OG #BeachKrew. That weird ass Jalaxaritkatusan shit got to me too, bruh.
Jared and Wade exchanged a look before nodding.
Jared Holmes: No one ever thought otherwise, dude. You’ve been a busy guy.
Wade Moor: What matters is we’re here now.
Jared Holmes: Yeah. Not all of us, though.
The eyes of the three men went back to the writing on the wall. “Hunter” stared back solemnly at them. Wade dropped his head, reaching up to remove his straw fedora and placing it over his heart.
Wade Moor: Never forget.
Andre Aquarius: They always tryin’ to keep a young nigga down.
Jared nodded, his mind drifting back to the streets as he closed his eyes. The memories of the four of them walking home from the bar with arms draped over one another, loudly singing DMX songs in the middle of the night, felt oddly heavy in his mind. Somewhere in San Quentin, Jared wondered if Hunter could hear them, too.
Jared Holmes: We fucking did it for Hunter. We’re still doing it. I’m glad we’re back here.
Wade nodded.
Wade Moor: Puts shit into perspective. Reminds you what #BeachKrew was all about before the money and the titles and shit.
The sliding glass door to the balcony opened as Dustin Beaver stumbled onto the patio, a random woman wrapped around him like a coat as they crashed to the floor between the three guys, spilling Dustin’s tall boy of Mickey’s onto the patio deck.
Dustin Beaver: Guys. GUYS. We need…
Dustin trailed off as he stared down at the bacchanalia beneath him, his eyes going wide as a “gifted” blonde tears her shirt off for the crowd’s enjoyment.
Dustin Beaver: …we need to be in the parade.
The men exchanged a look before a smile crept over Wade’s face.
Wade Moor: You said this was our holiday. Feels wrong to not be featured prominently.
Wade flicked the roach off the balcony as he stood up, Andre and Jared joining him.
Andre Aquarius: I got Jim. Have him shake every nigga in this town until we get in.
As Andre turned and left through the door, Jared took in a parting sight of the young lightskin, smiling to himself at the newfound initiative and drive of his friend. It had been an odd road getting to here – it seemed like so much had changed since the injury. Perhaps it was time Andre was waiting for, to get Jared alone. Perhaps it was a loser like D’Angelo Hall calling him out. As Wade and Jared walked back into the apartment to gather the troops, Jared’s eyes fell upon John Gable, his other guardian and defender. The motley bunch which #BeachKrew had become – a trust fund brat, a hick, a washed-up singer, a washed-up athlete, a washed-up actor, an alcoholic slut, an alien, and a mysterious prodigy – was the proudest group of people he’d ever stood with and had the pleasure of leading.
His eyes danced back and forth between Andre and John, the men he’d be taking to the ring alongside for the first title shot of the Six God era. The perfect entourage. Before Jared addressed the group, his mind floated back to when they first came to stand by his side…
When Andre stepped through the door of Jared’s hospital room, Thursday squealed with delight and jumped to her feet, running to throw her arms around his neck.
Thursday: I told ya, Jarebear! I told ya one of them would come!
Andre looked over Thursday’s shoulder at Jared, who sat up in his hospital bed. A puzzled look from Andre was replied with a casual shrug by Jared as Thursday released Andre’s neck.
Andre Aquarius: Fuck you mean, “one would come”?
Thursday frowned, the corners of her ruby red lips pulling her cheeks and brow with them. Her hand came to Andre’s cheek, cupping it tenderly as she peered up at him with dull blue eyes surrounded by thick eyeliner.
Thursday: No one has visited him so far. You’re the first.
She smiled shly as she caressed his cheek.
Thursday: Christ, your complexion is gorgeous. Do you use lotion in the mornings?
Andre stepped past her to approach the hospital bed, sitting in the cheap wool upholstered and metal framed chair typical to any hospital room, as Thursday went to the opposite side and sat down, picking up a bottle of nail polish and beginning to apply the red paint to her nails. The face that gazed back at Andre, Jared’s face, was one clearly ravaged and now healing – the puffiness around his left eye had gone down considerably, but he still squinted through it; his jaw and mouth still looked bruised and swollen, partially from the beating and partially from surgery; and his right arm was held tightly in a sling to keep his broken collarbone in a position of healing.
Andre Aquarius: You look ugly as a mofucka, bruh.
Jared let out something resembling a snicker as Andre laughed as well, his hand coming out to pat Jared on the healthy shoulder. Jared’s words came out muffled and quiet, the product of the wired jaw and drug cocktail running through his system.
Jared Holmes: At least I’m not black.
The two exchanged a laugh again. Andre’s smiled wavered a moment – a moment Jared caught.
Jared Holmes: Sorry, you know I’m joking.
Andre Aquarius: What? Nah bruh, it’s not that.
Jared Holmes: Something got you down, bro?
Andre paused and looked out the hospital window, his smile fading completely.
Andre Aquarius: Shit’s just hard, namean? Like, what’s a nigga gotta do to get scratch in this shit?
Jared Holmes: Fuck them. You’re running with us, you’re gold.
Andre shook his head.
Andre Aquarius: That mofucka Rabid ain’t callin’ me in. He ain’t hittin’ ya boy up to hoist dem Jolly Rogers or shit. S’like, can’t a young nigga get a chance?
Jared’s lips began to fall into a frown before his face contorted in a wince, pain shooting through his jaw from the attempted expression.
Andre Aquarius: You good, fam?
Jared Holmes: Yeah, that shit just hurt. But the fuck you mean Rabid ain’t calling you?
Andre stood up, exasperation and frustration finally washing over him as he tossed the chair aside, his voice raising.
Andre Aquarius: I mean he ain’t callin’ a nigga up! I’m sick of this shit, bruh, like, just cause I’ve been busy on that backstage plannin’ shit with Sandy and keepin’ the wheels greased niggas think I’m a fukken joke. Niggas be sayin’ my name on Twitter like I’m some faggot-ass #fuccboi coattail ridin’ nigga not even respected by my own clique! And when Swagrid and Rabid and Kemp and them ain’t givin’ me the chance to go murk a buster, it looks like I am!
The outburst made Thursday jump in her seat, spilling the bottle of nail polish she’d perched delicately between her thighs onto the floor. Jared’s expression did not change.
Jared Holmes: Calm down, dude.
Andre paused, his breathing shallow and forceful as anger continued to seethe in him. His lips curled down into a sneer as he ruminated on the troubles clouding his mind, now beginning to pace the room. The door crashed open, and a middle aged woman in a green nurse’s smock stared in horror at the enraged Negro and overturned chair. Just as she turned to make a dash, Jared raised a hand.
Jared Holmes: No problems! My friend is going through a rough time.
The nurse stared skeptically, her eyes darting from Andre to the chair to the spilled nail polish to Jared.
Nurse: A-a-are you sure?
Jared smiled as much as he could.
Jared Holmes: Yes.
Thursday blinked, looked up, and smiled as well.
Thursday: Everything’s fine! No worries.
The nurse skeptically surveyed the scene once more.
Nurse: Well please ask your guest to keep his voice down and not break any furniture. There are other patients in this hospital.
She turned in a huff and left, Andre’s eyes boring holes through her back. When the door closed, he turned and approached Jared, leaning in with a low and intense tone.
Andre Aquarius: You see that shit? Old white bitch sees a young nigga pissed off and she thinks shit’s going down. This is what I’m talkin’ ‘bout, bruh. Whitey sees me as a menace or a fukken joke. Shit, I’m so hard out I can’t even get a nigga’s approval. You heard about this shit with D’Angelo Hall?
Jared shook his head, eyeing his friend with pity and concern.
Andre Aquarius: Old ass dark nigga runnin’ his mouth on ya boy. Thinkin’ he can run up on me and get a match at ONE with some dumbass rap battle shit. My own fukken people try to put me down. Dark ass niggas think they more real than a young lightskin and wanna step. The fuck a young nigga supposed to do? Fuck am I supposed to belong?
Andre sat on the edge of the bed, his head hung low as the final waves of anger subsided. With a rustling and a grunt, Jared pushed himself upright and placed a hand on Andre’s shoulder.
Jared Holmes: In #BeachKrew. That’s where you fukken belong. #BeachKrew was me, you, Wade, Hunter, and Jim. That’s how it began and it will always be. I ain’t forgot that shit.
Andre shook his head solemnly.
Andre Aquarius: But that ain’t the order these days. Rabid runs shit, you’re here. Wade so up on that #Whirlpool Championship hype his mind’s on other shit.
Jared Holmes: I’ll be back soon.
Andre Aquarius: So? That didn’t stop Massah Tort and Massah Price from screwin’ a nigga out of his chance to be #Fartcore Champion. Don’t even tell me they ain’t do that shit on purpose, they wanna keep that belt on some cracker like Omega or some shit. Fuckin’ retarded. Like, what’s the fuckin’ point if I’m just gunna be shit on and held down?
Jared patted Andre’s shoulder affectionately as he leaned in, his words hissing through his wired jaw.
Jared Holmes: You steal it.
Andre turned to look at the ravaged face of Jared, now a coy smile stretched across his lips.
Jared Holmes: I’ll be back soon, and when I come back, it’s gonna be New World Order, motherfucker. But I can’t do this shit alone.
Jared’s eyes sparkled – or were they turning black? It was hard for Andre to determine, as if they were somehow doing both simultaneously: a deep and empty blackness with a burning maliciousness deep in the abyss.
Jared Holmes: Andre, I’ve learned some things. And I think I’m going to learn more. But I need my people around me. My men to make magic. Now I’ll give you that #Fartcore Championship and more… but I need you on my side. You listen to what I have to say, and you’ll get everything.
Andre smiled, the same sort of snake-like grin which crossed his lips before delivering a concussing elbow to a #fuccboi’s temple.
Andre Aquarius: Tell me everything.
The cup of coffee was hot between Jared’s hands as he sat on the patio of the Javista Organic Coffee Bar, a gentle winter breeze rolling down Sunset Boulevard, kicking up leaves and bits of trash lying in the melancholy gutters of Hollywood. He hid his eyes behind the mirrored lenses of Ray Ban sunglasses with gold rims, the fur-lined hood on his Andrew Marc puffer parka pulled up and over his head to add another anonymity. It was standard fare for living in and roaming Hollywood – when your celebrity status ballooned, as Jared’s had in recent months, privacy was a precious commodity. Thursday sat beside him, the fur-lined hood of her Moncler Armoisette puffer jacket hanging down and off her head, her straw blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, tortoise shell Tom Ford sunglasses covering her eyes, and a fringed charcoal Eileen Fisher scarf wrapped around her neck. Perhaps the most significant attempt to disguise her appearance was the modest application of make-up.
The man across from them displayed this same sense of tact for privacy with sunglasses (White Fish?), but his wealth was by no means telegraphed by the price tag of his clothes. Instead, he wore a simple navy blue pea coat (Old Navy?) over a worn flannel shirt (fucking ELIXIR?!). Thursday pinched Jared’s thigh under the table as if sending a friendly reminder to be courteous to their guest about his attire, but despite his instinctive judgement, Jared found himself in an odd state of pity rather than disgust. Through the plastic lenses of the cheap sunglasses, heavy bags could be seen under Gable’s eyes, and though he smiled, the air of melancholy seemed to linger about the actor’s face. This – of course – would not deter Jared’s calm and coy smile, even if it tempted him to slip him a Lexapro when he wasn’t paying attention.
John Gable: Excuse me for not being as dressed up as you two.
Jared cocked his head to the side, his smile falling.
Jared Holmes: Come again?
John Gable: You know. I’m not wearing a three-thousand dollar outfit or something. I’m sure this isn’t what you expected from me when you requested this meeting.
Jared shook his head.
Jared Holmes: I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.
Gable cocked an eyebrow, rolling the coffee between his palms before lifting it to his mouth for a sip.
John Gable: Never mind.
A squeeze on the thigh from beneath the table caught Jared’s frown from falling further – a calm smile returned, he sticks the landing, and the French judge gives him an eight.
Jared Holmes: Thank you for having this meeting with me, John. I’m a big fan of your work.
Gable snickered, a faint and condescending smirk crossing his lips as he eyed Jared from behind the lenses, his eyes tracing the lines of the Six God’s face.
John Gable: Oh yeah? What work?
Jared Holmes: Obviously, I was a fan of “Eye in the Sky”. I thought your performance adroit psychological terrors of what many would consider a dated work and translated them into very real problems we face in an increasingly ‘wired’ society.
Gable’s smirk intensified, his eyebrows raised and his voice dripping with condescension.
John Gable: Interesting. Any others?
Jared Holmes: “All of the Turkey” for one.
John Gable’s smirk fell as he placed down his cup of coffee and leaned forward, a slight shudder of disgust and horror trembling through his body.
John Gable: That wasn’t released.
Jared Holmes: Perhaps you’ve heard of my father, Edward Holmes.
Gable leaned back, a look of intrigue crossing his face.
John Gable: Yeah, I have.
Jared Holmes: “All of the Turkey” was the modern “Metamorphosis”. It’s dense and solipsistic atmosphere coupled with themes of alienation and existential dread provide an important lesson on the fragility of human ego, in the psychological sense. It’s a shame that such an astute commentary on a society in which people create personas to live vicariously through online and the troubling consequences of this pursuit never saw the light of day.
Gable’s eyes dropped, searching the table as he thought. To the Celestial Shark, it was blood in the water.
Jared Holmes: Your work is powerful, John; just dramatically ahead of its time. One of the greatest artists of our time often had a similar problem: Lou Reed.
Thursday crossed herself.
Thursday: May he rest in peace.
Jared Holmes: “The Velvet Underground and Nico” was a catastrophic flop when it was released. In a decade of feel-good pseudo-Eastern bullshit like the Sixties, no one wanted to confront the uglier side of life that Reed was writing about. Similarly, “Metal Machine Music” was widely lambasted as unlistenable and pretentious before it became accepted as a defining album in the development of industrial and electronic music. Some people see you as a failure – I see you as an artist who sees so far beyond the curve that most can’t even visualize it yet.
Gable stared at Jared, leaning back in his chair as the smirk subsided into a calm smile. Somewhere behind the cheap sunglass lenses, Gable’s eyes and mind buzzed with life.
John Gable: You have my attention.
Jared Holmes: People have forgotten about you at their own peril. You’re a smart man with a brilliant and perhaps dangerous mind.
Jared leaned forward and reached up, drawing his sunglasses away to reveal bloodshot and hungover eyes, wild and electric.
Jared Holmes: We could do great things together.
Gable nodded, as if considering this.
John Gable: What sort of great things?
Jared clasped his hands together, his smile widening to reveal a set of perfect white teeth – undoubtedly the result of expensive dentistry and obsessive oral hygiene.
Jared Holmes: We are living in the age in which the pursuit of all values other than money, success, fame, and glamour has either been discredited or destroyed. Why are artists like the Weeknd taking off? They have their thumb on the pulse of the zeitgeist. Your thumb isn’t there: it’s farther down the wrist all the way to the pulse in the elbow. But I see the gap in between; the point A to point B. I’m not saying I know “the Secret” with a capital “S” or “Truth” with a capital “T” if such things even exist…
Jared paused for a moment, allowing the dramatic effect of his words to permeate his prey.
Jared Holmes: But I know we’re not far apart. And I have a lot of fucking people falling over what I say, wanting to shake my hand and tell me I’m a genius.
Gable brought the cup of coffee to his mouth, taking a long and deliberate sip.
John Gable: So you’ve come to recruit me.
Jared Holmes: I took Kyle Kemp and truly made him better than everyone. I took Dustin Beaver and changed him from impersonator to bigger fucking deal. You are neither of these men: you’re bigger and more successful. A John Gable and Jared Holmes alliance is big. Fucking. Money. And…
Jared smiled as he savored the words on his tongue.
Jared Holmes: …I want to burn down the same man you do. A Mister Joseph Malignaggi.
Gable’s smile became a grin, his eyes as wild and alive as Jared’s.
John Gable: Joey Flash? I can get a piece of that sniveling little pussy?!
Mania washed over the actor, his aura of lethargic cynicism and sarcasm quickly leaving him.
John Gable: Yes! If that’s what you’re offering then sign me the fuck up! I’ll pray at the altar of the Six God or whatever the hell your thing is.
Gable’s eyes shot between Jared and Thursday, his enthusiasm tempering momentarily.
John Gable: Now, I am engaged, as you know. I know how your group parties an-
Jared interrupted him with the wave of a hand.
Jared Holmes: As you can see, I’m personally committed, and Johnny Rabid is a family man. No conflict at all.
Gable looked between Thursday and Jared, considering this before smiling wickedly.
John Gable: What do I have to do?
Jared Holmes: Help me conquer. Fight alongside me and defend me…
He offered a hand.
Jared Holmes: …and I’ll give you everything.
Gable clasped Jared’s hand and give it a shake. The devil had made a deal.
Jared’s mind came back to the present as the members of #BeachKrew gathered around him. His hands rose in dramatic fashion as his voice raised, echoing through the apartment and cutting through the roar of the streets outside.
Jared Holmes: It’s time for a fuckin’ parade, bitches!
The room erupted in cheers: #BeachKrew members, groupies, and the few hanger-on’s deemed worthy. With a wave of his hand, the room went silent again.
Jared Holmes: Two weeks’ worth of matches are announced. At Slam, it’s going to be me, Gable, and Andre facing the Sentinels for the Trios Belts! Wade, Kyle, and Johnny will be the massacre of the weak, facing Adam Young, Raymond Hatcher, and Lucious Starr, and we all know how that’ll be turning out! And you, Dustin, will be shoved into some garbage clusterfuck tag match which you should probably no-show rather than waste breath on!
Dustin raised his empty tall can in the air, arm still around the busty blonde.
Dustin Beaver: I literally don’t even care! Fuckin’ Mardi Gras!
Jared Holmes: This is the city that #BeachKrew was founded in. This is our town, and this is our holiday. When we move on to San Antonio and into Slam, we will continuing this celebration and leaving dripping in gold. Slam is our bitch! Time Bomb is our fuckin’ bitch! Now let’s go put on the sort of fanfare that only a group like #BeachKrew could put on! There ain’t no party like a #BeachKrew party, #fuccbois!
The room exploded in cheers as bottles popped and lines were ripped. When they spilled into the streets, the swirling chaos of the faction sent ripples through the crowd in a way that only #BeachKrew could do in the midst of pre-Mardi Gras celebrations. Tomorrow was the parade, but tonight was the riot. Slam would be the coronation.
The WCF camera positioned at the lip of the float, taking in the breathtaking sight which had been carefully assembled under Jared’s design and Thuggin’s orders to the contractors. Steps of gold, green, and purple sloped up to a massive platform where palm trees of beads with inlaid speakers blared dubstep, go-go cages featuring gyrating dancers wearing hybrid snorkel and masquerade masks, several coolers held bottles of premixed purple drank, tall cans of Jeremiah Weed Twisted Tea, and chilled bottles of Fireball, and – of course – several buckets full of brightly colored beads. Beyond the intermingling of Mardi Gras imagery with #BeachKrew flair sat the decadent center piece: the golden throne of the Six God.
The King in Yellow sat beside the Queen of Blades, hands gently clasped as the pulse of music shook the diamonds woven into their full-faced masks which in turn gave off dazzling light displays from the pulsing lasers. On each side of the King and Queen stood John Gable and Andre Aquarius, their masks on and their hands folded before them in ring attire. Jared leaned forward, gently releasing Thursday’s hand.
Jared Holmes: And so begins the royal fanfare of the Six God, rolling through the swamps and barreling through the deserts like a devil wind before it sets ablaze San Antonio and leaves little but ashes in the wake. Have you not heard the drums? Have you not seen the Yellow Sign? Have the words of the Galactic Prophecy not stung your eyes and sent tremors through your body? If not, congratulations: you haven’t been paying attention and you won’t be spared. Luckily, I don’t think that will entirely be an issue this week, consider that we face the first line of your defenses – your so-called “Sentinels” who have realistically stood for the fallen and against the rising by getting themselves injured or retiring.
Jared snickered, the mask quaking with the movements of his head.
Jared Holmes: People look at you like a cohesive unit because apparently your belts mean something. No, I’m sorry #fuccbois, but I doubt anyone is taking anything seriously considering the anemic “challenges” you’ve faced on the way to those soon-to-be-our titles and all the other instances in which you’ve consistently screwed the pooch. Frankly, the entire lot of you combined is such a comedy of errors and fucked-in-half melodrama that I’m surprised you’re not an ABC Primetime show or at least on an episode of Jerry Springer.
Just imagine that: “He killed my child, and now I’m his tag team partner.” Or maybe “He spent my entire career embarrassing me and beating me down to lower mid-card, and now I realized we were meant for each other all along.” Or maybe, as the great Dag Riddick put it, “I was submitted by the best member of our group who decided to retire, so he gave me this pity fuck of a belt because I’ve been preoccupied with giving Grayson Pierce the rub so he can screw the pooch on the biggest stage of them all.” Any of those episodes sounds like solid gold to me.
This is what a team of champions looks like? This is a cohesive unit? My group may have been dumb enough to let the Monster Guardian of the Nae Nae, but it’s a helluva lot better than teaming with the Patron Saint of Failure. How’s it going, Occulo?
Jared waved to the camera.
Jared Holmes: I don’t think we’ve really met, and I want you to know, it pains me to even mention you. I should recycle my own material from Hellimination and substitute “Vic Venable is also in this match” with “Occulo is here too, I guess.” I feel like I’m kicking the crutches out from under a retarded kid spitting at you like this. It legitimately pains me; you’re a man whose husk has been nearly bled dry of his dignity. Maybe I should just end this here.
Jared grinned under the mask.
Jared Holmes: But fuck that, #KEK. I’m gonna murk you like anyone; that would be discriminating against cripples. Riddle me this, Occulo, how does it feel to reduce a Trios team to “Two and a Half Men”? You have Joey “Charlie Sheen” Flash, the Brooding Faggot Dune, and Occulo, their pipsqueak little runt. Boom, ABC call ‘em up and give them a contract.
You suck, Occulo. It’s not even a question who’s the worst member of this group: it’s you. From screwing the pooch two ONEs in a row for the same title to losing your US Title by having Kaz pin Snapz to then losing your rematch shot to Danny fucking Anderson. You’re supposedly the “architect” behind this group, right? The one who brought it all together? How does it feel to know that in a revolving line-up of men, you’re perpetually the weak link? You bring in Howard Black and he completely eclipses you. You slink off with your tail between your legs until you work up the guts to come back and pick up the pieces only for Howard Black to once again steal the thunder. Now you’ve brought in Joey Flash to fill the void, and you’re still completely outclassed despite being the Sentinel.
You came back you “heard there was a war going on”, huh? Know what the fuck your role in that war was? France. You got a train run on you and buckled like a faggot under the weight of our swagged out Axis, and now you’re tugging America’s pant leg to help you. And when you lose on Sunday, everyone’s going to ask how the two “Stars of the Year” could lose before eyes fall on you.
Shame on you for enabling this, Dune. Then again, your track record with parenting has been abysmal, hasn’t it? Maybe if you threw Occulo off a roof, you’d have some better luck here. Oh, I’m sorry, is that “too soon”? Am I going too far? Guess what, #fuccboi, it’s a stain you’ll go your whole career with, everyone always distrustfully eyeing you and wondering when you’ll go like the pit-bull everyone knew you were, snap, and kill again. Then you can run off, mope about it in your shitty little adobe hut, come back a “changed man” who has “conquered the demon possessing him” and the idiots will lol and clap like happy seals if they’re stupid enough to let you near them.
You can’t come back from these things, Dune. I know it, your “former father” partner knows it, and you know it. Frankly, I wonder how you fucking live with yourself, let alone have the audacity to embrace the same man who broke your “brother’s” arm and brought flames to your house. Know what’s keeping that anger at bay? Your defeat at the hands of Howard Black and the success of your title run. When it dries up and when you snap again out of desperation to be relevant or fresh, everything you love will burn again.
But can’t go on too much with that – gotta save the A-Roll for the Trilogy Cup. And if you don’t think I’m stomping that cunt Twilight before my waves extinguish your flame, then you’re more brain dead than Christian Malignaggi after you played shot-put with him.
Jared Holmes: Yeah, there’s a fukken “Dream Songs” reference for you, Flash, since you seem adamant about jocking me for newfound relevance. How dare you type my name in any keyboard, you greasy little wop. You disappoint. You pathetic fucking loser.
Jared reached back to grip the back of his mask, removing it from his face and setting it on his lap as he smiled into the camera.
Jared Holmes: The only thing stupider than thinking a haircut is a face turn is thinking a name change is a face turn. And the only thing stupider than that was you even questioning the direction which brought you your success. You can try to reverse course, no sell history, or whatever you want, but some of us paid attention far more than changing our forum avatars to Justin Bieber. Some of us remember the whining, mopey, melodramatic cunt you became. Do you think that just because you’ve gone back to “Flash” and you’re romping around Twitter like a belligerent drunk that people would follow your lead? That’s not how this works, Joseph; this isn’t some world where you can hit the “edit” button and cut out bits of your life or “retcon” things. This is real life.
Now the only thing you’ve done is buried your own credibility deeper than your twenty-first trimester abortion. And suddenly the absolute nonchalance you seem to treat the death of your own child with – the defining moment of your year which brought you the sympathy of others – seems like a joke. So tell me, Joseph, since you’re all buddy-buddy with the good Doctor Dune of Mojave Planned Parenthood, was it the plan all along?
C’mon, buddy, don’t be shy: look how much being an absolute jerk-off has gotten you. You have one man who posed a consistent threat now retired. You have Grand Slam Champion status. Trios Titles with men who “hated you”. Feud of the Year and Wrestler of the Year. Just admit you paid Dune to solve the problem of the son you hated that you had with a woman you never loved.
Jared smiled, standing from the throne and walking towards the camera.
Jared Holmes: No bodybags on deck this time, just bloated corpses washing up on the beach.
Jared waved good-bye as the camera cut.
Step One: Establish Pole Position
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The bell rang. The match was over by count-out. On his way to the back, Jared stepped over the broken body of Spencer Adams, victim of a terrible fall from the top rope and an awkward landing. It wasn’t a show of dominance – Jared didn’t beat Spencer like a dog or humiliate him before the world – but it was precisely as the Six God had hoped it would go. As cameras flashed and the audience held their collective breaths, their hearts and thoughts on the unmoving form of Spencer Adams being attended to by paramedics, Jared Holmes left the ring with another burning career snuffed all too short by his machinations. The list of heads which Jared had laid to rest increased; the #FuccboiGenocide continues.
The mood in the WINO-bago was quiet and tense as the lumbering party bus left the parking lot of the FedEx Forum in Memphis and began its crawl back towards the high-way. As Rabid, Kemp, and Beaver tended their wounds, eyes on the now empty trophy case in their bus, Jared sat watching them with his arms wrapped around Thursday, who sat curled in his lap like a house cat. In the blink of an eye – in one night – the stable had pivoted, and none could say what would come next.
The mind of the Six God whirled in his brain like a mighty hurricane, the events of the evening playing themselves back once more in vivid technicolor as his brothers and sister tended hurt pride or bruised egos. Spencer Adams, public enemy and untouched adversary who had been a thorn in Jared’s side since his debut, was gone. Dag Riddick, the new annoying pup nipping at the group’s heels had been given the kick he deserved. The Family had asked to play ball, and the first score had been tallied:
#BeachKrew – 1
The Family – 0
There were no such things as moral victories in this business. Nothing besides a win could be considered “feel good” when domination and control was on the line. A loss by Dustin in the battle royal to Benjamin Atreyu had been unfortunate. The stripping of the Tag Titles was further bloodletting, but once upon a time, bloodletting had been considered cleansing. Indeed, a casual look exchanged between Johnny Rabid and Jared Holmes ensured both men that they were on the same page – the Johnny Rabid era had truly come to an end. Over was the raw pursuit of championships and accolades, now came the era of total war. The loss of the final belt and the pinning of the new enemy was a final knell of Rabid’s values and affirmation of Jared’s vendetta. If championships came, then they came. What mattered most in the eyes of the King in Yellow was instilling fear.
Thursday climbed from Jared’s lap as he stood, his hands falling to his sides before clasping together behind his back. All eyes in the room fell upon him as he stood, a faint smile on his lips contrasting with the looks of defeat upon the faces of his brothers. It was a two-fold action on his behalf: the calm confidence a leader needed to maintain to instill morale while telegraphing that, just maybe, everything was going according to plan.
Jared Holmes: My bros. It seems we’re upset.
Kemp frowned, his voice raising in frustration as he displayed an uncharacteristically tense show.
Kyle Kemp: Fuck yeah, I’m upset. You see that shit?
Kemp pointed to the empty trophy case.
Kyle Kemp: How the fuck am I supposed to be happy when we’re back at square one?
Wade Moor: Kemp, bro, chill.
Kyle Kemp: No, this sucks! We fucking lost. You expect me to just be okay with that? I dropped the ball. We dropped the ball.
Jared’s smile remained.
Jared Holmes: Kyle. I feel you. Really.
Dustin Beaver: You don’t seem too pissed. We’re supposed to be on top. I got a fucking wrestling school to run, and losing doesn’t get excited sign-ups.
Kyle Kemp: I thought we were starting out with a “bang” under your leadership, not mixed results. This isn’t exactly encouraging.
It was Wade’s turn to frown, his eyes locking on Kemp as insult fell upon his brother.
Wade Moor: Watch it, bro.
Kyle Kemp: No, you watch it! What is this shit? Someone has to be feeling how I do, right?
Kemp’s eyes looked to Rabid, seeking validation. Rabid’s eyes stayed on Jared Holmes, Rabid’s own hands folded before his face and his mouth resting against them. His response was measured.
Johnny Rabid: Jared? Your response to these grievances?
Jared smiled, giving Rabid a nod before turning to Kemp.
Jared Holmes: Two weeks ago, at F15teen, the Family stood to take us to task. Did we not agree that their dismantling would be our priority? That adding them to the list of graves which the #FuccboiGenocide had dug would come first? Wade, what did you do this week?
Wade Moor: I fuckin’ murked Fag Riddick.
Jared Holmes: Objective complete. In the coming weeks, we will have more opportunities.
Jared closed his eyes for a moment, his smile widening as he opened them again and locked eyes with Kemp.
Jared Holmes: Are the whispers getting to you, Kyle? Are you starting to believe idiots like Grayson Pierce and Charon the Fairy Man that a few losses means the end for #BeachKrew?
Kemp’s frown faltered.
Kyle Kemp: Well, like, n-no! I don’t mean that; they’re full of shit.
Jared Holmes: We’re all still here, are we not? The best of bros more united than ever, as their sandcastle is licked away by the tide? Will you allow a few losses to validate them?
Realization crept over the face of Kemp as he shook his head, as if to dispel the thoughts from his head. He looked down, his voice quiet but stern.
Kyle Kemp: No. Fuck no. Not after all we’ve worked for.
Light flashed in Jared’s eyes like a cobra’s charming stare before striking.
Jared Holmes: Dag Riddick is beaten. Spencer Adams is gone. Next week, we continue this precedent and forget about losing the Tag Titles – they’ll be ours again soon enough. What sort of memory does a quarterback need, Kyle?
Kemp looked up, a slow smirk creeping over his lips.
Kyle Kemp: Short term memory.
Jared Holmes: And what separates Brian Hoyer from Tom Brady?
Kemp now grinned.
Kyle Kemp: Tom Brady doesn’t let one interception mean he’ll throw another. He keeps his head on.
Jared nodded in approval before turning to the window, the world rolling past his eyes as the WINObago pulled onto I-55 S.
Jared Holmes: The wheels still turns. The party doesn’t stop.
He turned back to the group, his eyes going from person to person.
Jared Holmes: If we have any objections, speak.
The room was silent. Jared locked eyes with Johnny Rabid once more.
Johnny Rabid: I meant what I said. If you lead, I will follow.
Jared smiled, turning back to the disappearing view of Memphis.
Jared Holmes: Then let’s keep the party going; the one we’ve forgotten. We’ll be home in less than six hours.
Wade and Andre looked up in unison, smiles stretching across their mouths.
Wade Moor: Home? You mean –
Jared Holmes: Yeah. Mardi Gras, bitches. We’re going to New Orleans.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Step Two: Maintain Unity, Cohesion, and Morale
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The city of New Orleans was a pulsing mess of sweaty skin and poor life choices. The old apartment in the French Quarter, which Jared had continued to own despite having moved out of New Orleans years ago, had been turned into the de facto #BeachKrew headquarters, though it less resembled a party pad and more closely resembled the barracks for Project Mayhem. Bunkbeds filled the loft apartment, and a single curtain partitioned the room in half. Of course, this accommodation wasn’t meant to be a party pad – it was chosen entirely for its location.
From the modest wrought-iron balcony, Jared, Wade, and Andre looked down at the miasma of color and revelry in the streets as they passed a Blue Velvet spliff back and forth. After taking a long drag, Wade passed the spliff to Andre and chased his cotton mouth with a sip of his hurricane. He smiled drunkenly at the two men sitting across from him, memories of college decadence filling his inebriated head.
Wade Moor: Feels like almost yesterday we were sitting here getting lit, huh?
After that #PuffPuffPass Andre handed the spliff to Jared.
Andre Aquarius: Bruh, I feel ya. I was missin’ this shit.
#PuffPuffPass and the joint returned to Wade, Jared turning to the exterior wall of the building and running a finger across a faint but still visible Sharpie marking: “#BeachKrew 2013 Jared Wade Andre Hunter”.
Jared Holmes: This is our roots. Fukken aye, Mardi Gras is practically the most sacred holiday on the #BeachKrew calendar.
Wade Moor: That and Drinko de Mayo.
Andre Aquarius: And Fourth of Jew-Lie.
Jared Holmes: Well, yeah, but it all started here, didn’t it? Four buddies carving up the world and stamping their name on the town. I bet we’re still black listed in a few bars on Bourbon Street.
Wade laughed.
Wade Moor: I should call up Alyssa and get them Sazeracs with her again.
Jared Holmes: We just got old school Aye-Eff.
Andre Aquarius: Damn bruh, you’re referencin’ some throw-away promo flashback shit from months ago.
Wade cocked an eyebrow in confusion.
Wade Moor: What the fuck does “throw-away promo flashback shit” mean?
Andre coughed as he offered the now-roach to Wade, his fist coming to his mouth as he dryly hacked up smoke before taking a sip from his own hurricane.
Andre Aquarius: You ever, like, get the feelin’ that your shit’s being broadcast to the WSeaF? Like even your memories and shit, but maybe everyone don’t watch ‘em so some people don’t get that call back?
Wade stared.
Wade Moor: You’re high as fuck.
Andre shrugged.
Andre Aquarius: This shit hits me hella weird. Start seeing aliens like a motherfucker.
Wade smiled. Turning to Jared, he spoke without opening his mouth.
Wade Moor: You think he can do it too?
Andre Aquarius: Yeah, I can.
Wade jolted and turned back to Andre, his mouth falling slightly open. Andre smiled slyly.
Andre Aquarius: Niggas act like I ain’t OG #BeachKrew. That weird ass Jalaxaritkatusan shit got to me too, bruh.
Jared and Wade exchanged a look before nodding.
Jared Holmes: No one ever thought otherwise, dude. You’ve been a busy guy.
Wade Moor: What matters is we’re here now.
Jared Holmes: Yeah. Not all of us, though.
The eyes of the three men went back to the writing on the wall. “Hunter” stared back solemnly at them. Wade dropped his head, reaching up to remove his straw fedora and placing it over his heart.
Wade Moor: Never forget.
Andre Aquarius: They always tryin’ to keep a young nigga down.
Jared nodded, his mind drifting back to the streets as he closed his eyes. The memories of the four of them walking home from the bar with arms draped over one another, loudly singing DMX songs in the middle of the night, felt oddly heavy in his mind. Somewhere in San Quentin, Jared wondered if Hunter could hear them, too.
Jared Holmes: We fucking did it for Hunter. We’re still doing it. I’m glad we’re back here.
Wade nodded.
Wade Moor: Puts shit into perspective. Reminds you what #BeachKrew was all about before the money and the titles and shit.
The sliding glass door to the balcony opened as Dustin Beaver stumbled onto the patio, a random woman wrapped around him like a coat as they crashed to the floor between the three guys, spilling Dustin’s tall boy of Mickey’s onto the patio deck.
Dustin Beaver: Guys. GUYS. We need…
Dustin trailed off as he stared down at the bacchanalia beneath him, his eyes going wide as a “gifted” blonde tears her shirt off for the crowd’s enjoyment.
Dustin Beaver: …we need to be in the parade.
The men exchanged a look before a smile crept over Wade’s face.
Wade Moor: You said this was our holiday. Feels wrong to not be featured prominently.
Wade flicked the roach off the balcony as he stood up, Andre and Jared joining him.
Andre Aquarius: I got Jim. Have him shake every nigga in this town until we get in.
As Andre turned and left through the door, Jared took in a parting sight of the young lightskin, smiling to himself at the newfound initiative and drive of his friend. It had been an odd road getting to here – it seemed like so much had changed since the injury. Perhaps it was time Andre was waiting for, to get Jared alone. Perhaps it was a loser like D’Angelo Hall calling him out. As Wade and Jared walked back into the apartment to gather the troops, Jared’s eyes fell upon John Gable, his other guardian and defender. The motley bunch which #BeachKrew had become – a trust fund brat, a hick, a washed-up singer, a washed-up athlete, a washed-up actor, an alcoholic slut, an alien, and a mysterious prodigy – was the proudest group of people he’d ever stood with and had the pleasure of leading.
His eyes danced back and forth between Andre and John, the men he’d be taking to the ring alongside for the first title shot of the Six God era. The perfect entourage. Before Jared addressed the group, his mind floated back to when they first came to stand by his side…
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Step Three: Know Who to Indoctrinate…
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Months Ago
When Andre stepped through the door of Jared’s hospital room, Thursday squealed with delight and jumped to her feet, running to throw her arms around his neck.
Thursday: I told ya, Jarebear! I told ya one of them would come!
Andre looked over Thursday’s shoulder at Jared, who sat up in his hospital bed. A puzzled look from Andre was replied with a casual shrug by Jared as Thursday released Andre’s neck.
Andre Aquarius: Fuck you mean, “one would come”?
Thursday frowned, the corners of her ruby red lips pulling her cheeks and brow with them. Her hand came to Andre’s cheek, cupping it tenderly as she peered up at him with dull blue eyes surrounded by thick eyeliner.
Thursday: No one has visited him so far. You’re the first.
She smiled shly as she caressed his cheek.
Thursday: Christ, your complexion is gorgeous. Do you use lotion in the mornings?
Andre stepped past her to approach the hospital bed, sitting in the cheap wool upholstered and metal framed chair typical to any hospital room, as Thursday went to the opposite side and sat down, picking up a bottle of nail polish and beginning to apply the red paint to her nails. The face that gazed back at Andre, Jared’s face, was one clearly ravaged and now healing – the puffiness around his left eye had gone down considerably, but he still squinted through it; his jaw and mouth still looked bruised and swollen, partially from the beating and partially from surgery; and his right arm was held tightly in a sling to keep his broken collarbone in a position of healing.
Andre Aquarius: You look ugly as a mofucka, bruh.
Jared let out something resembling a snicker as Andre laughed as well, his hand coming out to pat Jared on the healthy shoulder. Jared’s words came out muffled and quiet, the product of the wired jaw and drug cocktail running through his system.
Jared Holmes: At least I’m not black.
The two exchanged a laugh again. Andre’s smiled wavered a moment – a moment Jared caught.
Jared Holmes: Sorry, you know I’m joking.
Andre Aquarius: What? Nah bruh, it’s not that.
Jared Holmes: Something got you down, bro?
Andre paused and looked out the hospital window, his smile fading completely.
Andre Aquarius: Shit’s just hard, namean? Like, what’s a nigga gotta do to get scratch in this shit?
Jared Holmes: Fuck them. You’re running with us, you’re gold.
Andre shook his head.
Andre Aquarius: That mofucka Rabid ain’t callin’ me in. He ain’t hittin’ ya boy up to hoist dem Jolly Rogers or shit. S’like, can’t a young nigga get a chance?
Jared’s lips began to fall into a frown before his face contorted in a wince, pain shooting through his jaw from the attempted expression.
Andre Aquarius: You good, fam?
Jared Holmes: Yeah, that shit just hurt. But the fuck you mean Rabid ain’t calling you?
Andre stood up, exasperation and frustration finally washing over him as he tossed the chair aside, his voice raising.
Andre Aquarius: I mean he ain’t callin’ a nigga up! I’m sick of this shit, bruh, like, just cause I’ve been busy on that backstage plannin’ shit with Sandy and keepin’ the wheels greased niggas think I’m a fukken joke. Niggas be sayin’ my name on Twitter like I’m some faggot-ass #fuccboi coattail ridin’ nigga not even respected by my own clique! And when Swagrid and Rabid and Kemp and them ain’t givin’ me the chance to go murk a buster, it looks like I am!
The outburst made Thursday jump in her seat, spilling the bottle of nail polish she’d perched delicately between her thighs onto the floor. Jared’s expression did not change.
Jared Holmes: Calm down, dude.
Andre paused, his breathing shallow and forceful as anger continued to seethe in him. His lips curled down into a sneer as he ruminated on the troubles clouding his mind, now beginning to pace the room. The door crashed open, and a middle aged woman in a green nurse’s smock stared in horror at the enraged Negro and overturned chair. Just as she turned to make a dash, Jared raised a hand.
Jared Holmes: No problems! My friend is going through a rough time.
The nurse stared skeptically, her eyes darting from Andre to the chair to the spilled nail polish to Jared.
Nurse: A-a-are you sure?
Jared smiled as much as he could.
Jared Holmes: Yes.
Thursday blinked, looked up, and smiled as well.
Thursday: Everything’s fine! No worries.
The nurse skeptically surveyed the scene once more.
Nurse: Well please ask your guest to keep his voice down and not break any furniture. There are other patients in this hospital.
She turned in a huff and left, Andre’s eyes boring holes through her back. When the door closed, he turned and approached Jared, leaning in with a low and intense tone.
Andre Aquarius: You see that shit? Old white bitch sees a young nigga pissed off and she thinks shit’s going down. This is what I’m talkin’ ‘bout, bruh. Whitey sees me as a menace or a fukken joke. Shit, I’m so hard out I can’t even get a nigga’s approval. You heard about this shit with D’Angelo Hall?
Jared shook his head, eyeing his friend with pity and concern.
Andre Aquarius: Old ass dark nigga runnin’ his mouth on ya boy. Thinkin’ he can run up on me and get a match at ONE with some dumbass rap battle shit. My own fukken people try to put me down. Dark ass niggas think they more real than a young lightskin and wanna step. The fuck a young nigga supposed to do? Fuck am I supposed to belong?
Andre sat on the edge of the bed, his head hung low as the final waves of anger subsided. With a rustling and a grunt, Jared pushed himself upright and placed a hand on Andre’s shoulder.
Jared Holmes: In #BeachKrew. That’s where you fukken belong. #BeachKrew was me, you, Wade, Hunter, and Jim. That’s how it began and it will always be. I ain’t forgot that shit.
Andre shook his head solemnly.
Andre Aquarius: But that ain’t the order these days. Rabid runs shit, you’re here. Wade so up on that #Whirlpool Championship hype his mind’s on other shit.
Jared Holmes: I’ll be back soon.
Andre Aquarius: So? That didn’t stop Massah Tort and Massah Price from screwin’ a nigga out of his chance to be #Fartcore Champion. Don’t even tell me they ain’t do that shit on purpose, they wanna keep that belt on some cracker like Omega or some shit. Fuckin’ retarded. Like, what’s the fuckin’ point if I’m just gunna be shit on and held down?
Jared patted Andre’s shoulder affectionately as he leaned in, his words hissing through his wired jaw.
Jared Holmes: You steal it.
Andre turned to look at the ravaged face of Jared, now a coy smile stretched across his lips.
Jared Holmes: I’ll be back soon, and when I come back, it’s gonna be New World Order, motherfucker. But I can’t do this shit alone.
Jared’s eyes sparkled – or were they turning black? It was hard for Andre to determine, as if they were somehow doing both simultaneously: a deep and empty blackness with a burning maliciousness deep in the abyss.
Jared Holmes: Andre, I’ve learned some things. And I think I’m going to learn more. But I need my people around me. My men to make magic. Now I’ll give you that #Fartcore Championship and more… but I need you on my side. You listen to what I have to say, and you’ll get everything.
Andre smiled, the same sort of snake-like grin which crossed his lips before delivering a concussing elbow to a #fuccboi’s temple.
Andre Aquarius: Tell me everything.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Step Four: …And Know Who to Seduce
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Months After
The cup of coffee was hot between Jared’s hands as he sat on the patio of the Javista Organic Coffee Bar, a gentle winter breeze rolling down Sunset Boulevard, kicking up leaves and bits of trash lying in the melancholy gutters of Hollywood. He hid his eyes behind the mirrored lenses of Ray Ban sunglasses with gold rims, the fur-lined hood on his Andrew Marc puffer parka pulled up and over his head to add another anonymity. It was standard fare for living in and roaming Hollywood – when your celebrity status ballooned, as Jared’s had in recent months, privacy was a precious commodity. Thursday sat beside him, the fur-lined hood of her Moncler Armoisette puffer jacket hanging down and off her head, her straw blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, tortoise shell Tom Ford sunglasses covering her eyes, and a fringed charcoal Eileen Fisher scarf wrapped around her neck. Perhaps the most significant attempt to disguise her appearance was the modest application of make-up.
The man across from them displayed this same sense of tact for privacy with sunglasses (White Fish?), but his wealth was by no means telegraphed by the price tag of his clothes. Instead, he wore a simple navy blue pea coat (Old Navy?) over a worn flannel shirt (fucking ELIXIR?!). Thursday pinched Jared’s thigh under the table as if sending a friendly reminder to be courteous to their guest about his attire, but despite his instinctive judgement, Jared found himself in an odd state of pity rather than disgust. Through the plastic lenses of the cheap sunglasses, heavy bags could be seen under Gable’s eyes, and though he smiled, the air of melancholy seemed to linger about the actor’s face. This – of course – would not deter Jared’s calm and coy smile, even if it tempted him to slip him a Lexapro when he wasn’t paying attention.
John Gable: Excuse me for not being as dressed up as you two.
Jared cocked his head to the side, his smile falling.
Jared Holmes: Come again?
John Gable: You know. I’m not wearing a three-thousand dollar outfit or something. I’m sure this isn’t what you expected from me when you requested this meeting.
Jared shook his head.
Jared Holmes: I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.
Gable cocked an eyebrow, rolling the coffee between his palms before lifting it to his mouth for a sip.
John Gable: Never mind.
A squeeze on the thigh from beneath the table caught Jared’s frown from falling further – a calm smile returned, he sticks the landing, and the French judge gives him an eight.
Jared Holmes: Thank you for having this meeting with me, John. I’m a big fan of your work.
Gable snickered, a faint and condescending smirk crossing his lips as he eyed Jared from behind the lenses, his eyes tracing the lines of the Six God’s face.
John Gable: Oh yeah? What work?
Jared Holmes: Obviously, I was a fan of “Eye in the Sky”. I thought your performance adroit psychological terrors of what many would consider a dated work and translated them into very real problems we face in an increasingly ‘wired’ society.
Gable’s smirk intensified, his eyebrows raised and his voice dripping with condescension.
John Gable: Interesting. Any others?
Jared Holmes: “All of the Turkey” for one.
John Gable’s smirk fell as he placed down his cup of coffee and leaned forward, a slight shudder of disgust and horror trembling through his body.
John Gable: That wasn’t released.
Jared Holmes: Perhaps you’ve heard of my father, Edward Holmes.
Gable leaned back, a look of intrigue crossing his face.
John Gable: Yeah, I have.
Jared Holmes: “All of the Turkey” was the modern “Metamorphosis”. It’s dense and solipsistic atmosphere coupled with themes of alienation and existential dread provide an important lesson on the fragility of human ego, in the psychological sense. It’s a shame that such an astute commentary on a society in which people create personas to live vicariously through online and the troubling consequences of this pursuit never saw the light of day.
Gable’s eyes dropped, searching the table as he thought. To the Celestial Shark, it was blood in the water.
Jared Holmes: Your work is powerful, John; just dramatically ahead of its time. One of the greatest artists of our time often had a similar problem: Lou Reed.
Thursday crossed herself.
Thursday: May he rest in peace.
Jared Holmes: “The Velvet Underground and Nico” was a catastrophic flop when it was released. In a decade of feel-good pseudo-Eastern bullshit like the Sixties, no one wanted to confront the uglier side of life that Reed was writing about. Similarly, “Metal Machine Music” was widely lambasted as unlistenable and pretentious before it became accepted as a defining album in the development of industrial and electronic music. Some people see you as a failure – I see you as an artist who sees so far beyond the curve that most can’t even visualize it yet.
Gable stared at Jared, leaning back in his chair as the smirk subsided into a calm smile. Somewhere behind the cheap sunglass lenses, Gable’s eyes and mind buzzed with life.
John Gable: You have my attention.
Jared Holmes: People have forgotten about you at their own peril. You’re a smart man with a brilliant and perhaps dangerous mind.
Jared leaned forward and reached up, drawing his sunglasses away to reveal bloodshot and hungover eyes, wild and electric.
Jared Holmes: We could do great things together.
Gable nodded, as if considering this.
John Gable: What sort of great things?
Jared clasped his hands together, his smile widening to reveal a set of perfect white teeth – undoubtedly the result of expensive dentistry and obsessive oral hygiene.
Jared Holmes: We are living in the age in which the pursuit of all values other than money, success, fame, and glamour has either been discredited or destroyed. Why are artists like the Weeknd taking off? They have their thumb on the pulse of the zeitgeist. Your thumb isn’t there: it’s farther down the wrist all the way to the pulse in the elbow. But I see the gap in between; the point A to point B. I’m not saying I know “the Secret” with a capital “S” or “Truth” with a capital “T” if such things even exist…
Jared paused for a moment, allowing the dramatic effect of his words to permeate his prey.
Jared Holmes: But I know we’re not far apart. And I have a lot of fucking people falling over what I say, wanting to shake my hand and tell me I’m a genius.
Gable brought the cup of coffee to his mouth, taking a long and deliberate sip.
John Gable: So you’ve come to recruit me.
Jared Holmes: I took Kyle Kemp and truly made him better than everyone. I took Dustin Beaver and changed him from impersonator to bigger fucking deal. You are neither of these men: you’re bigger and more successful. A John Gable and Jared Holmes alliance is big. Fucking. Money. And…
Jared smiled as he savored the words on his tongue.
Jared Holmes: …I want to burn down the same man you do. A Mister Joseph Malignaggi.
Gable’s smile became a grin, his eyes as wild and alive as Jared’s.
John Gable: Joey Flash? I can get a piece of that sniveling little pussy?!
Mania washed over the actor, his aura of lethargic cynicism and sarcasm quickly leaving him.
John Gable: Yes! If that’s what you’re offering then sign me the fuck up! I’ll pray at the altar of the Six God or whatever the hell your thing is.
Gable’s eyes shot between Jared and Thursday, his enthusiasm tempering momentarily.
John Gable: Now, I am engaged, as you know. I know how your group parties an-
Jared interrupted him with the wave of a hand.
Jared Holmes: As you can see, I’m personally committed, and Johnny Rabid is a family man. No conflict at all.
Gable looked between Thursday and Jared, considering this before smiling wickedly.
John Gable: What do I have to do?
Jared Holmes: Help me conquer. Fight alongside me and defend me…
He offered a hand.
Jared Holmes: …and I’ll give you everything.
Gable clasped Jared’s hand and give it a shake. The devil had made a deal.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Step Five: Lead By Example
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Jared’s mind came back to the present as the members of #BeachKrew gathered around him. His hands rose in dramatic fashion as his voice raised, echoing through the apartment and cutting through the roar of the streets outside.
Jared Holmes: It’s time for a fuckin’ parade, bitches!
The room erupted in cheers: #BeachKrew members, groupies, and the few hanger-on’s deemed worthy. With a wave of his hand, the room went silent again.
Jared Holmes: Two weeks’ worth of matches are announced. At Slam, it’s going to be me, Gable, and Andre facing the Sentinels for the Trios Belts! Wade, Kyle, and Johnny will be the massacre of the weak, facing Adam Young, Raymond Hatcher, and Lucious Starr, and we all know how that’ll be turning out! And you, Dustin, will be shoved into some garbage clusterfuck tag match which you should probably no-show rather than waste breath on!
Dustin raised his empty tall can in the air, arm still around the busty blonde.
Dustin Beaver: I literally don’t even care! Fuckin’ Mardi Gras!
Jared Holmes: This is the city that #BeachKrew was founded in. This is our town, and this is our holiday. When we move on to San Antonio and into Slam, we will continuing this celebration and leaving dripping in gold. Slam is our bitch! Time Bomb is our fuckin’ bitch! Now let’s go put on the sort of fanfare that only a group like #BeachKrew could put on! There ain’t no party like a #BeachKrew party, #fuccbois!
The room exploded in cheers as bottles popped and lines were ripped. When they spilled into the streets, the swirling chaos of the faction sent ripples through the crowd in a way that only #BeachKrew could do in the midst of pre-Mardi Gras celebrations. Tomorrow was the parade, but tonight was the riot. Slam would be the coronation.
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Step 6ix: Go Harder than Anyone Else
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The WCF camera positioned at the lip of the float, taking in the breathtaking sight which had been carefully assembled under Jared’s design and Thuggin’s orders to the contractors. Steps of gold, green, and purple sloped up to a massive platform where palm trees of beads with inlaid speakers blared dubstep, go-go cages featuring gyrating dancers wearing hybrid snorkel and masquerade masks, several coolers held bottles of premixed purple drank, tall cans of Jeremiah Weed Twisted Tea, and chilled bottles of Fireball, and – of course – several buckets full of brightly colored beads. Beyond the intermingling of Mardi Gras imagery with #BeachKrew flair sat the decadent center piece: the golden throne of the Six God.
The King in Yellow sat beside the Queen of Blades, hands gently clasped as the pulse of music shook the diamonds woven into their full-faced masks which in turn gave off dazzling light displays from the pulsing lasers. On each side of the King and Queen stood John Gable and Andre Aquarius, their masks on and their hands folded before them in ring attire. Jared leaned forward, gently releasing Thursday’s hand.
Jared Holmes: And so begins the royal fanfare of the Six God, rolling through the swamps and barreling through the deserts like a devil wind before it sets ablaze San Antonio and leaves little but ashes in the wake. Have you not heard the drums? Have you not seen the Yellow Sign? Have the words of the Galactic Prophecy not stung your eyes and sent tremors through your body? If not, congratulations: you haven’t been paying attention and you won’t be spared. Luckily, I don’t think that will entirely be an issue this week, consider that we face the first line of your defenses – your so-called “Sentinels” who have realistically stood for the fallen and against the rising by getting themselves injured or retiring.
Jared snickered, the mask quaking with the movements of his head.
Jared Holmes: People look at you like a cohesive unit because apparently your belts mean something. No, I’m sorry #fuccbois, but I doubt anyone is taking anything seriously considering the anemic “challenges” you’ve faced on the way to those soon-to-be-our titles and all the other instances in which you’ve consistently screwed the pooch. Frankly, the entire lot of you combined is such a comedy of errors and fucked-in-half melodrama that I’m surprised you’re not an ABC Primetime show or at least on an episode of Jerry Springer.
Just imagine that: “He killed my child, and now I’m his tag team partner.” Or maybe “He spent my entire career embarrassing me and beating me down to lower mid-card, and now I realized we were meant for each other all along.” Or maybe, as the great Dag Riddick put it, “I was submitted by the best member of our group who decided to retire, so he gave me this pity fuck of a belt because I’ve been preoccupied with giving Grayson Pierce the rub so he can screw the pooch on the biggest stage of them all.” Any of those episodes sounds like solid gold to me.
This is what a team of champions looks like? This is a cohesive unit? My group may have been dumb enough to let the Monster Guardian of the Nae Nae, but it’s a helluva lot better than teaming with the Patron Saint of Failure. How’s it going, Occulo?
Jared waved to the camera.
Jared Holmes: I don’t think we’ve really met, and I want you to know, it pains me to even mention you. I should recycle my own material from Hellimination and substitute “Vic Venable is also in this match” with “Occulo is here too, I guess.” I feel like I’m kicking the crutches out from under a retarded kid spitting at you like this. It legitimately pains me; you’re a man whose husk has been nearly bled dry of his dignity. Maybe I should just end this here.
Jared grinned under the mask.
Jared Holmes: But fuck that, #KEK. I’m gonna murk you like anyone; that would be discriminating against cripples. Riddle me this, Occulo, how does it feel to reduce a Trios team to “Two and a Half Men”? You have Joey “Charlie Sheen” Flash, the Brooding Faggot Dune, and Occulo, their pipsqueak little runt. Boom, ABC call ‘em up and give them a contract.
You suck, Occulo. It’s not even a question who’s the worst member of this group: it’s you. From screwing the pooch two ONEs in a row for the same title to losing your US Title by having Kaz pin Snapz to then losing your rematch shot to Danny fucking Anderson. You’re supposedly the “architect” behind this group, right? The one who brought it all together? How does it feel to know that in a revolving line-up of men, you’re perpetually the weak link? You bring in Howard Black and he completely eclipses you. You slink off with your tail between your legs until you work up the guts to come back and pick up the pieces only for Howard Black to once again steal the thunder. Now you’ve brought in Joey Flash to fill the void, and you’re still completely outclassed despite being the Sentinel.
You came back you “heard there was a war going on”, huh? Know what the fuck your role in that war was? France. You got a train run on you and buckled like a faggot under the weight of our swagged out Axis, and now you’re tugging America’s pant leg to help you. And when you lose on Sunday, everyone’s going to ask how the two “Stars of the Year” could lose before eyes fall on you.
Shame on you for enabling this, Dune. Then again, your track record with parenting has been abysmal, hasn’t it? Maybe if you threw Occulo off a roof, you’d have some better luck here. Oh, I’m sorry, is that “too soon”? Am I going too far? Guess what, #fuccboi, it’s a stain you’ll go your whole career with, everyone always distrustfully eyeing you and wondering when you’ll go like the pit-bull everyone knew you were, snap, and kill again. Then you can run off, mope about it in your shitty little adobe hut, come back a “changed man” who has “conquered the demon possessing him” and the idiots will lol and clap like happy seals if they’re stupid enough to let you near them.
You can’t come back from these things, Dune. I know it, your “former father” partner knows it, and you know it. Frankly, I wonder how you fucking live with yourself, let alone have the audacity to embrace the same man who broke your “brother’s” arm and brought flames to your house. Know what’s keeping that anger at bay? Your defeat at the hands of Howard Black and the success of your title run. When it dries up and when you snap again out of desperation to be relevant or fresh, everything you love will burn again.
But can’t go on too much with that – gotta save the A-Roll for the Trilogy Cup. And if you don’t think I’m stomping that cunt Twilight before my waves extinguish your flame, then you’re more brain dead than Christian Malignaggi after you played shot-put with him.
Here’s a joke for you boys and girls: what’s the difference between a six-year-old and a heroin balloon?
Answer: Joseph Malignaggi would’ve never let Dune anywhere near his smack.
LAUGH FOR MISTER SHARKS
Jared Holmes: Yeah, there’s a fukken “Dream Songs” reference for you, Flash, since you seem adamant about jocking me for newfound relevance. How dare you type my name in any keyboard, you greasy little wop. You disappoint. You pathetic fucking loser.
Jared reached back to grip the back of his mask, removing it from his face and setting it on his lap as he smiled into the camera.
Jared Holmes: The only thing stupider than thinking a haircut is a face turn is thinking a name change is a face turn. And the only thing stupider than that was you even questioning the direction which brought you your success. You can try to reverse course, no sell history, or whatever you want, but some of us paid attention far more than changing our forum avatars to Justin Bieber. Some of us remember the whining, mopey, melodramatic cunt you became. Do you think that just because you’ve gone back to “Flash” and you’re romping around Twitter like a belligerent drunk that people would follow your lead? That’s not how this works, Joseph; this isn’t some world where you can hit the “edit” button and cut out bits of your life or “retcon” things. This is real life.
Now the only thing you’ve done is buried your own credibility deeper than your twenty-first trimester abortion. And suddenly the absolute nonchalance you seem to treat the death of your own child with – the defining moment of your year which brought you the sympathy of others – seems like a joke. So tell me, Joseph, since you’re all buddy-buddy with the good Doctor Dune of Mojave Planned Parenthood, was it the plan all along?
C’mon, buddy, don’t be shy: look how much being an absolute jerk-off has gotten you. You have one man who posed a consistent threat now retired. You have Grand Slam Champion status. Trios Titles with men who “hated you”. Feud of the Year and Wrestler of the Year. Just admit you paid Dune to solve the problem of the son you hated that you had with a woman you never loved.
Jared smiled, standing from the throne and walking towards the camera.
Jared Holmes: No bodybags on deck this time, just bloated corpses washing up on the beach.
Jared waved good-bye as the camera cut.
