Post by God King Dune on Feb 20, 2016 21:10:11 GMT -5
Rolling thunder brings light to the screen. The sun has set on New York City, and storm clouds blot out the usual absence of visible stars overhead. The clouds drop a sheet of rain upon the brightly lit skyline, and as a flash of lightning strikes and forks, we cut away.
The soft orange glow of streetlights radiates from the bottom of the screen. The suburbs act as a sort of nest for the now distant skyline, which rests above them on screen. The massive metropolis hangs there, suspended like some decorative Christmas ornament beneath mother nature’s surging clouds. And though the glowing cityscape may be awe-inspiring, the unfathomable energy encapsulated overhead reiterates the fact that, when stripped down and pitted against nature, man is entirely at her mercy.
Another flash of lightning spreads its jagged trails across the sky, and we cut away once more.
The lights of the city are all but gone, existing now as a mere bulbous glow atop a forest of tall spruce trees. A road cuts through the heart of the forest, and rain smacks against the pavement as two headlights crest a slope and close on the screen. We cut to the approaching car’s cabin, where two men sit in momentary silence. One wears a greying beard; the other, a half mask that covers his butchered nose, mouth, and jawline.
Freeman sets the mouth of an unadorned glass bottle to his lips and tilts it up, sending the last gulp of golden tequila rushing into his mouth. He holds the bottle up in front of his face, shakes it, and upon seeing that it’s empty, he turns toward Dune.
Freeman: Alright...I waited you out the whole bottle. Now tell me, how’d it go?
It’s been nearly two hours since Dune left the company of none other than Joey Flash in the city, and every moment since has been spent in quiet reflection.
Dune: It went well, as expected.
Freeman: I could tell that from the lack of blood and bruises on you. But I want details, Dune. What happened? What’d you talk about?
Dune: Where we’ve been; where we’re headed.
Freeman: Ah...such vivid detail. I take it you formulated a plan for Beach Crew this Sunday then?
Dune: Sure, we’ve got a plan. It’s the same one me and Joey have employed week in and week out from the beginning: set the fire and watch them burn. The same goes for Occulo. The guy’s over in Japan, and yet when we come together in the ring this Sunday, each of us is going to outman and outlast each of those Beach Crew fucks.
Freeman: But the three of you haven’t fought as a team before.
Dune: And they have? They can plot out all the bullshit shenanigans they want for Sunday while they stroke each other’s egos and gag on their own dicks, but they’re driven by fear of the Trios Champions. We represent the fiercest challenge they’re yet to face, and we’re set to further discredit their laughably self-proclaimed reign of dominance over the Federation. Let them plan, Freeman. In the end, they’re only preparing for defeat.
Freeman: You can’t blame them for allowing fear to take roost.
Dune: No...in fact, they’re smart to fear us. They’re only assclowns by design. They say dumb shit and surround themselves with pillars of it, but they’re not dumb themselves...not entirely, anyway.
Freeman nods before turning to look out the window. The headlights create a hypnotic, glistening effect on the soaked evergreen-firs, and he grins at them in drunken amusement. After a moment he sits up, and his grin fades as he speaks.
Freeman: So you and Joey...you’ve buried the hatchet then?
Dune: Without question. We may have started out as mortal enemies, but what we went through at the hands of...him...has left us bound for all time. I have very few friends, Freeman - you know that more than most - and I don’t strive to make new ones. You won’t see me and Joey hanging out on the weekends snorting rails out of each other’s assholes like the boys of Beach Crew, but ours is a friendship far deeper and more meaningful than any one of them can imagine. Joey and I went through Hell together...and the bonds those fires forged can never be broken.
Freeman: Good. He made for a menacing rival, and frankly I can’t think of a better fighter to have in your corner. You may well need him this week against Aquarius, Holmes, and Gable.
Dune: Two Beach Crew henchmen and John Gable...what the fuck’s he doing in this match anyway?
Freeman: He joined their ranks.
Dune: Wait...are you serious?
Freeman nods, and Dune stifles his laughter
Dune: I thought Seth paired him with Holmes and Aquarius so they’d have someone to carry the load.
Freeman: No, no, he’s one of them. Hmm, I guess now that I think of it you were a bit...indisposed...when he revealed himself to be one of Jared Holmes’ newly-masked personal bodyguards alongside Andre Aquarius.
Dune can stifle it no longer, and he breaks into a fit of laughter at the the news.
Dune: Jared Holmes’ bodyguard?! Holy shit, how the mighty have fallen. Gable was once a proud fighter in the WCF - a bit too prideful at times, sure - but now he’s got jack shit to hang his coat on what with stooping so low. John Gable, rolling around in the sewers with that rat-faced little shit Jared Holmes. Incredible. Times have changed, Freeman.
Freeman: You’re on good terms with Joey Flash, Dune...you’re damn right times have changed.
Dune: I wonder how Gable managed to fuck up so badly and align himself with Beach Crew. From what I remember, he was always about #1 and making a star out of himself. Beach Crew may have gotten hot in the wake of a post-WAR XIV WCF without myself or Joey Flash around to keep them in check, but they’ve been on the decline for months now.
Freeman: It may be that Gable’s a bit too smart for his own good. He likely sees the flaws in Beach Crew’s makeup and is looking to exploit the hell out of them. I mean, a guy with his talent could easily skyrocket to the top of an overinflated stable like theirs. He may have the pitiful position of Jared Holmes’ bodyguard now, but if he sticks around, he’ll overtake Holmes as the leader by the summer, if not sooner.
Dune: Wade Moor’s the leader of Beach Crew...but I agree all the same.
Freeman: Well, I think technically Holmes is the leader. I know it wouldn’t seem that way to anyone from the outside looking in - or perhaps even to those inside - but it’s what he claims.
Dune chuckles again.
Dune: No...Wade Moor’s the leader of Beach Crew. You don’t lead by getting smashed around and dropping a lower tier title to the guy you won it from a couple weeks prior then disappearing for months on end. Wade outlasted the wrestler formerly known as The Sharks at WAR XIV, then went on to capture the World Title shortly thereafter. Sure, he lost it in pathetic fashion...but that’s Beach Crew for you.
Meanwhile, when he hasn’t been stuck in a K-hole or lost in a deemster trench, Jared’s been at home moping around because I made him look like the absolute bitch he is in front of his boys and the entire WCF Faithful. Some leader. Beach Crew’s so fucked anyway that having Jared Holmes for a leader would make all too much sense.
Freeman: It would, wouldn’t it? The kid’s probably still fuming about you unmasking him that night last fall.
Dune: I’d be embarrassed to show that face if it were mine too. There’s a difference between the kind of ugly Jared and I are. I was made ugly; he was born that way. I’ve seen the boy up close, Freeman - I kid you not he looks like a fucking rat. I’ve never seen a more punchable face in all my life.
Freeman: And the way he carries himself ought to make you want to break him in two. I almost signed a contract just so I could do the honors. Careful with that one this Sunday, Dune - he’s brittle.
They share a laugh at Holmes’ expense before Freeman continues.
Freeman: And Aquarius...what do you know of him?
Dune: Aside from him being Holmes’ bodyguard, nothing...because that’s what he’s done in the ring. For all we know, he could emerge as the sorely needed dominant leader Beach Crew has needed since day one..but I sincerely doubt it’ll come to fruition. Andre seems more likely to liquify and occupy the lowest possible space as opposed to becoming the cream that rises to the top.
Freeman: He’s a cocky little shit.
Dune: No more than his cohorts. Still though, it’ll be nice to properly introduce him to the WCF this Sunday. Somewhere deep beneath the mountains of dead brain cells in his drug-addled mind exists the knowledge that he doesn’t stand a chance of defeating three of the best wrestlers the WCF has ever seen. He’s not cocky because of his skill-level, Freeman. He’s cocky because he’s deluded himself into thinking that simply being in the presence of his false idols will bring him unrivaled success. Well...that and the drugs. And after the match this Sunday, he’s going to need some gold to flow through his veins, because there’s no fucking way he’s walking out with mine.
Freeman: I agree with you...on all accounts. Now let me ask you this: are we almost there?
Dune: Yeah.
Freeman: How much longer?
Dune: Couple minutes.
Freeman nods. He sets the mouth of the empty tequila bottle to his lips and tilts it back. Disappointment follows, and he drops it by his feet. After a moment, he turns back to Dune.
Freeman: So you’re really gonna buy this place?
Dune: I’ve already signed the papers. It’ll give me somewhere to crash when we’re touring the Northeast. Plus, I’ve hardly spent a dime since I signed my contract last year. And what with everything that’s gone down these past few months, I figure why not live a little?
Freeman: Hey, I’m not complaining. Odds are I’ll be here more often than you!
Dune: We’ll see about that.
The scene begins to fade out, and we segue into another.
A plump old man sits in a lounge-chair catacorner to a fireplace alight with flames. An ornate wooden pipe dangles from his lips, and he mumbles under his breath as a butler enters the frame, drink in hand. He leans down and hands it to him.
Butler: Anything else, Mr. Pollard?
Mr. Pollard: No, no...that’ll be all for now.
The butler nods and walks away, and we cut to a wide-shot as Mr. Pollard calls out.
Mr. Pollard: Oh...be sure to keep an ear out for our guest! He should be here any -
Just then, the doorbell chimes, and the old man rises to hear it.
We cut back to Dune and Freeman, who stand outside the front door. Freeman looks around at the front of the massive estate before giving a nod of approval.
Freeman: Seems sturdy enough.
Dune: It’ll do.
Freeman: And it’s got a hot tub, right?
Dune: Yeah. It’s got a hot tub.
He turns back to the door, and just before he rings the bell again, the butler opens up to reveal his plump employer.
Mr. Pollard: Good evening, Mr. Dune! Come in, come in!
They step inside, and we cut to a shot from within as the butler closes the door. We find ourselves in a lavish entryway with a double staircase leading to split-level floors above.
Dune: I know I’m not officially taking over the deed for a few more days, so I appreciate your courtesy in allowing us to stay here for the night. I was visiting a friend in the city, and we’re not flying out until the morning.
Mr. Pollard: And I appreciate you purchasing the estate at such a fair price, Mr. Dune, so no thanks are necessary! Now, can I get you anything - some food, some drink?
Dune: Not me. I’m heading to bed. I’ll be out of your hair in the morning.
Freeman: Ah...um, could I…
Mr. Pollard: Yes…?
Freeman: ...is there a hot tub around here?
The plump old man bellows with false laughter.
Mr. Pollard: Yes, yes...will you show our guest to the pool area?
The butler nods, and he and Freeman wander out of the entryway, leaving Dune and Mr. Pollard alone.
Dune: I don’t need the master suite. I’ll leave that for you until it’s mine to sleep in.
Mr. Pollard: Nonsense. I’m packed and all but moved out. In fact, your furnishings arrived just yesterday morning. Come, I’ll show you to your room.
Dune: I remember the way. Thanks again though.
Mr. Pollard: Ah, my pleasure.
He eyes Dune for a moment, then dons a sly grin as he continues.
Mr. Pollard: A few old friends and I are entertaining some new ones tonight below deck, as we call it. Beneath the garden - you remember. I wonder, Mr. Dune, if you would care to join us?
Dune: I mean no offense, but I’m dead tired and I’ve got an early flight to catch.
Mr. Pollard: None taken, Mr. Dune. Right then, if I don’t see you in the morning, I’ll be in touch. Goodnight!
Dune: Goodnight.
Dune makes his way up one of the staircases to the fourth floor of the home, which exists solely as the master suite. He reaches the top stair and opens the door, and we cut to inside the room as he shuts the door behind him.
Within, he exhales at the sight of the unslept-in bed before making his way to the bathroom. The lights flick on automatically as he passes through the doorway. He gazes at his reflection for a moment before he reaches up and takes his mask off to reveal the deep, jagged scars that mark the lower half of his face.
His eyes flick toward the screen as his deep voice breaks the silence.
Dune: Nice place...though I’ll admit it’s not my style. Still, even a hardened man like myself enjoys the comforts of wealth and luxury a place like this provides. In truth I’d be wise not to spend too much time here. This is the kind of place that makes a man go soft. And what it does to children who are born and raised here...well, it’s the sort of damage that’s irreparable by any means.
Case in point: Jared Holmes.
I almost feel bad for him. I almost want to say it’s not his fault that he’s been a sniveling little shit his entire life...but where, then, to place the blame? His mother and father, who seem to have been about as active in his upbringing as mine were in my own? Or maybe Hacksaw Jim Thuggin for further corrupting the troubled youth Holmes seems destined to remain for all-time. But the further we go up the ladder, the further we distance ourselves from the truth - that being that every man is responsible for his own words; his own actions...and that includes Boy Privilege, Jared Holmes.
There’s another moniker for you, Jared. Maybe after your Degrassi phase you can turn to that one and redefine yourself all over again all over again. Your boy Drake must be real appreciative of the creepy little white kid stealing his gimmick and making an ass out of himself every chance he gets. Coincidentally enough, the stylin’, profilin’, wheelchair riding Drake was only playing at being crippled. You though, Jared - you’ve been crippled from the start. You’ve been a fuck up your whole life...and yes, it’s entirely your fault.
So you’re the leader of Beach Crew huh? You’re going to lead your brainwashed bodyguards into battle against me and two of WCF’s finest? You’re going to bring the Trios Titles back to the shit-covered beach you call home? It’s a fool’s errand, Jared, and how fitting that you’re undertaking it.
I’ve wanted at you for a while now. Ever since WAR XIV and the events surrounding it, I’ve seen your heartfelt words on the tronz, you miserable fuck. You can use the death of Christian Malignaggi to your supposed advantage all you want. You can claim that I, myself, did the deed. But you know you’re in the wrong, and your lies only lend further disgrace to your name. You condemn lowly motherfuckers for using cheap heat while relying upon the cheapest heat of all against me. It goes to show that grasping at straws is the best you can do when my shadow’s cast upon you. It’s no surprise that every single Beach Crew motherfucker would lean on that lie like the crutch it is; the crutch I’ve provided for you.
What else is there to say about me? What weaknesses can you exploit that I haven’t literally written out for you? You probably think you’re clever for harping on it, but it only makes your weaknesses that much more glaring in going back to the shit-well time and again. And because of your insufferable gall and lack of conscience in doing so, I’m going to unleash on you this Sunday like never before. Two bodyguards won’t be nearly enough to keep me from fucking you up worse than last time.
Dune turns and exits the bathroom, and as he slides out of his boots, he continues.
Dune: Are you listening, mysterious masked bodyguards? I ought to address you as one, seeing how in making identical career moves, you’ve become one living, breathing organism composed entirely of the driveling shits...but I won’t.
I won’t, Andre, because unfortunately I’m only going to be able to dismantle you and your counterpart John Gable one at a time in the ring this Sunday. But I’ll start with you because, let’s face it, you’re going to be easier to deal with. Gable’s been in the game a while now, and though he hasn’t made the most of his time here, he’s done more than you’ll ever do. And with his short list of accomplishments in mind...how fucking pathetic does that make you?
You don’t strike me as the lasting type, Andre. You seem like one of the 99% who fizzle out and disappear from the WCF forever. Well it’s not the 1% you’re up against this week, Andre...I’m far beyond that. It’s not every day you get the privilege of standing in the same ring as one World Champion, let alone two. Add in Occulo, and there’s three World Champion-caliber wrestlers squaring off against three fish flopping around on the shore. You have no place in the ring with us, Andre. And it’s funny, because something tells me the three of you honestly think you’re walking out with our gold. That’s so Beach Crew...right, boys - to assume you’ve won when all the evidence suggests otherwise? Sublime naivety...so Crew. Fuck off.
But should you stick around, Andre, you’ll remember this match above all others. I’m going to make sure of it. Carnivores and killers alike seek out the weakest of their prey to fall upon first. The same strategy holds true in surviving tag team matches here in the WCF. And should you find yourself staring me down between the ropes early or late in the bout this Sunday, you’ll recognize the killer in me right off. Perhaps Jared Holmes should be your bodyguard, Andre, because in the ring this Sunday, you’re the one in dire need of protection.
Nothing can save you from me...save a lucky tag. In freeing yourself from my wrath, though, you’ll only damn your teammates. And what should happen if you tag in Jared? Handing him over to me isn’t in your job description, Andre. In fact, it’s the exact opposite of what you’re sole purpose in life has become: to protect Jared Holmes from men like me. Despite your foolishness in taking the position, you ought to be thanking me for allowing it to open up. Had I not broken Jared’s rat face a few months back, you’d be out of a job and likely a WCF contract right now. And when I’m through with you this Sunday, you’ll wish you’d never signed on the dotted line.
Fair warning, Andre: disappointment is inevitable, and it’s all the more bitter for newcomers with a taste for their own dick. Tag-alongs like you either get used to it, or they get the fuck out of the ring upon realizing they never belonged there in the first place.
Dune makes his way over to the bed, where he sits on the edge and stretches his neck. His eyes find the screen once more as he continues.
Dune: If you need help coping, Andre, look no further than your newly masked buddy John Gable. Disappointment has come to define his life and career(s)...hasn’t it, John?
You were once a leading man, and yet here you are playing the lowly role of Bodyguard #2 in this Sunday’s Main Event. You’ve been away doing this and that - allowing your pathetic legacy to escape further from the forgetful minds of the WCF Faithful with each passing day - and after realizing you have no place elsewhere, you’ve decided to come crawling back. Well here you are, John - back in the limelight of the WCF; back to being the fish out of water you’ll always be here. And how fitting - how consistent - that you’ve aligned yourself with the most watered down stable in our business, because you have no place with them either.
What’s a man with no place in this world to do?
You’re at your wits end. It’s obvious to see. Joining Beach Crew is a desperation move if there’s ever been one. Strapping on a mask won’t make them like you, John. That’s not how it works. I’m not the first to wear one, but I certainly didn’t don one out of the blue after having a midlife crisis in the midst of a failed career. I’ve worn my mask since I was a child, atop the scars you see stretching and writhing before you as I speak. Pretty, aren’t I? But the only scars you hide are those etched by shame...and you’re right to hide them, John. You’re right to feel ashamed.
I won’t ignore the fact that wannabe Hollywood, wannabe World Champion types like yourself never fail to steal a gimmick that works; a gimmick that sells. I mean fuck, look at Beach Crew. They claim originality just like shitty ass born-again hippies did in 1969 after that phoney peace & love, psychedelic shit’d been going on for years. Beach Crew’s the edgy internet-troll, vaporwave stable that’s five years past the “best if used by” date.
And now, John, in an attempt to revitalize your career, you’ve joined their ranks...and you’ve donned a mask...and once more, you’ve brought shame and embarrassment to your name.
The return of John Gable could have been a great thing, but you ruined it. Just absolutely destroyed it. Again, it’s fitting though. It’s very *you* of you to make such a lackluster, game-show-fail-noise-worthy return as the one you made a couple weeks back. And this Sunday, after you’ve knelt before the three pinnacle fighters in the WCF, you’re not rising with our Trios Gold...only more disappointment in the full knowledge that you and yours aren’t fit to where it.
Dune sheds his t-shirt and turns off the lamp on the bedside table. Darkness swallows everything on screen...everything, save the glowing green digits of an alarm clock beside the lamp. We begin to zoom in on it, stopping once the neon-green on black numbers fill the screen.
10:00 fades into 10:30…
10:30 fades into 11:00…
11:30 fades into 12:00…
But 12:00 doesn’t fade, and after a moment, it becomes 12:01.
We zoom out from the clock, and the faint, rhythmic pulsing of distant music greets our ears. As it continues, Dune’s breathing becomes audible, and before long he wakes from his slumber. The sound of his hand feeling for the lamp switch precedes its light, which bathes his hulking frame in a warm glow as he rises out of bed and walks toward the window.
Looking down upon the backyard, he sees the sprawling garden lit up with pink, green, and blue neon lights, and as the music becomes a bit more clear, the words of Mr. Pollard ring out in his mind once more:
“A few old friends and I are entertaining some new ones tonight below deck, as we call it. Beneath the garden - you remember. I wonder, Mr. Dune, if you would care to join us.”
Despite his better nature, he straps on his mask, ties up his boots, and throws on his black t-shirt before exiting the room. The camera doesn’t follow, and after a moment, we cut away.
Outside, the rain has stopped, and the fallen droplets make the midnight garden shimmer with the pink, green, and blue neon lights that shine upon the soaked shrubbery. One side of a glass double-door swings open, and Dune steps out into the night.
The music is louder than ever, though still muffled and distant. Dune follows it toward its origin: a black door built into a hillside not far away. He reaches it, heaves it open...and we’re hit with a blast of sound-drenched turquoise light before he steps through and closes the door behind him. After a moment, we cut to within.
Dune is bathed in turquoise light as the music now fills our ears with crystal clarity. The bass is deep; the synth, heavy and persistent. A euphoric melody lends to the music’s entrancing, hypnotic quality. The sight before him is entrancing as well, and we rotate slowly to reveal it.
Stretching out before us is a wide, black-carpeted hallway dotted with pink, green, and blue streamers and balloons, and whose walls are made of glass-encased water. Decorative rocks, weeds, and coral provide the varied marine life swimming about on either side of him a false sense of freedom that the confining-walls strip away.
The subterranean-aquarium is striking to behold, and Dune finds himself lost in the moment as the deep, repetitive cycle of sounds penetrates his freshly-woken ears. He snaps out of it, and he sets off into the aquarium.
At the end of the hallway is a sharp right turn, and he steps back after taking it. There before him stands a decrepit old man wearing a cone-shaped party hat and a red and black suit that’s far too large for his skeletal frame. He groans weakly as he raises a small tin bucket and shakes it at Dune.
Old Man: Copper for Kanye?
Dune: Kanye West?
Old Man: Coppers, silvers...anything helps.
Dune dismisses him and strides off toward a set of double-doors. He passes through into a vast, circular hall. The spacious room’s cornerless walls are lined by glass-encased water, and a half dozen hammerhead sharks swim about the perimeter.
Dune: Los Tiburones…
He chuckles at the discarded moniker of Jared Holmes, then gets a spike of adrenaline as he envisions the ratty #BeachKrewman. It’s brushed aside as the man tending bar in a corner just out of Dune’s peripheral calls out over the music.
Bartender: Ho there - you just missed ‘em!
Dune turns to see the gentlemanly bartender and three neon-suited young men sitting opposite him.
Bartender: Dune, right?
Dune: Right. Missed who?
Bartender: Ah, the guests. They went downstairs a few minutes ago. I’d let you down but they lock it from the inside. Three more late arrivals here. Care for a drink?
Dune: I don’t...
But “partake” doesn’t escape his lips, as it so often does. Instead, the strange atmosphere allows him a change of heart.
Dune: ...see why not.
Bartender: What’ll it be?
Dune walks over and sits down beside one of the three men at the bar.
Dune: Shot of tequila.
He pours the drink and places it in front of Dune, who sheds his mask before lifting the glass up and eyeing it in the light. He catches sight of all three men beside him staring at his badly butchered face before he downs the liquor. Immediately he feels its effects.
Dune: Wwwhoa...right, another.
The bartender pours another, and Dune downs it before calling for a third. The buzz rushes straight to his head, and he stands and tries out his drunken body for the first time in ages.
We cut to the three young men, who stare at the monstrous Dune in horror as he begins aggressively striking at the air. They whisper amongst each other.
Benny: Should we bail?
Jimmy: No, offer him some blow.
Ricky: The key to any man’s heart…
Meanwhile, Dune calls for another shot. Four deep now, he turns to see a bag of white powder being offered to him.
Benny: Wanna hit the slopes?
Dune’s inhibition is lost thanks to the tequila, and he snatches the bag and sits down at the bar. He touches a bit to his tongue and nods in approval.
Benny: Do as much as you want, man. We’ve got plenty.
Dune looks toward the bartender, who gives the all-clear before Dune pours out a mound about half the size of his massive fist.
Dune: I usually prefer to keep my wits about me...but what’s one night?
He arranges it into three long, fat lines. He pulls out a wallet, rolls up a $100 bill, leans in...and blasts the inside of his skull with the white powder. He cocks his head and shoots back in his seat.
Dune: BOOM! Good GOD!
He stands and resumes striking at the air, much to the horror of the neon-suited trio. They huddle in as he continues.
Benny: Fuck, this is terrifying. Let’s bail.
Jimmy: No!
Ricky: We’re wearing #BeachKrew gear, Jimmy. What if he -
Dune: What was that?
The trio turns to see Dune towering just a couple feet away at the bar, his face one a riled predator dons just before it strikes.
Dune: Beach Crew fanboys - I should have known. I’m glad you mentioned them. Mmm...I can’t fucking wait for Sunday. I understand now why they and countless others fill their heads with this shit just before their music hits. It makes you feel better than you are. It makes you feel -
Dune leans over, taking in the second line before shooting back up.
Dune: - like you’re fucking invincible. I’ve felt this way before though, and I didn’t need cocaine and booze to achieve it.
I was invincible at Asesinato de Mayo last year when I squared off against Natural Ice Beckman, one of the greatest WCF World Champions of all time...and yet I put him down for good when I walked out with the Title. I was invincible two months later in Tokyo, when I squared off against Jonny Fly and every title-holder in the company only to come away with the same World Title I carried down to the ring. That was Ultimate Showdown, boys...otherwise known as Beach Crew’s Eve.
He shoots forward and snatches Benny by the collar, lifting him up off the ground.
Dune: When’d you hop on the bandwagon? Were you late to board like John fucking Gable? Or did you hop on at the outset like Andre Aquarius and Jared Holmes, the man who claims to lead Beach Crew?
Benny: I...we…
Dune shoves him back into his seat before leaning over the third line of blow. He sniffs it clean, and after he recovers from the initial rush, he stares intensely at the three men with bloodshot eyes and white powder nestled in the deep crevasses beneath his nose.
Dune: Who’s the Aquarius fan amongst you? No takers? That’s not surprising. It’s hard to be fanatic about someone whose start in the WCF has been abysmal at best. There’s rooting for the underdog who shows potential, and then there’s rooting for Andre Aquarius, who thus far has shown none. This motherfucker thinks he’s different because of his skin tone, but in reality he’s just another mid-card lifer whose ceiling sits somewhere far below my feet.
Isn’t there some sort of ethical misconduct at play by placing me and him in the same ring? He’s the size of a middle school girl, and it’s simple physics that I can snap a middle school girl’s vertebrae over my knee with the quickness...not that I would, of course. And it’s not as if Andre possesses some unique skillset that makes up for his innate physical-femininity. What gives him power over me...is he quicker? I strike faster than a desert serpent. More agile? Let him leap and prance about this Sunday. In the end, my superior ability wins out over cute shit every time. The self-proclaimed Prince Lightskin holds no power over me, and that’ll hold especially true between bells this Sunday.
Prince Lightskin...sounds like a character thought up by a white dude. If only that were the reality of the things. Instead, I’m being allowed the opportunity to annihilate the very real, very deserving Prince himself.
It’s not often that I get my hands on inexperienced pups like Aquarius. I would never hurt man’s best friend...but man himself? Fuck man, and fuck Andre. If luck were at play, the few minutes we spend on the mat together this Sunday wouldn’t make him a sufferer of chronic, debilitating migraines in ten, twenty years time. Unfortunately for him, though, there’s no such thing as luck when you stand across from me, Occulo, and Joey Flash in the ring.
Bartender, the bottle.
He pauses his coke-induced rant as the bartender reaches for the tequila bottle without hesitation and hands it to him. Dune’s heart threatens to burst through his ribcage as he uncorks it.
Benny: You’re right.
Jimmy: Yeah, we believe -
Dune: John Gable’s a farce.
Dune tips the bottle back, taking in three large gulps before turning toward the three men with wild eyes.
Dune: John Gable fancies himself the finest wrestler in the WCF and the most talented actor in Hollywood simultaneously. But my God does he hit far from the mark in either pursuit. I’m no cinema buff, but I saw Eye in the Sky, and I can say with confidence that his leader, Wade Moor, played the role of WCF World Champion far better than Gable played the lead in that shit film. Which of course means that John Gable’s not even the best actor in the WCF, let alone Hollywood. And furthermore...are you telling me Arnold fucking Schwarzenegger in his prime wouldn’t have wrecked the newest member of Beach Crew in the ring? It would’ve been an entirely one-sided affair...which of course goes to show that John Gable isn’t even the best wrestler in Hollywood, let alone the WCF.
Do you see, boys - do you recognize the utter failure John Gable is as I’ve laid it before you? If not, tune in this Sunday. Joey Flash has already had his time with the man from the silver screen; now it’s mine.
Time for me to take the blinders off the old steed.
Time to take him by the reins and lead him down to the water’s edge; to the promised land he’s been after for so long.
Time to send him off to sea and drown him in the waves.
“Go away, John Gable,” they’ll chant from the shore. “Go away...go away…” because they don’t care about him or his plight - not anymore. He stamped out any promise his lackluster wrestling career had left when he signed on with Beach Crew. And if the merciless beating I lay on him this Sunday doesn’t put him out of action, the best thing he can do is to go the fuck away and come back when he gets his goddamn head on straight.
Dune tips what’s left of the tequila down his throat.
Ricky: Yeah man, totally. I mean, we don’t even cheer for #BeachKrew, we just like they gear.
The liquor acts as fuel for the fire that grows inside Dune. He’s fuming now, and the three men lean back from him, frozen with fear as he continues with a sinister glare.
Dune: So you’re the Jared Holmes fan - the man who’ll say anything to get his way. You’re far more innocent though. Your way would be to leave right now without incident. Jared’s way would be to leave my name tarnished for all-time.
Jared Holmes, the beady eyed boy-child who claims I’m no man but a monster - a child-slaying beast instead of the legend-slaying pillar of the WCF who stands before you now. Only if I happen to slay him in the ring this Sunday will I be guilty of his cowardly accusations, but as of now it’s a bald-faced lie. Only a member of Beach Crew could stoop so low as to perpetuate something so heinous, and I can promise that none who do will go free of my retribution.
What’s more, the boy doesn’t see the supreme irony in his accusations. He goes about as if he’s got a hand in dark waters; as if he’s seen the other side and liked it. Ritualistic ceremonies led by some fuck in a removable set of horns fashioned to fit comfortably on his head isn’t the gateway to the hellish recesses of this world. I should know. I’ve come face to face with the sort of beasts he laughably mimics - I’ve come face to face with the Jackal. Jared praises his sort - the child-killing sort - and therein lies the sweet irony. He praises malevolent forces as if to make a personal statement about himself. For him it's like showing off a new pair of shoes; a new car Daddy wrote a blank check for...
But it’s all purely for spectacle. Because that’s all Jared is - that’s all Beach Crew is: a fucking spectacle.
And, as when man is pitted against nature, when he’s stripped down and pitted against his superior, he doesn’t stand a chance. That’s what I am: Jared Holmes’ superior; the nature to his man.
Let him stand upon the beach and watch as the tide rolls in.
Let him try to hold his ground as he realizes my true strength for the first time.
Let him claim he’s a leader when his men have fled and his only hope is to follow their lead...lest the waves batter him and leave him broken on the beach this Sunday.
Here comes the ocean, Jared.
Here come the waves.
Benny: Yeah man, you’re right...totally. Hey, we’re thinking about heading out. It’s been -
Dune takes a step, and the liquor hits him like a freight train. He keeps his balance, though just barely as he mumbles drunkenly.
Dune: Sandstorm…
Benny: What?
Dune’s eyes shoot open.
Dune: SANDSTORM!
He grabs Benny and slams a knee into his gut before trapping his head in a standing headscissors. His friends plead in frightened desperation as Dune continues to holler.
Dune: Hook the arms! Heave!
He bellows as he flips Benny up and catches his outspread arms in the crucifix position.
Dune: FINISH HIM!
Ricky: Aaahhhhh!!!
Jimmy: Put him down man!
Dune: BWOP! ZOOM! SLAM!
Dune elevates him before throwing him toward the other two. They barely manage to catch him, but just as they recover, Dune slams into the pile and knocks them to the ground. He hops up on the bar and drops a flying elbow on Benny before grabbing hold of the screaming Ricky and picking him up.
Dune: Looking to get my shit in kid!
He catches Ricky’s head beneath his armpit and sends his feet skyward. Dune sits out and plants Ricky’s head between his legs with an Hourglass before shooting back to his feet. By now, Jimmy has made it to his feet, and he turns to flee.
Dune: Getting my shit in!
Dune closes on him in an instant, raising him high overhead before bringing his spine down on his rising knee. Dune drops him and stumbles back toward the bar, nearly losing his balance as he steps over the three downed men. Retaking his seat, he looks up at the bartender.
Dune: Sorry about the mess.
Bartender: Don’t be. It was quite the show. And fuck #BeachKrew anyway.
Dune: You’re a good man.
A plain, white clock hangs on the wall, and we zoom in on it. Soon it fills the screen, and 1:00 fades into 2:30...then into 4:00...then into 5:30 before a voice rings out.
Freeman: Dune!
We cut away to see the old man standing in the entranceway of the subterranean-aquarium hall. He looks around at the three men sprawled out on the floor and shakes his head at Dune, who sleeps alone at the bar.
Freeman: Dune!!
Dune wakes with a start and finds his feet.
Freeman: What the fuck’d you do last night?
Dune: I...I don't remember.
He looks around at the carnage.
Dune: Looks like I got my shit in though.
Freeman: Yeah...well Jesus man, I’ve been looking all over for you. Come on, we’ve got a plane to catch.
Dune saunters over to Freeman, and the two men exit the great aquarium hall before the screen fades to black...though in the darkness, Dune’s voice rings out once more.
Dune: I’m never drinking again.
The soft orange glow of streetlights radiates from the bottom of the screen. The suburbs act as a sort of nest for the now distant skyline, which rests above them on screen. The massive metropolis hangs there, suspended like some decorative Christmas ornament beneath mother nature’s surging clouds. And though the glowing cityscape may be awe-inspiring, the unfathomable energy encapsulated overhead reiterates the fact that, when stripped down and pitted against nature, man is entirely at her mercy.
Another flash of lightning spreads its jagged trails across the sky, and we cut away once more.
The lights of the city are all but gone, existing now as a mere bulbous glow atop a forest of tall spruce trees. A road cuts through the heart of the forest, and rain smacks against the pavement as two headlights crest a slope and close on the screen. We cut to the approaching car’s cabin, where two men sit in momentary silence. One wears a greying beard; the other, a half mask that covers his butchered nose, mouth, and jawline.
Freeman sets the mouth of an unadorned glass bottle to his lips and tilts it up, sending the last gulp of golden tequila rushing into his mouth. He holds the bottle up in front of his face, shakes it, and upon seeing that it’s empty, he turns toward Dune.
Freeman: Alright...I waited you out the whole bottle. Now tell me, how’d it go?
It’s been nearly two hours since Dune left the company of none other than Joey Flash in the city, and every moment since has been spent in quiet reflection.
Dune: It went well, as expected.
Freeman: I could tell that from the lack of blood and bruises on you. But I want details, Dune. What happened? What’d you talk about?
Dune: Where we’ve been; where we’re headed.
Freeman: Ah...such vivid detail. I take it you formulated a plan for Beach Crew this Sunday then?
Dune: Sure, we’ve got a plan. It’s the same one me and Joey have employed week in and week out from the beginning: set the fire and watch them burn. The same goes for Occulo. The guy’s over in Japan, and yet when we come together in the ring this Sunday, each of us is going to outman and outlast each of those Beach Crew fucks.
Freeman: But the three of you haven’t fought as a team before.
Dune: And they have? They can plot out all the bullshit shenanigans they want for Sunday while they stroke each other’s egos and gag on their own dicks, but they’re driven by fear of the Trios Champions. We represent the fiercest challenge they’re yet to face, and we’re set to further discredit their laughably self-proclaimed reign of dominance over the Federation. Let them plan, Freeman. In the end, they’re only preparing for defeat.
Freeman: You can’t blame them for allowing fear to take roost.
Dune: No...in fact, they’re smart to fear us. They’re only assclowns by design. They say dumb shit and surround themselves with pillars of it, but they’re not dumb themselves...not entirely, anyway.
Freeman nods before turning to look out the window. The headlights create a hypnotic, glistening effect on the soaked evergreen-firs, and he grins at them in drunken amusement. After a moment he sits up, and his grin fades as he speaks.
Freeman: So you and Joey...you’ve buried the hatchet then?
Dune: Without question. We may have started out as mortal enemies, but what we went through at the hands of...him...has left us bound for all time. I have very few friends, Freeman - you know that more than most - and I don’t strive to make new ones. You won’t see me and Joey hanging out on the weekends snorting rails out of each other’s assholes like the boys of Beach Crew, but ours is a friendship far deeper and more meaningful than any one of them can imagine. Joey and I went through Hell together...and the bonds those fires forged can never be broken.
Freeman: Good. He made for a menacing rival, and frankly I can’t think of a better fighter to have in your corner. You may well need him this week against Aquarius, Holmes, and Gable.
Dune: Two Beach Crew henchmen and John Gable...what the fuck’s he doing in this match anyway?
Freeman: He joined their ranks.
Dune: Wait...are you serious?
Freeman nods, and Dune stifles his laughter
Dune: I thought Seth paired him with Holmes and Aquarius so they’d have someone to carry the load.
Freeman: No, no, he’s one of them. Hmm, I guess now that I think of it you were a bit...indisposed...when he revealed himself to be one of Jared Holmes’ newly-masked personal bodyguards alongside Andre Aquarius.
Dune can stifle it no longer, and he breaks into a fit of laughter at the the news.
Dune: Jared Holmes’ bodyguard?! Holy shit, how the mighty have fallen. Gable was once a proud fighter in the WCF - a bit too prideful at times, sure - but now he’s got jack shit to hang his coat on what with stooping so low. John Gable, rolling around in the sewers with that rat-faced little shit Jared Holmes. Incredible. Times have changed, Freeman.
Freeman: You’re on good terms with Joey Flash, Dune...you’re damn right times have changed.
Dune: I wonder how Gable managed to fuck up so badly and align himself with Beach Crew. From what I remember, he was always about #1 and making a star out of himself. Beach Crew may have gotten hot in the wake of a post-WAR XIV WCF without myself or Joey Flash around to keep them in check, but they’ve been on the decline for months now.
Freeman: It may be that Gable’s a bit too smart for his own good. He likely sees the flaws in Beach Crew’s makeup and is looking to exploit the hell out of them. I mean, a guy with his talent could easily skyrocket to the top of an overinflated stable like theirs. He may have the pitiful position of Jared Holmes’ bodyguard now, but if he sticks around, he’ll overtake Holmes as the leader by the summer, if not sooner.
Dune: Wade Moor’s the leader of Beach Crew...but I agree all the same.
Freeman: Well, I think technically Holmes is the leader. I know it wouldn’t seem that way to anyone from the outside looking in - or perhaps even to those inside - but it’s what he claims.
Dune chuckles again.
Dune: No...Wade Moor’s the leader of Beach Crew. You don’t lead by getting smashed around and dropping a lower tier title to the guy you won it from a couple weeks prior then disappearing for months on end. Wade outlasted the wrestler formerly known as The Sharks at WAR XIV, then went on to capture the World Title shortly thereafter. Sure, he lost it in pathetic fashion...but that’s Beach Crew for you.
Meanwhile, when he hasn’t been stuck in a K-hole or lost in a deemster trench, Jared’s been at home moping around because I made him look like the absolute bitch he is in front of his boys and the entire WCF Faithful. Some leader. Beach Crew’s so fucked anyway that having Jared Holmes for a leader would make all too much sense.
Freeman: It would, wouldn’t it? The kid’s probably still fuming about you unmasking him that night last fall.
Dune: I’d be embarrassed to show that face if it were mine too. There’s a difference between the kind of ugly Jared and I are. I was made ugly; he was born that way. I’ve seen the boy up close, Freeman - I kid you not he looks like a fucking rat. I’ve never seen a more punchable face in all my life.
Freeman: And the way he carries himself ought to make you want to break him in two. I almost signed a contract just so I could do the honors. Careful with that one this Sunday, Dune - he’s brittle.
They share a laugh at Holmes’ expense before Freeman continues.
Freeman: And Aquarius...what do you know of him?
Dune: Aside from him being Holmes’ bodyguard, nothing...because that’s what he’s done in the ring. For all we know, he could emerge as the sorely needed dominant leader Beach Crew has needed since day one..but I sincerely doubt it’ll come to fruition. Andre seems more likely to liquify and occupy the lowest possible space as opposed to becoming the cream that rises to the top.
Freeman: He’s a cocky little shit.
Dune: No more than his cohorts. Still though, it’ll be nice to properly introduce him to the WCF this Sunday. Somewhere deep beneath the mountains of dead brain cells in his drug-addled mind exists the knowledge that he doesn’t stand a chance of defeating three of the best wrestlers the WCF has ever seen. He’s not cocky because of his skill-level, Freeman. He’s cocky because he’s deluded himself into thinking that simply being in the presence of his false idols will bring him unrivaled success. Well...that and the drugs. And after the match this Sunday, he’s going to need some gold to flow through his veins, because there’s no fucking way he’s walking out with mine.
Freeman: I agree with you...on all accounts. Now let me ask you this: are we almost there?
Dune: Yeah.
Freeman: How much longer?
Dune: Couple minutes.
Freeman nods. He sets the mouth of the empty tequila bottle to his lips and tilts it back. Disappointment follows, and he drops it by his feet. After a moment, he turns back to Dune.
Freeman: So you’re really gonna buy this place?
Dune: I’ve already signed the papers. It’ll give me somewhere to crash when we’re touring the Northeast. Plus, I’ve hardly spent a dime since I signed my contract last year. And what with everything that’s gone down these past few months, I figure why not live a little?
Freeman: Hey, I’m not complaining. Odds are I’ll be here more often than you!
Dune: We’ll see about that.
The scene begins to fade out, and we segue into another.
A plump old man sits in a lounge-chair catacorner to a fireplace alight with flames. An ornate wooden pipe dangles from his lips, and he mumbles under his breath as a butler enters the frame, drink in hand. He leans down and hands it to him.
Butler: Anything else, Mr. Pollard?
Mr. Pollard: No, no...that’ll be all for now.
The butler nods and walks away, and we cut to a wide-shot as Mr. Pollard calls out.
Mr. Pollard: Oh...be sure to keep an ear out for our guest! He should be here any -
Just then, the doorbell chimes, and the old man rises to hear it.
We cut back to Dune and Freeman, who stand outside the front door. Freeman looks around at the front of the massive estate before giving a nod of approval.
Freeman: Seems sturdy enough.
Dune: It’ll do.
Freeman: And it’s got a hot tub, right?
Dune: Yeah. It’s got a hot tub.
He turns back to the door, and just before he rings the bell again, the butler opens up to reveal his plump employer.
Mr. Pollard: Good evening, Mr. Dune! Come in, come in!
They step inside, and we cut to a shot from within as the butler closes the door. We find ourselves in a lavish entryway with a double staircase leading to split-level floors above.
Dune: I know I’m not officially taking over the deed for a few more days, so I appreciate your courtesy in allowing us to stay here for the night. I was visiting a friend in the city, and we’re not flying out until the morning.
Mr. Pollard: And I appreciate you purchasing the estate at such a fair price, Mr. Dune, so no thanks are necessary! Now, can I get you anything - some food, some drink?
Dune: Not me. I’m heading to bed. I’ll be out of your hair in the morning.
Freeman: Ah...um, could I…
Mr. Pollard: Yes…?
Freeman: ...is there a hot tub around here?
The plump old man bellows with false laughter.
Mr. Pollard: Yes, yes...will you show our guest to the pool area?
The butler nods, and he and Freeman wander out of the entryway, leaving Dune and Mr. Pollard alone.
Dune: I don’t need the master suite. I’ll leave that for you until it’s mine to sleep in.
Mr. Pollard: Nonsense. I’m packed and all but moved out. In fact, your furnishings arrived just yesterday morning. Come, I’ll show you to your room.
Dune: I remember the way. Thanks again though.
Mr. Pollard: Ah, my pleasure.
He eyes Dune for a moment, then dons a sly grin as he continues.
Mr. Pollard: A few old friends and I are entertaining some new ones tonight below deck, as we call it. Beneath the garden - you remember. I wonder, Mr. Dune, if you would care to join us?
Dune: I mean no offense, but I’m dead tired and I’ve got an early flight to catch.
Mr. Pollard: None taken, Mr. Dune. Right then, if I don’t see you in the morning, I’ll be in touch. Goodnight!
Dune: Goodnight.
Dune makes his way up one of the staircases to the fourth floor of the home, which exists solely as the master suite. He reaches the top stair and opens the door, and we cut to inside the room as he shuts the door behind him.
Within, he exhales at the sight of the unslept-in bed before making his way to the bathroom. The lights flick on automatically as he passes through the doorway. He gazes at his reflection for a moment before he reaches up and takes his mask off to reveal the deep, jagged scars that mark the lower half of his face.
His eyes flick toward the screen as his deep voice breaks the silence.
Dune: Nice place...though I’ll admit it’s not my style. Still, even a hardened man like myself enjoys the comforts of wealth and luxury a place like this provides. In truth I’d be wise not to spend too much time here. This is the kind of place that makes a man go soft. And what it does to children who are born and raised here...well, it’s the sort of damage that’s irreparable by any means.
Case in point: Jared Holmes.
I almost feel bad for him. I almost want to say it’s not his fault that he’s been a sniveling little shit his entire life...but where, then, to place the blame? His mother and father, who seem to have been about as active in his upbringing as mine were in my own? Or maybe Hacksaw Jim Thuggin for further corrupting the troubled youth Holmes seems destined to remain for all-time. But the further we go up the ladder, the further we distance ourselves from the truth - that being that every man is responsible for his own words; his own actions...and that includes Boy Privilege, Jared Holmes.
There’s another moniker for you, Jared. Maybe after your Degrassi phase you can turn to that one and redefine yourself all over again all over again. Your boy Drake must be real appreciative of the creepy little white kid stealing his gimmick and making an ass out of himself every chance he gets. Coincidentally enough, the stylin’, profilin’, wheelchair riding Drake was only playing at being crippled. You though, Jared - you’ve been crippled from the start. You’ve been a fuck up your whole life...and yes, it’s entirely your fault.
So you’re the leader of Beach Crew huh? You’re going to lead your brainwashed bodyguards into battle against me and two of WCF’s finest? You’re going to bring the Trios Titles back to the shit-covered beach you call home? It’s a fool’s errand, Jared, and how fitting that you’re undertaking it.
I’ve wanted at you for a while now. Ever since WAR XIV and the events surrounding it, I’ve seen your heartfelt words on the tronz, you miserable fuck. You can use the death of Christian Malignaggi to your supposed advantage all you want. You can claim that I, myself, did the deed. But you know you’re in the wrong, and your lies only lend further disgrace to your name. You condemn lowly motherfuckers for using cheap heat while relying upon the cheapest heat of all against me. It goes to show that grasping at straws is the best you can do when my shadow’s cast upon you. It’s no surprise that every single Beach Crew motherfucker would lean on that lie like the crutch it is; the crutch I’ve provided for you.
What else is there to say about me? What weaknesses can you exploit that I haven’t literally written out for you? You probably think you’re clever for harping on it, but it only makes your weaknesses that much more glaring in going back to the shit-well time and again. And because of your insufferable gall and lack of conscience in doing so, I’m going to unleash on you this Sunday like never before. Two bodyguards won’t be nearly enough to keep me from fucking you up worse than last time.
Dune turns and exits the bathroom, and as he slides out of his boots, he continues.
Dune: Are you listening, mysterious masked bodyguards? I ought to address you as one, seeing how in making identical career moves, you’ve become one living, breathing organism composed entirely of the driveling shits...but I won’t.
I won’t, Andre, because unfortunately I’m only going to be able to dismantle you and your counterpart John Gable one at a time in the ring this Sunday. But I’ll start with you because, let’s face it, you’re going to be easier to deal with. Gable’s been in the game a while now, and though he hasn’t made the most of his time here, he’s done more than you’ll ever do. And with his short list of accomplishments in mind...how fucking pathetic does that make you?
You don’t strike me as the lasting type, Andre. You seem like one of the 99% who fizzle out and disappear from the WCF forever. Well it’s not the 1% you’re up against this week, Andre...I’m far beyond that. It’s not every day you get the privilege of standing in the same ring as one World Champion, let alone two. Add in Occulo, and there’s three World Champion-caliber wrestlers squaring off against three fish flopping around on the shore. You have no place in the ring with us, Andre. And it’s funny, because something tells me the three of you honestly think you’re walking out with our gold. That’s so Beach Crew...right, boys - to assume you’ve won when all the evidence suggests otherwise? Sublime naivety...so Crew. Fuck off.
But should you stick around, Andre, you’ll remember this match above all others. I’m going to make sure of it. Carnivores and killers alike seek out the weakest of their prey to fall upon first. The same strategy holds true in surviving tag team matches here in the WCF. And should you find yourself staring me down between the ropes early or late in the bout this Sunday, you’ll recognize the killer in me right off. Perhaps Jared Holmes should be your bodyguard, Andre, because in the ring this Sunday, you’re the one in dire need of protection.
Nothing can save you from me...save a lucky tag. In freeing yourself from my wrath, though, you’ll only damn your teammates. And what should happen if you tag in Jared? Handing him over to me isn’t in your job description, Andre. In fact, it’s the exact opposite of what you’re sole purpose in life has become: to protect Jared Holmes from men like me. Despite your foolishness in taking the position, you ought to be thanking me for allowing it to open up. Had I not broken Jared’s rat face a few months back, you’d be out of a job and likely a WCF contract right now. And when I’m through with you this Sunday, you’ll wish you’d never signed on the dotted line.
Fair warning, Andre: disappointment is inevitable, and it’s all the more bitter for newcomers with a taste for their own dick. Tag-alongs like you either get used to it, or they get the fuck out of the ring upon realizing they never belonged there in the first place.
Dune makes his way over to the bed, where he sits on the edge and stretches his neck. His eyes find the screen once more as he continues.
Dune: If you need help coping, Andre, look no further than your newly masked buddy John Gable. Disappointment has come to define his life and career(s)...hasn’t it, John?
You were once a leading man, and yet here you are playing the lowly role of Bodyguard #2 in this Sunday’s Main Event. You’ve been away doing this and that - allowing your pathetic legacy to escape further from the forgetful minds of the WCF Faithful with each passing day - and after realizing you have no place elsewhere, you’ve decided to come crawling back. Well here you are, John - back in the limelight of the WCF; back to being the fish out of water you’ll always be here. And how fitting - how consistent - that you’ve aligned yourself with the most watered down stable in our business, because you have no place with them either.
What’s a man with no place in this world to do?
You’re at your wits end. It’s obvious to see. Joining Beach Crew is a desperation move if there’s ever been one. Strapping on a mask won’t make them like you, John. That’s not how it works. I’m not the first to wear one, but I certainly didn’t don one out of the blue after having a midlife crisis in the midst of a failed career. I’ve worn my mask since I was a child, atop the scars you see stretching and writhing before you as I speak. Pretty, aren’t I? But the only scars you hide are those etched by shame...and you’re right to hide them, John. You’re right to feel ashamed.
I won’t ignore the fact that wannabe Hollywood, wannabe World Champion types like yourself never fail to steal a gimmick that works; a gimmick that sells. I mean fuck, look at Beach Crew. They claim originality just like shitty ass born-again hippies did in 1969 after that phoney peace & love, psychedelic shit’d been going on for years. Beach Crew’s the edgy internet-troll, vaporwave stable that’s five years past the “best if used by” date.
And now, John, in an attempt to revitalize your career, you’ve joined their ranks...and you’ve donned a mask...and once more, you’ve brought shame and embarrassment to your name.
The return of John Gable could have been a great thing, but you ruined it. Just absolutely destroyed it. Again, it’s fitting though. It’s very *you* of you to make such a lackluster, game-show-fail-noise-worthy return as the one you made a couple weeks back. And this Sunday, after you’ve knelt before the three pinnacle fighters in the WCF, you’re not rising with our Trios Gold...only more disappointment in the full knowledge that you and yours aren’t fit to where it.
Dune sheds his t-shirt and turns off the lamp on the bedside table. Darkness swallows everything on screen...everything, save the glowing green digits of an alarm clock beside the lamp. We begin to zoom in on it, stopping once the neon-green on black numbers fill the screen.
10:00 fades into 10:30…
10:30 fades into 11:00…
11:30 fades into 12:00…
But 12:00 doesn’t fade, and after a moment, it becomes 12:01.
We zoom out from the clock, and the faint, rhythmic pulsing of distant music greets our ears. As it continues, Dune’s breathing becomes audible, and before long he wakes from his slumber. The sound of his hand feeling for the lamp switch precedes its light, which bathes his hulking frame in a warm glow as he rises out of bed and walks toward the window.
Looking down upon the backyard, he sees the sprawling garden lit up with pink, green, and blue neon lights, and as the music becomes a bit more clear, the words of Mr. Pollard ring out in his mind once more:
“A few old friends and I are entertaining some new ones tonight below deck, as we call it. Beneath the garden - you remember. I wonder, Mr. Dune, if you would care to join us.”
Despite his better nature, he straps on his mask, ties up his boots, and throws on his black t-shirt before exiting the room. The camera doesn’t follow, and after a moment, we cut away.
Outside, the rain has stopped, and the fallen droplets make the midnight garden shimmer with the pink, green, and blue neon lights that shine upon the soaked shrubbery. One side of a glass double-door swings open, and Dune steps out into the night.
The music is louder than ever, though still muffled and distant. Dune follows it toward its origin: a black door built into a hillside not far away. He reaches it, heaves it open...and we’re hit with a blast of sound-drenched turquoise light before he steps through and closes the door behind him. After a moment, we cut to within.
Dune is bathed in turquoise light as the music now fills our ears with crystal clarity. The bass is deep; the synth, heavy and persistent. A euphoric melody lends to the music’s entrancing, hypnotic quality. The sight before him is entrancing as well, and we rotate slowly to reveal it.
Stretching out before us is a wide, black-carpeted hallway dotted with pink, green, and blue streamers and balloons, and whose walls are made of glass-encased water. Decorative rocks, weeds, and coral provide the varied marine life swimming about on either side of him a false sense of freedom that the confining-walls strip away.
The subterranean-aquarium is striking to behold, and Dune finds himself lost in the moment as the deep, repetitive cycle of sounds penetrates his freshly-woken ears. He snaps out of it, and he sets off into the aquarium.
At the end of the hallway is a sharp right turn, and he steps back after taking it. There before him stands a decrepit old man wearing a cone-shaped party hat and a red and black suit that’s far too large for his skeletal frame. He groans weakly as he raises a small tin bucket and shakes it at Dune.
Old Man: Copper for Kanye?
Dune: Kanye West?
Old Man: Coppers, silvers...anything helps.
Dune dismisses him and strides off toward a set of double-doors. He passes through into a vast, circular hall. The spacious room’s cornerless walls are lined by glass-encased water, and a half dozen hammerhead sharks swim about the perimeter.
Dune: Los Tiburones…
He chuckles at the discarded moniker of Jared Holmes, then gets a spike of adrenaline as he envisions the ratty #BeachKrewman. It’s brushed aside as the man tending bar in a corner just out of Dune’s peripheral calls out over the music.
Bartender: Ho there - you just missed ‘em!
Dune turns to see the gentlemanly bartender and three neon-suited young men sitting opposite him.
Bartender: Dune, right?
Dune: Right. Missed who?
Bartender: Ah, the guests. They went downstairs a few minutes ago. I’d let you down but they lock it from the inside. Three more late arrivals here. Care for a drink?
Dune: I don’t...
But “partake” doesn’t escape his lips, as it so often does. Instead, the strange atmosphere allows him a change of heart.
Dune: ...see why not.
Bartender: What’ll it be?
Dune walks over and sits down beside one of the three men at the bar.
Dune: Shot of tequila.
He pours the drink and places it in front of Dune, who sheds his mask before lifting the glass up and eyeing it in the light. He catches sight of all three men beside him staring at his badly butchered face before he downs the liquor. Immediately he feels its effects.
Dune: Wwwhoa...right, another.
The bartender pours another, and Dune downs it before calling for a third. The buzz rushes straight to his head, and he stands and tries out his drunken body for the first time in ages.
We cut to the three young men, who stare at the monstrous Dune in horror as he begins aggressively striking at the air. They whisper amongst each other.
Benny: Should we bail?
Jimmy: No, offer him some blow.
Ricky: The key to any man’s heart…
Meanwhile, Dune calls for another shot. Four deep now, he turns to see a bag of white powder being offered to him.
Benny: Wanna hit the slopes?
Dune’s inhibition is lost thanks to the tequila, and he snatches the bag and sits down at the bar. He touches a bit to his tongue and nods in approval.
Benny: Do as much as you want, man. We’ve got plenty.
Dune looks toward the bartender, who gives the all-clear before Dune pours out a mound about half the size of his massive fist.
Dune: I usually prefer to keep my wits about me...but what’s one night?
He arranges it into three long, fat lines. He pulls out a wallet, rolls up a $100 bill, leans in...and blasts the inside of his skull with the white powder. He cocks his head and shoots back in his seat.
Dune: BOOM! Good GOD!
He stands and resumes striking at the air, much to the horror of the neon-suited trio. They huddle in as he continues.
Benny: Fuck, this is terrifying. Let’s bail.
Jimmy: No!
Ricky: We’re wearing #BeachKrew gear, Jimmy. What if he -
Dune: What was that?
The trio turns to see Dune towering just a couple feet away at the bar, his face one a riled predator dons just before it strikes.
Dune: Beach Crew fanboys - I should have known. I’m glad you mentioned them. Mmm...I can’t fucking wait for Sunday. I understand now why they and countless others fill their heads with this shit just before their music hits. It makes you feel better than you are. It makes you feel -
Dune leans over, taking in the second line before shooting back up.
Dune: - like you’re fucking invincible. I’ve felt this way before though, and I didn’t need cocaine and booze to achieve it.
I was invincible at Asesinato de Mayo last year when I squared off against Natural Ice Beckman, one of the greatest WCF World Champions of all time...and yet I put him down for good when I walked out with the Title. I was invincible two months later in Tokyo, when I squared off against Jonny Fly and every title-holder in the company only to come away with the same World Title I carried down to the ring. That was Ultimate Showdown, boys...otherwise known as Beach Crew’s Eve.
He shoots forward and snatches Benny by the collar, lifting him up off the ground.
Dune: When’d you hop on the bandwagon? Were you late to board like John fucking Gable? Or did you hop on at the outset like Andre Aquarius and Jared Holmes, the man who claims to lead Beach Crew?
Benny: I...we…
Dune shoves him back into his seat before leaning over the third line of blow. He sniffs it clean, and after he recovers from the initial rush, he stares intensely at the three men with bloodshot eyes and white powder nestled in the deep crevasses beneath his nose.
Dune: Who’s the Aquarius fan amongst you? No takers? That’s not surprising. It’s hard to be fanatic about someone whose start in the WCF has been abysmal at best. There’s rooting for the underdog who shows potential, and then there’s rooting for Andre Aquarius, who thus far has shown none. This motherfucker thinks he’s different because of his skin tone, but in reality he’s just another mid-card lifer whose ceiling sits somewhere far below my feet.
Isn’t there some sort of ethical misconduct at play by placing me and him in the same ring? He’s the size of a middle school girl, and it’s simple physics that I can snap a middle school girl’s vertebrae over my knee with the quickness...not that I would, of course. And it’s not as if Andre possesses some unique skillset that makes up for his innate physical-femininity. What gives him power over me...is he quicker? I strike faster than a desert serpent. More agile? Let him leap and prance about this Sunday. In the end, my superior ability wins out over cute shit every time. The self-proclaimed Prince Lightskin holds no power over me, and that’ll hold especially true between bells this Sunday.
Prince Lightskin...sounds like a character thought up by a white dude. If only that were the reality of the things. Instead, I’m being allowed the opportunity to annihilate the very real, very deserving Prince himself.
It’s not often that I get my hands on inexperienced pups like Aquarius. I would never hurt man’s best friend...but man himself? Fuck man, and fuck Andre. If luck were at play, the few minutes we spend on the mat together this Sunday wouldn’t make him a sufferer of chronic, debilitating migraines in ten, twenty years time. Unfortunately for him, though, there’s no such thing as luck when you stand across from me, Occulo, and Joey Flash in the ring.
Bartender, the bottle.
He pauses his coke-induced rant as the bartender reaches for the tequila bottle without hesitation and hands it to him. Dune’s heart threatens to burst through his ribcage as he uncorks it.
Benny: You’re right.
Jimmy: Yeah, we believe -
Dune: John Gable’s a farce.
Dune tips the bottle back, taking in three large gulps before turning toward the three men with wild eyes.
Dune: John Gable fancies himself the finest wrestler in the WCF and the most talented actor in Hollywood simultaneously. But my God does he hit far from the mark in either pursuit. I’m no cinema buff, but I saw Eye in the Sky, and I can say with confidence that his leader, Wade Moor, played the role of WCF World Champion far better than Gable played the lead in that shit film. Which of course means that John Gable’s not even the best actor in the WCF, let alone Hollywood. And furthermore...are you telling me Arnold fucking Schwarzenegger in his prime wouldn’t have wrecked the newest member of Beach Crew in the ring? It would’ve been an entirely one-sided affair...which of course goes to show that John Gable isn’t even the best wrestler in Hollywood, let alone the WCF.
Do you see, boys - do you recognize the utter failure John Gable is as I’ve laid it before you? If not, tune in this Sunday. Joey Flash has already had his time with the man from the silver screen; now it’s mine.
Time for me to take the blinders off the old steed.
Time to take him by the reins and lead him down to the water’s edge; to the promised land he’s been after for so long.
Time to send him off to sea and drown him in the waves.
“Go away, John Gable,” they’ll chant from the shore. “Go away...go away…” because they don’t care about him or his plight - not anymore. He stamped out any promise his lackluster wrestling career had left when he signed on with Beach Crew. And if the merciless beating I lay on him this Sunday doesn’t put him out of action, the best thing he can do is to go the fuck away and come back when he gets his goddamn head on straight.
Dune tips what’s left of the tequila down his throat.
Ricky: Yeah man, totally. I mean, we don’t even cheer for #BeachKrew, we just like they gear.
The liquor acts as fuel for the fire that grows inside Dune. He’s fuming now, and the three men lean back from him, frozen with fear as he continues with a sinister glare.
Dune: So you’re the Jared Holmes fan - the man who’ll say anything to get his way. You’re far more innocent though. Your way would be to leave right now without incident. Jared’s way would be to leave my name tarnished for all-time.
Jared Holmes, the beady eyed boy-child who claims I’m no man but a monster - a child-slaying beast instead of the legend-slaying pillar of the WCF who stands before you now. Only if I happen to slay him in the ring this Sunday will I be guilty of his cowardly accusations, but as of now it’s a bald-faced lie. Only a member of Beach Crew could stoop so low as to perpetuate something so heinous, and I can promise that none who do will go free of my retribution.
What’s more, the boy doesn’t see the supreme irony in his accusations. He goes about as if he’s got a hand in dark waters; as if he’s seen the other side and liked it. Ritualistic ceremonies led by some fuck in a removable set of horns fashioned to fit comfortably on his head isn’t the gateway to the hellish recesses of this world. I should know. I’ve come face to face with the sort of beasts he laughably mimics - I’ve come face to face with the Jackal. Jared praises his sort - the child-killing sort - and therein lies the sweet irony. He praises malevolent forces as if to make a personal statement about himself. For him it's like showing off a new pair of shoes; a new car Daddy wrote a blank check for...
But it’s all purely for spectacle. Because that’s all Jared is - that’s all Beach Crew is: a fucking spectacle.
And, as when man is pitted against nature, when he’s stripped down and pitted against his superior, he doesn’t stand a chance. That’s what I am: Jared Holmes’ superior; the nature to his man.
Let him stand upon the beach and watch as the tide rolls in.
Let him try to hold his ground as he realizes my true strength for the first time.
Let him claim he’s a leader when his men have fled and his only hope is to follow their lead...lest the waves batter him and leave him broken on the beach this Sunday.
Here comes the ocean, Jared.
Here come the waves.
Benny: Yeah man, you’re right...totally. Hey, we’re thinking about heading out. It’s been -
Dune takes a step, and the liquor hits him like a freight train. He keeps his balance, though just barely as he mumbles drunkenly.
Dune: Sandstorm…
Benny: What?
Dune’s eyes shoot open.
Dune: SANDSTORM!
He grabs Benny and slams a knee into his gut before trapping his head in a standing headscissors. His friends plead in frightened desperation as Dune continues to holler.
Dune: Hook the arms! Heave!
He bellows as he flips Benny up and catches his outspread arms in the crucifix position.
Dune: FINISH HIM!
Ricky: Aaahhhhh!!!
Jimmy: Put him down man!
Dune: BWOP! ZOOM! SLAM!
Dune elevates him before throwing him toward the other two. They barely manage to catch him, but just as they recover, Dune slams into the pile and knocks them to the ground. He hops up on the bar and drops a flying elbow on Benny before grabbing hold of the screaming Ricky and picking him up.
Dune: Looking to get my shit in kid!
He catches Ricky’s head beneath his armpit and sends his feet skyward. Dune sits out and plants Ricky’s head between his legs with an Hourglass before shooting back to his feet. By now, Jimmy has made it to his feet, and he turns to flee.
Dune: Getting my shit in!
Dune closes on him in an instant, raising him high overhead before bringing his spine down on his rising knee. Dune drops him and stumbles back toward the bar, nearly losing his balance as he steps over the three downed men. Retaking his seat, he looks up at the bartender.
Dune: Sorry about the mess.
Bartender: Don’t be. It was quite the show. And fuck #BeachKrew anyway.
Dune: You’re a good man.
A plain, white clock hangs on the wall, and we zoom in on it. Soon it fills the screen, and 1:00 fades into 2:30...then into 4:00...then into 5:30 before a voice rings out.
Freeman: Dune!
We cut away to see the old man standing in the entranceway of the subterranean-aquarium hall. He looks around at the three men sprawled out on the floor and shakes his head at Dune, who sleeps alone at the bar.
Freeman: Dune!!
Dune wakes with a start and finds his feet.
Freeman: What the fuck’d you do last night?
Dune: I...I don't remember.
He looks around at the carnage.
Dune: Looks like I got my shit in though.
Freeman: Yeah...well Jesus man, I’ve been looking all over for you. Come on, we’ve got a plane to catch.
Dune saunters over to Freeman, and the two men exit the great aquarium hall before the screen fades to black...though in the darkness, Dune’s voice rings out once more.
Dune: I’m never drinking again.
