Post by John Rabid on Feb 21, 2016 17:05:14 GMT -5
FLOODLAND
When the levy broke it was as if the word turned upside down in a heartbeat. The waters came and destroyed all; as if Pompeii had been reenacted, with volcanic ash replaced by an unstoppable rising tide. Caught in that horrific moment like a Polaroid of submerged agony where small towns dotted across the bayous and marshes; swallowed up and dismembered across the northern side of the state of Louisiana, as if leaves cast upon the wind.
When night falls across the flood-land, an eerie stillness becomes apparent. This used to be a place of hope and human energy; where the heartbeat of an entire way of life sang and existed, a Creole melody that echoed all the way to the streets of New Orleans and it's world famous Mardi Gras. But now, here, as night falls and the swamp life sing; an AIR BOAT moves with a low hum through a watery mausoleum, where ghosts dwell and screams still echo.
The boat has three passengers and one...accompaniment. That extra weight is a human form wrapped hurriedly in burlap sacks and mummified with cord ties and electrical tape. Blots of red liquid leak through the sack, patches of violence the passengers on board wish to conceal and forget. That's why they're here tonight. To dispose of a body. To hide one human tragedy among others.
Wade Moor worked the controls of the craft, for him this was second nature. The foul stench in the air all too familiar for the Brosideon; although for reasons even his compatriots did not yet fully fathom or understand.
Wade Moor: Work that light, Kyle. I need to see my way.
Kyle Kemp obliged; shining a single large spotlight, attached to a steel pole in the center of the craft, left and right as the boat navigated though a perilous reef of half submerged houses, and rusting vehicles. While perched at the tip of the boat, stood Johnny Rabid; eyes scouring through the darkness, his strange vision judging space and time as if he was traveling though this hell during the day.
Johnny Rabid: Stop, shine the spotlight left.
Kyle Kemp: You sure?
Wade Moor: Trust him.
There was a time, all too brief, when that was the case. When it was second nature for Kyle to believe in Rabid. Now? Kyle's world was as chaotic and as fractured as the landscape he now endured.
Kyle Kemp: Fine.
The spotlight swiveled left; falling upon a large human sized statue of JESUS CHRIST: arms out stretched as if casting a shadow over sugerloaf mountain. Kyle staggered back with shock at the cracked and damaged shape; it's nose broken off; its eyes gone, appearing now to be bleeding blood from the sockets, an illusion brought on by the onset of wild moss. The stone effigy remained affixed to the alter of a church; the front half of which had been completely obliterated in the storm.
Wade Moor: Here?
Rabid paused to think; they'd come out a long way, past police patrols and roadblocks; hired the boat, headed out further into no man's land. This place seemed like the edge of the Earth. An underworld even he had trouble accepting. Here would do. It would have to do.
Johnny Rabid: I'll dump it overboard.
Wade Moor: You need help?
Rabid simply shook his head; he picked up the sack with ease and flung it over the side. Crude weights where attached (bricks and slabs of stone) as it sank without a trace. The three members of #Beachkrew watched as bubbles rose periodically to the surface, but the body did not follow.
Kyle looked up from the dread black of the water; his reflection was troubled; hollow eyes searching the water for answers. He knew where to find them. Just as always, he simply had to turn and face Rabid. The man at the heart of it all.
Kyle Kemp: Why?
Rabid wanted to answer truthfully. A confession at the alter. But after a few soul searching moments Rabid's gaze fell upon that Christ figurine; and in that split second, it all returned. The sound of nails being driven into flesh. The smell of carrion in the air. The tears of a messiah. The loss of a brother.
The truth will get you killed. Move on, deflect.
Johnny Rabid: I don't know, Kyle. I imagine she had her reasons.
A PARIS APARTMENT
The cold, formally white tiled floor of the Parisian bathroom undulated rich veins of crimson between it's neat joints as the dying, naked form of Emily Rush remained still. Her slender bones chilled in a cracked tub now overflowing with water intermixed with hemorrhaging lukewarm blood.
Emily's arms had been slashed by a cutthroat razor; vertically across the wrists several times as to accentuate the blood loss and make the scene appear like a suicide. While off in another room of this dusty and dank Paris apartment; a large, heavy set man of Russian decent whistled “Peter and the Wolf” to himself as he made a milky white instant coffee, kicked a curious mouse out of the kitchen, and heated up a stale pop tart for the journey back home.
Somewhere among that out of key echoing lullaby, Emily was experiencing her last thoughts; the fire of anger and rage she felt an hour ago returned briefly: the front door to the flat being kicked open off it's hinges...her nose broken in three places by a blinding fast punch...the boots to her face and abdomen by a huge, hulking form. These horrors where beginning to evaporate however as her situation became terminal, and with that moment of realization came a certain peace. Faces of family and friends floated in and out of her diminishing consciousness as her arms were as heavy as lead, hanging over the lip of the tub, useless and immobile.
Those faces: Emily's father, angry at her for failing yet another drugs test; allowing herself to get kicked out of Cambridge for possession of a class A cocktail. Her older sister, Margo, marrying young and raising a family; always disapproving. Always admonishing her dreams. Her mother, an emaciated form, dying from Cancer in Emily's teenage arms, a frail, brittle voice asking Emily for the pills on the bedside cabinet; asking her “brave daughter” to kill her.
The wind in Emily's long blonde hair as she ran from her mother's bedroom, ran so hard and fast into that nearby field of golden daffodils that she thought her lungs would burst. Tears streaming as she murmured “coward!” over and over again to herself between each intake of oxygen that propelled her forward. From that family home in Dorset, England. From that safe world. Into the embrace of coke and pills and regret.
And now this.
Just as she had managed to make herself matter again; just as her modeling career had begun to ignite, it was snuffed out. She said no to the wrong people; she wasn't interested in Glamour modeling. And she wasn't going to step aside and allow her rival at the modeling firm to take the contract she had worked long and hard for six months to win. That rival, a spoil little rich girl, the daughter of a Russian Oligarch with Mafia connections, that rival would be Emily's undoing. Emily's ambition blinded her to the danger unfolding all around her. A threat that would eventually smash her nose, slice open her wrists, and force her to bleed to death in a grotty tub in a bohemian Paris apartment on the eve of her twenty second birthday.
And that's where the story was destined to end if it wasn't for one more face among the pack; one that seemed cold and distant and yet warm with curiosity. A shock of long, flowing black hair fell over his face as he motioned through the crowds, waiting patiently for the fashion show to begin. Never blinking, even as the stage burned bright with flashes from a million camera bulbs. He just sat there, legs crossed in his neat suit. The slither of a smile. It was unnerving, even when he seemed harmless and docile.
A creek of the door, and a “docile” shadow entered the apartment. Emily's faltering hearing heard a short scuffle, and a snap of a neck. Something heavy and lifeless fell onto a glass coffee table as it shattered. A slab of dead Russian gangster completely out of his depth was stepped over by a man in a sharp charcoal suit who adjusted his tie and removed his black driving gloves. The mouse now had a chance to escape and he took it, scurrying away, back into the kitchen; hiding as the man in that charcoal suit walked at a steady pace towards the bathroom. A slight crease formed on Emily's lips as she realized she had outlived her killer. Still, nothing to be done now except die she supposed, her eyes closing shut for the last time as the world fell away.
She was falling now...wait, that's not it. Not falling at all; she was being carried now. Into an embrace. Not tender, but...functional. As if lifted up by a giant mechanical claw. It squeezed around her as a voice told her to make a choice. The decision seemed insane, but she was dying and had few options.
The words never truly formed from her lips as she agreed, but it was enough. The man closed the door to the bathroom behind him as a delicate scream could be heard inside. This was the day Emily Rush was born, for the procedure had begun and there was no turning back.
That was 2008. A very good year for Jonathan Rabid. The year he found his bride.
SOUNDBYTES: ADAM YOUNG AND THE STAMFORD PRISON EXPERIMENT
[By Jonathan Rabid @rabid1]
WCF blog entry: 16/02/16
So yesterday morning I receive an email from our new head of talent relations, Nobunaga Oda. He informs me that from now on, all talent is to write and post blogs on the main web site that discuss themselves and upcoming matches. It seems a logical request, his only one to be fair. “Nobu-san” is an odd, strange fellow it would seem; brimming with erratic far-eastern energy that's more at home on one of those outlandish Japanese game shows than the board of a prestigious combat sports enterprise.
While Oda clearly has a unique vision for the future of this company, I do not consider being paid in “Scorpion Coins” a viable economic trade off for actual legitimate currency. As insane as it would seem, Katherine Phoenix would appear to be the more mentally stable of the two. At least she understood that a contract is a contract, even while pleasuring herself with the decapitated head of a Teddy bear while signing the check. (And yes, that actually happened)
Being paid on time is a necessity in this business; the current dilemma of one Grayson Pierce however I do find most gratifying. He is a dolt, that has infected my rehabilitation of the tag team titles with a dose of pungent mediocrity. Will those titles ever recover from Rebellution's disgraceful reign? Who knows. One day I hope to rescue the tag belts from their jailers: Andre Holmes - Phoenix ( a man who abuses his new bride daily) and Grayson Pierce (a half clown fool, that needs a spell on a mental ward) these two ingrates are in possession of the straps now. Rebellution hold the titles aloft, and will be defending them (with abject sloppiness I imagine) at Timebomb.
Will their match be on par with my successful title defense alongside Kyle Kemp at ONE? Of course not! The gulf in talent and heart between us will earmark the belts for an inevitable slide back down the companies consciousness as #Beachkrew's influence within the upper echelon continues to exponentially rise and rise.
It has always been the case that the man makes the title, not the other way around. The tag titles are now around the waste of mid-card jokes that only carry those belts as a demonstration, a lesson to be learned by the rest of the company that we at #Breachkrew care about you. We care about the history of this company, and we care about the heritage of the titles we so bravely fight for, week in and out.
Kyle Kemp and Wade Moor are my partner's this week for the first of two six man contests, live from the AT&T Arena in San Antonio, Texas. Think about that for a second. The best Tag Team this company has seen in six months, plus the former World Champion takes on...a League of Disgruntled Gentlemen and a street Magician. I'd be insulted if I didn't have a sense of professionalism.
As opposed to a certain Adam Young.
This Sunday night I face, Raymond Hatcher, Lucian Starr and a certain Adam Young. Adam Young, the villain: a weaponized idiot sent forward from the nineteen nineties to torment the future of professional wrestling. If that was the actual truth you'd be at least eighty per cent more interesting than you actually are now, Adam. Unfortunately, it isn't so. What we're stuck with instead is a three toothed southern hack that thinks he's a challenger for the World title. You sir, are not that. You're not even an interim challenger, you're an interim asshole. A Jayson Price pity fuck that swaggers around thinking he's living inside a second summer of Punk, when in fact it's the springtime of Gillberg. You, Adam Young, are not a real Wrestler, you haven't been for a long, long time. What you are is a glorified mascot used only as a punching bag for developmental talent and Spencer Adams. MY punching bag this week it would appear. You're a tune up, Adam. A pre-season friendly. A Brooklyn Brawler that stumbles out from the back under the proviso that he doesn't hurt the actual quality fighting talent around him in the ring. And here, Adam Young, is the good part, for it's your complete lack of fighting prowess that has become your one true saving grace. The one reason that Seth Lerch kept you on the books for so long, you never hurt anyone (except that time you decided to rape your own ex-wife in one of the most stupid angles of your entire fucking career, Mister “Dark Messiah”). You're like a wrestler wrapped up in a ball of super fluffy Nerf sponge. You're utterly harmless, Adam; and for a combat sports competitor, I can't think of a more damning accusation.
This week I get to wrestle a man I refused to sign to a contract at KPW three years ago because he wasn't of the mettle required to sustain an audiences attention. That truth then, remains so now. Adam Young is a glorified stage hand that LARP's his way from one improbable situation to the next; not even pausing to hear the laughter that's directed at his idiotic schemes. It's as if he's resigned to his fate now. He knows he's nothing more than a troll doll. A Joey Flash hand rag to wipe the Italians cum up with while Malignaggi takes a bow and flips off a federation that passed him over for a giant, bloated fool named Thomas Uriel Bates. That's Adam Young, ladies and gentlemen. A used scrap of tissue; covered with salty Malignaggi jizz.
And what does this salty, jizzy tissue want to do now? Why, he wants to be World Champion of course. Seemingly unaware that the ONLY REASON he has this match next Wednesday against Jayson Price is because he's to be stamped and recorded as a title defense. One more than Price had previously during that sixteen day debacle as the World Champion the first time around.
Adam Young is a living, breathing statistic. A notch on a belt waiting to happen, and nothing on God's green Earth is going to change that fact from becoming a reality. Maybe that's why Adam has embarked on his latest escapade into Disneyworld. His C.M Punk phase as he “taunts” Seth Lerch on twitter about running away with the title and appearing on WWE television.
Let's be clear about something Adam, if your life has stooped so fucking low that you have to emasculate yourself week in and out on a predetermined “Sports Entertainment” series then you should just blow your own fucking head off right now. There is seriously no need to take another breath on this planet. But, lets for one moment think about this...what if. What if by some unthinkable fluke Jayson Price slips and snaps his neck in a fluke accident on the mat and you're declared the winner, Adam. What then? What if you actually show hitherto unseen backbone and actually follow through on your threats and take the WCF title off to Stamford, Connecticut. What then? What would life be like for an Adam Young debuting on WWE Raw?
Will there be fanfare? Will we see celebration? That first night Adam would be odd for sure, an actual real fighter bucking the trend and going the other way to the fake show. Why? Has his knees blown out? Is his back a hunched frame stapled together by a patch up job on the cheap? Questions immediately asked as Adam Young is greeted by a smattering of applause and a cacophony of boos from the little kids in attendance.
See Adam, you might be under the deluded illusion that Raw draws numbers, but in THIS UNIVERSE? It's deader than Julius Caesar. Think about it, why would anyone watch a fake version of the real thing that's aired the night before? Maybe if you want your kids to avoid actual bloodshed perhaps. Maybe if you want your children to partake in some harmless fun I suppose. And that, Adam is the rub. You want to take the WCF World title and parade it around on a kids show. That's your big threat, that's your genius master plan?
Remember when I said you where made of Nerf? Case proved I think.
Part of me wants to see your obnoxious threats come to fruition. Just to see you dying inside week after week on safe, network television as you fight a man in a chicken suit or a psychotic barber with a cock fetish. That would be hilarious, especially that moment when we see you locked in a supposed Boston Crab by a Rainbow Unicorn: a little tear rolling down your quivering cheek; your bruised, useless mind remembering how you once were the mascot of a mighty giant, now reduced to being nothing more than a glory holed Children's Entertainer, sucking off Vince McMahon's seventy year old *todger and performing in bloodless playacting for all the family.
*Todger: an English vernacular for Penis (see also Vulgar)
Your reward for such PG rated service? To be laughed at and repacked with an “01” on your new orange tights and a trailer park for a sound stage. The Duke of Hazard himself; Adam Young. Trapped inside a Stamford Prison Experiment forever more. Triple H's stooge. The bump artist for the top tier guys to snigger at and order about. The opener on Velocity, or Heat, or whatever the hell they have next to fill a contractual commitment on SyFy. NXT quality you are not, Adam. I doubt you'd even make a good Basham Brother.
Seth doesn't answer your calls for a reason, Adam. Just like the last time you decided to walk away from this business and go fish (when was that, three months ago?) No one fucking cares about you. And they never will. Go FIST fuck yourself to death, you pathetic worm. Preferably wearing a dress so as to finally out all your little personality quirks at once.
The absolute worst tragedy of this whole sorry affair is that you, Adam, the idiot challenging for the World heavyweight title, has been met with nothing more that a shrug, instead of absolute total outrage over this title match. I expected bile and blood to run through the streets when your name was announced. None came. Just silence. That's the tragedy here Adam. That's what is truly wrong here with this picture. Nothing happened.
That's why this Sunday is so important. You Adam, and those like you, are a Cancer in this company. You have spread this malaise throughout the ranks. Where is the hunger to fight you? To destroy you and take your prized place on Wednesday night? It has to be out there somewhere. Or maybe, it's right here. Right now. In among these words as I type. I want your spot. I want the Word title. I brought prestige to the tag straps, and I can do it again with the world. It's easy for me, because, well, let's face it...I ooze class on every concealable level.
Class that a troglodyte beta piece of shit like you Adam will never, ever understand. Now, where's that bowl of fruity pebbles I wonder? I think Adam here needs some comfort food, especially since he's about to get fucked on Sunday Night Slam, and broken in two.
Good Day.
MARDI GRAS
17/02/16. New Orleans, Louisiana. French Quarter.
Emily finished reading Rabid's blog entry on her smart phone as the SUV rocked from side to side; cruising along Big Easy's chaotic streets. She had a few misgivings about the language used, but was on the whole was satisfied with the result. Dorian unbuckled his seat and attempted to read over her shoulder, Emily pulled the phone away from her son's gaze and quickly closed the page, re-buckling the seven year old back into his safety seat.
Dorian: Mom! Don't!
Emily Rush: Hush! Stay still, Dory! And don't be reading over my shoulder. It's rude.
Dorian smiled a mischievous grin as Emily (dressed down, but neat in a pair of tight black jeans and a sweater) pulled her son's red hoodie down over his grinning face. The child giggled and let out an evil retort.
Dorian: Daddy's rude. I saw rude words on your phone.
Emily sighed, and looked forward for a parental tag; her gaze falling on the back of a large man in a charcoal suit. Rabid was behind the wheel of the vehicle as it trundled along though the French Quarter. Most of the city was cautioned off for the carnival, the roads remaining open were not always suitable for tourists of all ages to navigate. The city can be a checkerboard at times, affluence living side by side with deprivation. Hedonism running unchecked.
Emily Rush: Well?
Johnny Rabid: Well, he probably hears worse at school. Also, we're all technically bad since this is a school day and we've dragged him out of class for the week. And...
Emily Rush: You're deflecting. Wait...you've let him play Modern Warfare online again, haven't you? That's how he's knows you're swearing in your blogs.
Johnny Rabid: Relax, Modern Warfare has a profanity filter.
Emily Rush: Is it on? I can check the X box app on my phone you know.
Johnny Rabid: No you can't. You're bluffing.
Rabid catches a glance of his son's red face tittering in the wing mirror. A moment later and Dory is shaking his head silently in disagreement with his father, for indeed she can.
Johnny Rabid: Dory?
Dorian: Yeah dad?
Johnny Rabid: No more Modern Warfare.
Dorian: Dad!
Johnny Rabid: Hush!
Emily smiled as she as looked down and patted the head of her sulking son. His name was a peace offering to her estranged family as it belonged to a beloved uncle that had passed on several years before. She had hoped this gesture would mend the wounds, but it was a fruitless pursuit. Emily's life was far beyond their forgiveness; it would have seemed like acceptance to them, a crime none of her upper class, Conservative voting relatives could conceivably bear.
Suddenly the car shunts forward as a NAKED WOMAN; adorned with only a set of beads leaps onto the hood of the SUV, rubbing her pert breasts into the windshield before being arrested by two arriving police officers.
Instinctively, Emily shields her sons eyes with her hands.
Dorian: Mum! What are you doing?
Emily Rush: Profanity filter!
Dorian: What about, dad?
Rabid smiles.
Johnny Rabid: Daddy's driving. He needs his eyes.
Emily grumbles.
Emily Rush: Yeah, I bet.
Rabid adjusted the rear view mirror and smiled into the face of his wife. She returned the favor with a suitable attempt to mirror his effort. Just then, just for that split second; they each wondered if that was what normality was like. To argue. To small talk. To be human beings. For Rabid it would always be this elusive mystery. But for Emily; a faint hint of the past screamed out total horror, terrified at what she had become.
SOUNDBYTES: LUCIAN STARR: TRAPPED UNDER ICE
[By Jonathan Rabid @rabid1]
WCF blog entry: 16/02/16
I imagine you all know where Lucian Starr will be this coming Sunday. He'll be on Slam, live from San Antonio, Texas. Cameras will capture Lucy adjusting his testicle cancer inducing leather panties, rearranging his micro balls, touching up his splash of heavy duty mascara from L'Oreal. Crying into a photo backstage of Wayne Static as his emo soul searches for inspiration. Such is the torrid life of one Lucian “Lucy” Starr. That's the expected vision I suppose, but it's not one shared by me. What I see when I encounter a man like Lucian Starr, is a drowning man trapped under an impenetrable sheet of ice called the lower mid-card. And poor Lucy, he has no one but himself to blame.
Of the three I face this week he has to be undoubtedly the one with the most to lose here. His career is a damp match. No spark of hope on the horizon for the erstwhile Mister Starr; what we have here instead is that typical tale of a man who didn't know his limitations until they smashed face first into his career and blighted the poor sod with doubt.
So, this stumbling mess is wandering through the wreckage of his first few months here in the WCF and that is down to one thing. Planning. Or in this case, the lack their of.
Lucian Starr came from a small pond and never checked the travel arrangements.. He never took the time to study his new accommodation, or prepare for the eventuality of the climate conditions he would discover here. Lucian Starr is a man who just...wandered in. And that, in the WCF is just not good enough.
You'd think Alfonse would have prepared Lucy for the up at dawn siege he'd be facing here. Still, for a manager, he doesn't particularly seem to be the competent kind, now does he, Lucy? And that's your problem, wrapped up with a neat little bow. You wander in here and think you can dominate. You chastise yourself for tapping out to the trump card. And you expect us to be surprised. Why? Your offense is made of paper. You have the build of an anorexic heroin addict. No wonder you tapped out to Dag Riddik; a complete and utter moron of the highest order. A troll incarnate that spits vile racist rhetoric across this federation and drags our reputation through the mud. You, Lucious, you had a chance to silence him at Fifteen. But instead, you gave him a springboard to be even more of a *slice than he was before.
*Slice, an English term used exclusively in the East End of London to describe a vagina. (see also cockney rhyming slang, see also: Jayson Price)
Now he thinks he can actually wrestle. You planned that idiom into his malnourished brain, Lucy. That's on you; and one day, one of us is going to have to deal with that. But not before we teach you a few well versed lessons in how to run your business correctly. Starting right now.
You might think that parading across the screen, performing faux weather reports is going to catch the eye; that your dated hi-jinx going to intimidate your opponent. It isn't, that's the kind of idiotic crap that gets you Adam Young for a partner this week. Your Schick is dirge, Lucy. Your whole world view is fragmented with a subtle whiff of cheese. Your supposed to be this dark and mysterious soul; yet you parade around acting as if your already laying the ground work for Young's triumphant arrival at the Stamford prison experiment.
If you want me to take you seriously. If you want anyone to take you seriously, you have to start with yourself. I doubt you can, which is of course why I'm telling you this. I provide you with the truth, a truth you will refute, I'm sure, totally; let by Monday morning, I'll be proven right, and by Tuesday evening I'll have read your resignation on line. And so the wheel turns, and another butterfly dies upon the spokes. Good. Fuck you Lucious Starr, you annoying turd of a man! You're lazy, when you should have been be fighting tooth and nail for single cell opportunity you have here. That's inexcusable, to just give in. That's a situation that requires extreme punishment.
The only magic trick you have left, Lucy; is to make yourself disappear. To fly away little white dove; because the buzzards are circling. And they want your fucking soul.
FINAL DESTINATION
Fifteen PPV. 31/01/16
Johnny Rabid was falling. His ambition was such that he was blinded to the danger around him. Unable to see the devious machinations that where unfolding. Rabid was stranded in between power plays, a lone figure trapped in a maze that was multiplying at a pace he could not fully grasp at this time. Rabid had to adjust and accommodate to the situation as best he could. This was damage limitation now, for nothing more could be done and he needed to accept that.
As Johnny fell from the ladder, Rabid cursed his singular vision. The sky box was empty, that should have been his first warning. The leisurely pace of Logan during the bout should have been his second. There certainly was no need for a third sign by the time Seth Lerch appeared on stage. The pieces had slotted into place faster than Rabid could hit the ground. Still, better this than to be Steve Orbit right now, his face aghast as the Family formed. Steve Orbit: his mouth an “O” of absolute horror as Logan held aloft the briefcase that unlocked a title shot for the World Heavyweight Title. Steve Orbit, on the front page of every dirt sheet in town. Let Orbit wear the mask of betrayal, thought Rabid. He can be the poster boy for this abomination.
Rabid simply climbed the barrier and left without a pause to look back, his vast knowledge of situations like this meant the picture behind him was already painted in his mind. A canvass of betrayal and treachery. He'd been Seth Lerch in that ring before; the manipulator, the puppeteer. He'd been an owner of a wrestling company. Nothing new here.
Just then the orchestra changed the sheet music, Fifteen would prove to be the formation of The Family and Logan's betrayal of Seth Lerch. The final treachery left for the legend to play. The final joker in the deck. Without even the slightest hint of emotion, Rabid turned to witness the debacle unfold. He wondered if Lerch knew about this twist; that perhaps this was a bluff of some kind. But no. Seth Lerch was alone, the world around him had spun off it's axis as insanity took over; and in that moment they locked eyes. Rabid nodded at Seth. No hatred or anger faced the owner from Rabid as Sarah Twilight, Logan and Phoenix encircled Lerch and cackled and laughed. All Rabid had left for Lerch was just a hint of pity.
MARDI GRAS: THE HOTEL ROOM
17/02/16. New Orleans, Louisiana. French Quarter.
Rabid awoke as his recollections faded. He turned over in bed to find that Emily was missing, the king sized white satin sheets pulled back, allowing a breeze from an open window to gust a gentle breeze inside. This was the third floor of the St. Annette hotel. Its design was classic and elegant; even if it didn't have reliable wi-fi, the eighteen century décor made up for it. Rabid checked his phone in his charcoal pants pocket that was draped over a nearby chair. Nothing from Emily, but there was a message from Kyle Kemp. Something had happened, he was to meet up with Kemp and Wade at a nearby graveyard. That's it. Nothing more.
Rabid's attention turned to Dorian; something was wrong. An urgency he was unfamiliar with flared up inside his cold equilibrium. Rabid quickly dressed and ran next door. There, asleep next a snoozing Rebecca Aims was Dorian. He was fine. Safe. Snuggled up next to his nanny and best friend as a television droned on. That left Emily unaccounted for. What had happened?
SOUNDBYTES: RAYMOND HATCHER: NO DEAL TO BE FOUND
[By Jonathan Rabid @rabid1]
WCF blog entry: 16/02/16
Imagine a giant roulette wheel; replace the numbers with character reboots and what you have remaining is the life and times of one Raymond Hatcher. The real deal is still to be found when it comes to Raymond. He's thrashing upon the shore right now, gasping for relevance in a world that has passed him by. And with each punishing intake of poisonous apathy upon that shore his ears bleed to the sound of silence, deafening silence as the world looks away and discovers new and exciting talent to discover and listen to.
Hello darkness my old friend. Its Raymond...back again.
No one cares about Raymond, much less hate him. He is a non entity that flounders rather than excels. Upon his arrival he was promising; he had a confidence and a swagger about him that reminded the established stars of a certain Bryan “Buzz” Worthy. Perhaps Mister Hatcher would be going places after all; if only he could make that perilous leap upward and drag himself into the upper mid card. If only he had the courage to step out into the light and make a play for the big time. Many believed he had the tools to succeed. Little did the word realize however that he was merely a blunt instrument with only one setting, a single solitary Schick that tired very, very quickly.
And so Raymond Hatcher discovered the doorway into this week's purgatory match; if you've been keeping up you'll see a certain pattern forming between #Beachkrew's three opponents this week. They all have that air of desperation about them; they all exhale tired tropes that brand them as three beta fuccboi's of the highest order. They all whine and piss and moan when they should have an inclining that this is a fighting organization, not the sisterhood of the traveling pants. No one gives a fuck what they want. In this business it's not what you want (contact, a chance, recognition) it's about what you can take. These three don't understand that. They'd rather play the victims, the cry baby anti heroes rather than actual wrestlers that give a damn.
Raymond Hatcher is a graduate of this school; he cries when he should be angry. He drinks when he should be training. He avoids the hard issues and instead takes the soft option. Think about it, why did he join “Dem Outlaw Gentlemen”; because he knew that if he stood next to Adam Young, he'd always be the guy that wasn't second best. He'd always be the alpha of the team...and then ONE happened.
And you where second best.
Kemp climbed that ladder, Kemp retrieved the belts. We won. But not before we smashed the living hell out of you, Raymond. We made you look a very poor second compared to Adam Young. Know why? To troll you. THAT'S how in control of that match we were. We had the time and space to make you look bad compared to Adam Young. And people say Joey Flash is the king of such stunts...
What nonsense.
And the knock on effect of our grand plan? The Outlaw Gentlemen have fragmented. Not that you'd know because you're too steaming to care. You're a washed up ghost waiting to be exorcised, Hatcher. A phantom waiting for the light. This Sunday, at the AT&T Arena. You get to walk into that light. Hand in hand with Lucious Starr and Adam Young. #Beachkrew be sending you home, Hatcher. Don't be afraid of the light, Carol Ann. Be one with the light. And that...ladies and dem' gentlemen of the internet, is the real fucking deal.
GRAVEYARD
New Orleans. French Quarter. 17/02/16
The headstone was smashed, the body still. At the foot of the bloodshed was a small memory stick. Discarded and irrelevant. Standing over the body of the disheveled fifty year old private detective was Emily. Blood dripping from her hands; her veins on fire with a rage born in a far and distant land. She looked down, eyes wide and black. Her lips moved as they silently uttered words in a tongue no one could understand. Kemp and Wade watched on from the sidelines; waiting for Rabid to arrive. A set of tires squealed as the SUV pulled up outside the gates to the cemetery.
Johnny Rabid: Emily? What's happened?
Kyle Kemp: I think your wife needs help man.
Johnny Rabid: Stay with Wade. I can handle this.
Wade Moor: We'll handle this. I've already made the call. We need to clean up this mess.
Rabid leaned in on Emily, careful not to touch her until he was sure he had gotten through to her.
Johnny Rabid: Emily. Emily I don't know what's happened here but I want you to know that you never have to explain this to me. You know that. You never have to say a word to me about what happened here. None of it matters. All that matters is you. You're my wife. You're the mother of my child. And you know how important that is to me.
Emily's eyes began to return to some semblance of normality.
Emily Rush: He wanted money. He said he was going to ruin you. Destroy us.
Johnny Rabid: Who sent him? Did he give you a name?
Emily Rush: He said a “little blue bird” sent him.
Bonnie. The fucking bitch. This was all her fault. She didn't clean up after herself. This guy wanted more money; wanted to get rich quick. Someone would have to pay for this. And pay dearly.
Emily Rush: He...he put his arms on me, touched me. I felt the fire in my veins again.
She looked down at her wrists. Blood on her hands, but no scares. Clean. As if reborn.
Emily Rush: I pushed him; so hard. I didn't know I could do that. He tripped and fell on the stone. I tried to call you...
Johnny Rabid: I'm sorry.
Emily Rush: What do we do? I don't know what to do.
Johnny embraced his wife, a moment of revulsion as she remembered the apartment and the pain of that night in Paris eight years ago. Then it all slipped away; she pulled herself tighter to him, nestled her face into Rabid's chest and tightly shut her eyes. She remembered the worlds he showed her. The ideas, the concepts. The vastness of possibility. The horror of it all. That field of daffodils. The embrace of a dying mother.
Somewhere in between, she existed. Not us, not them. But also, not afraid. Not anymore.
Emily looked up and smiled into the eyes of a strange man with a million machinations on his mind.
Emily Rush: I like your blogs. A little less swearing though, okay?
Johnny shrugged.
Johnny Rabid: No promises.
Then, the cleanup began.
FADE.
When the levy broke it was as if the word turned upside down in a heartbeat. The waters came and destroyed all; as if Pompeii had been reenacted, with volcanic ash replaced by an unstoppable rising tide. Caught in that horrific moment like a Polaroid of submerged agony where small towns dotted across the bayous and marshes; swallowed up and dismembered across the northern side of the state of Louisiana, as if leaves cast upon the wind.
When night falls across the flood-land, an eerie stillness becomes apparent. This used to be a place of hope and human energy; where the heartbeat of an entire way of life sang and existed, a Creole melody that echoed all the way to the streets of New Orleans and it's world famous Mardi Gras. But now, here, as night falls and the swamp life sing; an AIR BOAT moves with a low hum through a watery mausoleum, where ghosts dwell and screams still echo.
The boat has three passengers and one...accompaniment. That extra weight is a human form wrapped hurriedly in burlap sacks and mummified with cord ties and electrical tape. Blots of red liquid leak through the sack, patches of violence the passengers on board wish to conceal and forget. That's why they're here tonight. To dispose of a body. To hide one human tragedy among others.
Wade Moor worked the controls of the craft, for him this was second nature. The foul stench in the air all too familiar for the Brosideon; although for reasons even his compatriots did not yet fully fathom or understand.
Wade Moor: Work that light, Kyle. I need to see my way.
Kyle Kemp obliged; shining a single large spotlight, attached to a steel pole in the center of the craft, left and right as the boat navigated though a perilous reef of half submerged houses, and rusting vehicles. While perched at the tip of the boat, stood Johnny Rabid; eyes scouring through the darkness, his strange vision judging space and time as if he was traveling though this hell during the day.
Johnny Rabid: Stop, shine the spotlight left.
Kyle Kemp: You sure?
Wade Moor: Trust him.
There was a time, all too brief, when that was the case. When it was second nature for Kyle to believe in Rabid. Now? Kyle's world was as chaotic and as fractured as the landscape he now endured.
Kyle Kemp: Fine.
The spotlight swiveled left; falling upon a large human sized statue of JESUS CHRIST: arms out stretched as if casting a shadow over sugerloaf mountain. Kyle staggered back with shock at the cracked and damaged shape; it's nose broken off; its eyes gone, appearing now to be bleeding blood from the sockets, an illusion brought on by the onset of wild moss. The stone effigy remained affixed to the alter of a church; the front half of which had been completely obliterated in the storm.
Wade Moor: Here?
Rabid paused to think; they'd come out a long way, past police patrols and roadblocks; hired the boat, headed out further into no man's land. This place seemed like the edge of the Earth. An underworld even he had trouble accepting. Here would do. It would have to do.
Johnny Rabid: I'll dump it overboard.
Wade Moor: You need help?
Rabid simply shook his head; he picked up the sack with ease and flung it over the side. Crude weights where attached (bricks and slabs of stone) as it sank without a trace. The three members of #Beachkrew watched as bubbles rose periodically to the surface, but the body did not follow.
Kyle looked up from the dread black of the water; his reflection was troubled; hollow eyes searching the water for answers. He knew where to find them. Just as always, he simply had to turn and face Rabid. The man at the heart of it all.
Kyle Kemp: Why?
Rabid wanted to answer truthfully. A confession at the alter. But after a few soul searching moments Rabid's gaze fell upon that Christ figurine; and in that split second, it all returned. The sound of nails being driven into flesh. The smell of carrion in the air. The tears of a messiah. The loss of a brother.
The truth will get you killed. Move on, deflect.
Johnny Rabid: I don't know, Kyle. I imagine she had her reasons.
A PARIS APARTMENT
The cold, formally white tiled floor of the Parisian bathroom undulated rich veins of crimson between it's neat joints as the dying, naked form of Emily Rush remained still. Her slender bones chilled in a cracked tub now overflowing with water intermixed with hemorrhaging lukewarm blood.
Emily's arms had been slashed by a cutthroat razor; vertically across the wrists several times as to accentuate the blood loss and make the scene appear like a suicide. While off in another room of this dusty and dank Paris apartment; a large, heavy set man of Russian decent whistled “Peter and the Wolf” to himself as he made a milky white instant coffee, kicked a curious mouse out of the kitchen, and heated up a stale pop tart for the journey back home.
Somewhere among that out of key echoing lullaby, Emily was experiencing her last thoughts; the fire of anger and rage she felt an hour ago returned briefly: the front door to the flat being kicked open off it's hinges...her nose broken in three places by a blinding fast punch...the boots to her face and abdomen by a huge, hulking form. These horrors where beginning to evaporate however as her situation became terminal, and with that moment of realization came a certain peace. Faces of family and friends floated in and out of her diminishing consciousness as her arms were as heavy as lead, hanging over the lip of the tub, useless and immobile.
Those faces: Emily's father, angry at her for failing yet another drugs test; allowing herself to get kicked out of Cambridge for possession of a class A cocktail. Her older sister, Margo, marrying young and raising a family; always disapproving. Always admonishing her dreams. Her mother, an emaciated form, dying from Cancer in Emily's teenage arms, a frail, brittle voice asking Emily for the pills on the bedside cabinet; asking her “brave daughter” to kill her.
The wind in Emily's long blonde hair as she ran from her mother's bedroom, ran so hard and fast into that nearby field of golden daffodils that she thought her lungs would burst. Tears streaming as she murmured “coward!” over and over again to herself between each intake of oxygen that propelled her forward. From that family home in Dorset, England. From that safe world. Into the embrace of coke and pills and regret.
And now this.
Just as she had managed to make herself matter again; just as her modeling career had begun to ignite, it was snuffed out. She said no to the wrong people; she wasn't interested in Glamour modeling. And she wasn't going to step aside and allow her rival at the modeling firm to take the contract she had worked long and hard for six months to win. That rival, a spoil little rich girl, the daughter of a Russian Oligarch with Mafia connections, that rival would be Emily's undoing. Emily's ambition blinded her to the danger unfolding all around her. A threat that would eventually smash her nose, slice open her wrists, and force her to bleed to death in a grotty tub in a bohemian Paris apartment on the eve of her twenty second birthday.
And that's where the story was destined to end if it wasn't for one more face among the pack; one that seemed cold and distant and yet warm with curiosity. A shock of long, flowing black hair fell over his face as he motioned through the crowds, waiting patiently for the fashion show to begin. Never blinking, even as the stage burned bright with flashes from a million camera bulbs. He just sat there, legs crossed in his neat suit. The slither of a smile. It was unnerving, even when he seemed harmless and docile.
A creek of the door, and a “docile” shadow entered the apartment. Emily's faltering hearing heard a short scuffle, and a snap of a neck. Something heavy and lifeless fell onto a glass coffee table as it shattered. A slab of dead Russian gangster completely out of his depth was stepped over by a man in a sharp charcoal suit who adjusted his tie and removed his black driving gloves. The mouse now had a chance to escape and he took it, scurrying away, back into the kitchen; hiding as the man in that charcoal suit walked at a steady pace towards the bathroom. A slight crease formed on Emily's lips as she realized she had outlived her killer. Still, nothing to be done now except die she supposed, her eyes closing shut for the last time as the world fell away.
She was falling now...wait, that's not it. Not falling at all; she was being carried now. Into an embrace. Not tender, but...functional. As if lifted up by a giant mechanical claw. It squeezed around her as a voice told her to make a choice. The decision seemed insane, but she was dying and had few options.
The words never truly formed from her lips as she agreed, but it was enough. The man closed the door to the bathroom behind him as a delicate scream could be heard inside. This was the day Emily Rush was born, for the procedure had begun and there was no turning back.
That was 2008. A very good year for Jonathan Rabid. The year he found his bride.
SOUNDBYTES: ADAM YOUNG AND THE STAMFORD PRISON EXPERIMENT
[By Jonathan Rabid @rabid1]
WCF blog entry: 16/02/16
So yesterday morning I receive an email from our new head of talent relations, Nobunaga Oda. He informs me that from now on, all talent is to write and post blogs on the main web site that discuss themselves and upcoming matches. It seems a logical request, his only one to be fair. “Nobu-san” is an odd, strange fellow it would seem; brimming with erratic far-eastern energy that's more at home on one of those outlandish Japanese game shows than the board of a prestigious combat sports enterprise.
While Oda clearly has a unique vision for the future of this company, I do not consider being paid in “Scorpion Coins” a viable economic trade off for actual legitimate currency. As insane as it would seem, Katherine Phoenix would appear to be the more mentally stable of the two. At least she understood that a contract is a contract, even while pleasuring herself with the decapitated head of a Teddy bear while signing the check. (And yes, that actually happened)
Being paid on time is a necessity in this business; the current dilemma of one Grayson Pierce however I do find most gratifying. He is a dolt, that has infected my rehabilitation of the tag team titles with a dose of pungent mediocrity. Will those titles ever recover from Rebellution's disgraceful reign? Who knows. One day I hope to rescue the tag belts from their jailers: Andre Holmes - Phoenix ( a man who abuses his new bride daily) and Grayson Pierce (a half clown fool, that needs a spell on a mental ward) these two ingrates are in possession of the straps now. Rebellution hold the titles aloft, and will be defending them (with abject sloppiness I imagine) at Timebomb.
Will their match be on par with my successful title defense alongside Kyle Kemp at ONE? Of course not! The gulf in talent and heart between us will earmark the belts for an inevitable slide back down the companies consciousness as #Beachkrew's influence within the upper echelon continues to exponentially rise and rise.
It has always been the case that the man makes the title, not the other way around. The tag titles are now around the waste of mid-card jokes that only carry those belts as a demonstration, a lesson to be learned by the rest of the company that we at #Breachkrew care about you. We care about the history of this company, and we care about the heritage of the titles we so bravely fight for, week in and out.
Kyle Kemp and Wade Moor are my partner's this week for the first of two six man contests, live from the AT&T Arena in San Antonio, Texas. Think about that for a second. The best Tag Team this company has seen in six months, plus the former World Champion takes on...a League of Disgruntled Gentlemen and a street Magician. I'd be insulted if I didn't have a sense of professionalism.
As opposed to a certain Adam Young.
This Sunday night I face, Raymond Hatcher, Lucian Starr and a certain Adam Young. Adam Young, the villain: a weaponized idiot sent forward from the nineteen nineties to torment the future of professional wrestling. If that was the actual truth you'd be at least eighty per cent more interesting than you actually are now, Adam. Unfortunately, it isn't so. What we're stuck with instead is a three toothed southern hack that thinks he's a challenger for the World title. You sir, are not that. You're not even an interim challenger, you're an interim asshole. A Jayson Price pity fuck that swaggers around thinking he's living inside a second summer of Punk, when in fact it's the springtime of Gillberg. You, Adam Young, are not a real Wrestler, you haven't been for a long, long time. What you are is a glorified mascot used only as a punching bag for developmental talent and Spencer Adams. MY punching bag this week it would appear. You're a tune up, Adam. A pre-season friendly. A Brooklyn Brawler that stumbles out from the back under the proviso that he doesn't hurt the actual quality fighting talent around him in the ring. And here, Adam Young, is the good part, for it's your complete lack of fighting prowess that has become your one true saving grace. The one reason that Seth Lerch kept you on the books for so long, you never hurt anyone (except that time you decided to rape your own ex-wife in one of the most stupid angles of your entire fucking career, Mister “Dark Messiah”). You're like a wrestler wrapped up in a ball of super fluffy Nerf sponge. You're utterly harmless, Adam; and for a combat sports competitor, I can't think of a more damning accusation.
This week I get to wrestle a man I refused to sign to a contract at KPW three years ago because he wasn't of the mettle required to sustain an audiences attention. That truth then, remains so now. Adam Young is a glorified stage hand that LARP's his way from one improbable situation to the next; not even pausing to hear the laughter that's directed at his idiotic schemes. It's as if he's resigned to his fate now. He knows he's nothing more than a troll doll. A Joey Flash hand rag to wipe the Italians cum up with while Malignaggi takes a bow and flips off a federation that passed him over for a giant, bloated fool named Thomas Uriel Bates. That's Adam Young, ladies and gentlemen. A used scrap of tissue; covered with salty Malignaggi jizz.
And what does this salty, jizzy tissue want to do now? Why, he wants to be World Champion of course. Seemingly unaware that the ONLY REASON he has this match next Wednesday against Jayson Price is because he's to be stamped and recorded as a title defense. One more than Price had previously during that sixteen day debacle as the World Champion the first time around.
Adam Young is a living, breathing statistic. A notch on a belt waiting to happen, and nothing on God's green Earth is going to change that fact from becoming a reality. Maybe that's why Adam has embarked on his latest escapade into Disneyworld. His C.M Punk phase as he “taunts” Seth Lerch on twitter about running away with the title and appearing on WWE television.
Let's be clear about something Adam, if your life has stooped so fucking low that you have to emasculate yourself week in and out on a predetermined “Sports Entertainment” series then you should just blow your own fucking head off right now. There is seriously no need to take another breath on this planet. But, lets for one moment think about this...what if. What if by some unthinkable fluke Jayson Price slips and snaps his neck in a fluke accident on the mat and you're declared the winner, Adam. What then? What if you actually show hitherto unseen backbone and actually follow through on your threats and take the WCF title off to Stamford, Connecticut. What then? What would life be like for an Adam Young debuting on WWE Raw?
Will there be fanfare? Will we see celebration? That first night Adam would be odd for sure, an actual real fighter bucking the trend and going the other way to the fake show. Why? Has his knees blown out? Is his back a hunched frame stapled together by a patch up job on the cheap? Questions immediately asked as Adam Young is greeted by a smattering of applause and a cacophony of boos from the little kids in attendance.
See Adam, you might be under the deluded illusion that Raw draws numbers, but in THIS UNIVERSE? It's deader than Julius Caesar. Think about it, why would anyone watch a fake version of the real thing that's aired the night before? Maybe if you want your kids to avoid actual bloodshed perhaps. Maybe if you want your children to partake in some harmless fun I suppose. And that, Adam is the rub. You want to take the WCF World title and parade it around on a kids show. That's your big threat, that's your genius master plan?
Remember when I said you where made of Nerf? Case proved I think.
Part of me wants to see your obnoxious threats come to fruition. Just to see you dying inside week after week on safe, network television as you fight a man in a chicken suit or a psychotic barber with a cock fetish. That would be hilarious, especially that moment when we see you locked in a supposed Boston Crab by a Rainbow Unicorn: a little tear rolling down your quivering cheek; your bruised, useless mind remembering how you once were the mascot of a mighty giant, now reduced to being nothing more than a glory holed Children's Entertainer, sucking off Vince McMahon's seventy year old *todger and performing in bloodless playacting for all the family.
*Todger: an English vernacular for Penis (see also Vulgar)
Your reward for such PG rated service? To be laughed at and repacked with an “01” on your new orange tights and a trailer park for a sound stage. The Duke of Hazard himself; Adam Young. Trapped inside a Stamford Prison Experiment forever more. Triple H's stooge. The bump artist for the top tier guys to snigger at and order about. The opener on Velocity, or Heat, or whatever the hell they have next to fill a contractual commitment on SyFy. NXT quality you are not, Adam. I doubt you'd even make a good Basham Brother.
Seth doesn't answer your calls for a reason, Adam. Just like the last time you decided to walk away from this business and go fish (when was that, three months ago?) No one fucking cares about you. And they never will. Go FIST fuck yourself to death, you pathetic worm. Preferably wearing a dress so as to finally out all your little personality quirks at once.
The absolute worst tragedy of this whole sorry affair is that you, Adam, the idiot challenging for the World heavyweight title, has been met with nothing more that a shrug, instead of absolute total outrage over this title match. I expected bile and blood to run through the streets when your name was announced. None came. Just silence. That's the tragedy here Adam. That's what is truly wrong here with this picture. Nothing happened.
That's why this Sunday is so important. You Adam, and those like you, are a Cancer in this company. You have spread this malaise throughout the ranks. Where is the hunger to fight you? To destroy you and take your prized place on Wednesday night? It has to be out there somewhere. Or maybe, it's right here. Right now. In among these words as I type. I want your spot. I want the Word title. I brought prestige to the tag straps, and I can do it again with the world. It's easy for me, because, well, let's face it...I ooze class on every concealable level.
Class that a troglodyte beta piece of shit like you Adam will never, ever understand. Now, where's that bowl of fruity pebbles I wonder? I think Adam here needs some comfort food, especially since he's about to get fucked on Sunday Night Slam, and broken in two.
Good Day.
MARDI GRAS
17/02/16. New Orleans, Louisiana. French Quarter.
Emily finished reading Rabid's blog entry on her smart phone as the SUV rocked from side to side; cruising along Big Easy's chaotic streets. She had a few misgivings about the language used, but was on the whole was satisfied with the result. Dorian unbuckled his seat and attempted to read over her shoulder, Emily pulled the phone away from her son's gaze and quickly closed the page, re-buckling the seven year old back into his safety seat.
Dorian: Mom! Don't!
Emily Rush: Hush! Stay still, Dory! And don't be reading over my shoulder. It's rude.
Dorian smiled a mischievous grin as Emily (dressed down, but neat in a pair of tight black jeans and a sweater) pulled her son's red hoodie down over his grinning face. The child giggled and let out an evil retort.
Dorian: Daddy's rude. I saw rude words on your phone.
Emily sighed, and looked forward for a parental tag; her gaze falling on the back of a large man in a charcoal suit. Rabid was behind the wheel of the vehicle as it trundled along though the French Quarter. Most of the city was cautioned off for the carnival, the roads remaining open were not always suitable for tourists of all ages to navigate. The city can be a checkerboard at times, affluence living side by side with deprivation. Hedonism running unchecked.
Emily Rush: Well?
Johnny Rabid: Well, he probably hears worse at school. Also, we're all technically bad since this is a school day and we've dragged him out of class for the week. And...
Emily Rush: You're deflecting. Wait...you've let him play Modern Warfare online again, haven't you? That's how he's knows you're swearing in your blogs.
Johnny Rabid: Relax, Modern Warfare has a profanity filter.
Emily Rush: Is it on? I can check the X box app on my phone you know.
Johnny Rabid: No you can't. You're bluffing.
Rabid catches a glance of his son's red face tittering in the wing mirror. A moment later and Dory is shaking his head silently in disagreement with his father, for indeed she can.
Johnny Rabid: Dory?
Dorian: Yeah dad?
Johnny Rabid: No more Modern Warfare.
Dorian: Dad!
Johnny Rabid: Hush!
Emily smiled as she as looked down and patted the head of her sulking son. His name was a peace offering to her estranged family as it belonged to a beloved uncle that had passed on several years before. She had hoped this gesture would mend the wounds, but it was a fruitless pursuit. Emily's life was far beyond their forgiveness; it would have seemed like acceptance to them, a crime none of her upper class, Conservative voting relatives could conceivably bear.
Suddenly the car shunts forward as a NAKED WOMAN; adorned with only a set of beads leaps onto the hood of the SUV, rubbing her pert breasts into the windshield before being arrested by two arriving police officers.
Instinctively, Emily shields her sons eyes with her hands.
Dorian: Mum! What are you doing?
Emily Rush: Profanity filter!
Dorian: What about, dad?
Rabid smiles.
Johnny Rabid: Daddy's driving. He needs his eyes.
Emily grumbles.
Emily Rush: Yeah, I bet.
Rabid adjusted the rear view mirror and smiled into the face of his wife. She returned the favor with a suitable attempt to mirror his effort. Just then, just for that split second; they each wondered if that was what normality was like. To argue. To small talk. To be human beings. For Rabid it would always be this elusive mystery. But for Emily; a faint hint of the past screamed out total horror, terrified at what she had become.
SOUNDBYTES: LUCIAN STARR: TRAPPED UNDER ICE
[By Jonathan Rabid @rabid1]
WCF blog entry: 16/02/16
I imagine you all know where Lucian Starr will be this coming Sunday. He'll be on Slam, live from San Antonio, Texas. Cameras will capture Lucy adjusting his testicle cancer inducing leather panties, rearranging his micro balls, touching up his splash of heavy duty mascara from L'Oreal. Crying into a photo backstage of Wayne Static as his emo soul searches for inspiration. Such is the torrid life of one Lucian “Lucy” Starr. That's the expected vision I suppose, but it's not one shared by me. What I see when I encounter a man like Lucian Starr, is a drowning man trapped under an impenetrable sheet of ice called the lower mid-card. And poor Lucy, he has no one but himself to blame.
Of the three I face this week he has to be undoubtedly the one with the most to lose here. His career is a damp match. No spark of hope on the horizon for the erstwhile Mister Starr; what we have here instead is that typical tale of a man who didn't know his limitations until they smashed face first into his career and blighted the poor sod with doubt.
So, this stumbling mess is wandering through the wreckage of his first few months here in the WCF and that is down to one thing. Planning. Or in this case, the lack their of.
Lucian Starr came from a small pond and never checked the travel arrangements.. He never took the time to study his new accommodation, or prepare for the eventuality of the climate conditions he would discover here. Lucian Starr is a man who just...wandered in. And that, in the WCF is just not good enough.
You'd think Alfonse would have prepared Lucy for the up at dawn siege he'd be facing here. Still, for a manager, he doesn't particularly seem to be the competent kind, now does he, Lucy? And that's your problem, wrapped up with a neat little bow. You wander in here and think you can dominate. You chastise yourself for tapping out to the trump card. And you expect us to be surprised. Why? Your offense is made of paper. You have the build of an anorexic heroin addict. No wonder you tapped out to Dag Riddik; a complete and utter moron of the highest order. A troll incarnate that spits vile racist rhetoric across this federation and drags our reputation through the mud. You, Lucious, you had a chance to silence him at Fifteen. But instead, you gave him a springboard to be even more of a *slice than he was before.
*Slice, an English term used exclusively in the East End of London to describe a vagina. (see also cockney rhyming slang, see also: Jayson Price)
Now he thinks he can actually wrestle. You planned that idiom into his malnourished brain, Lucy. That's on you; and one day, one of us is going to have to deal with that. But not before we teach you a few well versed lessons in how to run your business correctly. Starting right now.
You might think that parading across the screen, performing faux weather reports is going to catch the eye; that your dated hi-jinx going to intimidate your opponent. It isn't, that's the kind of idiotic crap that gets you Adam Young for a partner this week. Your Schick is dirge, Lucy. Your whole world view is fragmented with a subtle whiff of cheese. Your supposed to be this dark and mysterious soul; yet you parade around acting as if your already laying the ground work for Young's triumphant arrival at the Stamford prison experiment.
If you want me to take you seriously. If you want anyone to take you seriously, you have to start with yourself. I doubt you can, which is of course why I'm telling you this. I provide you with the truth, a truth you will refute, I'm sure, totally; let by Monday morning, I'll be proven right, and by Tuesday evening I'll have read your resignation on line. And so the wheel turns, and another butterfly dies upon the spokes. Good. Fuck you Lucious Starr, you annoying turd of a man! You're lazy, when you should have been be fighting tooth and nail for single cell opportunity you have here. That's inexcusable, to just give in. That's a situation that requires extreme punishment.
The only magic trick you have left, Lucy; is to make yourself disappear. To fly away little white dove; because the buzzards are circling. And they want your fucking soul.
FINAL DESTINATION
Fifteen PPV. 31/01/16
Johnny Rabid was falling. His ambition was such that he was blinded to the danger around him. Unable to see the devious machinations that where unfolding. Rabid was stranded in between power plays, a lone figure trapped in a maze that was multiplying at a pace he could not fully grasp at this time. Rabid had to adjust and accommodate to the situation as best he could. This was damage limitation now, for nothing more could be done and he needed to accept that.
As Johnny fell from the ladder, Rabid cursed his singular vision. The sky box was empty, that should have been his first warning. The leisurely pace of Logan during the bout should have been his second. There certainly was no need for a third sign by the time Seth Lerch appeared on stage. The pieces had slotted into place faster than Rabid could hit the ground. Still, better this than to be Steve Orbit right now, his face aghast as the Family formed. Steve Orbit: his mouth an “O” of absolute horror as Logan held aloft the briefcase that unlocked a title shot for the World Heavyweight Title. Steve Orbit, on the front page of every dirt sheet in town. Let Orbit wear the mask of betrayal, thought Rabid. He can be the poster boy for this abomination.
Rabid simply climbed the barrier and left without a pause to look back, his vast knowledge of situations like this meant the picture behind him was already painted in his mind. A canvass of betrayal and treachery. He'd been Seth Lerch in that ring before; the manipulator, the puppeteer. He'd been an owner of a wrestling company. Nothing new here.
Just then the orchestra changed the sheet music, Fifteen would prove to be the formation of The Family and Logan's betrayal of Seth Lerch. The final treachery left for the legend to play. The final joker in the deck. Without even the slightest hint of emotion, Rabid turned to witness the debacle unfold. He wondered if Lerch knew about this twist; that perhaps this was a bluff of some kind. But no. Seth Lerch was alone, the world around him had spun off it's axis as insanity took over; and in that moment they locked eyes. Rabid nodded at Seth. No hatred or anger faced the owner from Rabid as Sarah Twilight, Logan and Phoenix encircled Lerch and cackled and laughed. All Rabid had left for Lerch was just a hint of pity.
MARDI GRAS: THE HOTEL ROOM
17/02/16. New Orleans, Louisiana. French Quarter.
Rabid awoke as his recollections faded. He turned over in bed to find that Emily was missing, the king sized white satin sheets pulled back, allowing a breeze from an open window to gust a gentle breeze inside. This was the third floor of the St. Annette hotel. Its design was classic and elegant; even if it didn't have reliable wi-fi, the eighteen century décor made up for it. Rabid checked his phone in his charcoal pants pocket that was draped over a nearby chair. Nothing from Emily, but there was a message from Kyle Kemp. Something had happened, he was to meet up with Kemp and Wade at a nearby graveyard. That's it. Nothing more.
Rabid's attention turned to Dorian; something was wrong. An urgency he was unfamiliar with flared up inside his cold equilibrium. Rabid quickly dressed and ran next door. There, asleep next a snoozing Rebecca Aims was Dorian. He was fine. Safe. Snuggled up next to his nanny and best friend as a television droned on. That left Emily unaccounted for. What had happened?
SOUNDBYTES: RAYMOND HATCHER: NO DEAL TO BE FOUND
[By Jonathan Rabid @rabid1]
WCF blog entry: 16/02/16
Imagine a giant roulette wheel; replace the numbers with character reboots and what you have remaining is the life and times of one Raymond Hatcher. The real deal is still to be found when it comes to Raymond. He's thrashing upon the shore right now, gasping for relevance in a world that has passed him by. And with each punishing intake of poisonous apathy upon that shore his ears bleed to the sound of silence, deafening silence as the world looks away and discovers new and exciting talent to discover and listen to.
Hello darkness my old friend. Its Raymond...back again.
No one cares about Raymond, much less hate him. He is a non entity that flounders rather than excels. Upon his arrival he was promising; he had a confidence and a swagger about him that reminded the established stars of a certain Bryan “Buzz” Worthy. Perhaps Mister Hatcher would be going places after all; if only he could make that perilous leap upward and drag himself into the upper mid card. If only he had the courage to step out into the light and make a play for the big time. Many believed he had the tools to succeed. Little did the word realize however that he was merely a blunt instrument with only one setting, a single solitary Schick that tired very, very quickly.
And so Raymond Hatcher discovered the doorway into this week's purgatory match; if you've been keeping up you'll see a certain pattern forming between #Beachkrew's three opponents this week. They all have that air of desperation about them; they all exhale tired tropes that brand them as three beta fuccboi's of the highest order. They all whine and piss and moan when they should have an inclining that this is a fighting organization, not the sisterhood of the traveling pants. No one gives a fuck what they want. In this business it's not what you want (contact, a chance, recognition) it's about what you can take. These three don't understand that. They'd rather play the victims, the cry baby anti heroes rather than actual wrestlers that give a damn.
Raymond Hatcher is a graduate of this school; he cries when he should be angry. He drinks when he should be training. He avoids the hard issues and instead takes the soft option. Think about it, why did he join “Dem Outlaw Gentlemen”; because he knew that if he stood next to Adam Young, he'd always be the guy that wasn't second best. He'd always be the alpha of the team...and then ONE happened.
And you where second best.
Kemp climbed that ladder, Kemp retrieved the belts. We won. But not before we smashed the living hell out of you, Raymond. We made you look a very poor second compared to Adam Young. Know why? To troll you. THAT'S how in control of that match we were. We had the time and space to make you look bad compared to Adam Young. And people say Joey Flash is the king of such stunts...
What nonsense.
And the knock on effect of our grand plan? The Outlaw Gentlemen have fragmented. Not that you'd know because you're too steaming to care. You're a washed up ghost waiting to be exorcised, Hatcher. A phantom waiting for the light. This Sunday, at the AT&T Arena. You get to walk into that light. Hand in hand with Lucious Starr and Adam Young. #Beachkrew be sending you home, Hatcher. Don't be afraid of the light, Carol Ann. Be one with the light. And that...ladies and dem' gentlemen of the internet, is the real fucking deal.
GRAVEYARD
New Orleans. French Quarter. 17/02/16
The headstone was smashed, the body still. At the foot of the bloodshed was a small memory stick. Discarded and irrelevant. Standing over the body of the disheveled fifty year old private detective was Emily. Blood dripping from her hands; her veins on fire with a rage born in a far and distant land. She looked down, eyes wide and black. Her lips moved as they silently uttered words in a tongue no one could understand. Kemp and Wade watched on from the sidelines; waiting for Rabid to arrive. A set of tires squealed as the SUV pulled up outside the gates to the cemetery.
Johnny Rabid: Emily? What's happened?
Kyle Kemp: I think your wife needs help man.
Johnny Rabid: Stay with Wade. I can handle this.
Wade Moor: We'll handle this. I've already made the call. We need to clean up this mess.
Rabid leaned in on Emily, careful not to touch her until he was sure he had gotten through to her.
Johnny Rabid: Emily. Emily I don't know what's happened here but I want you to know that you never have to explain this to me. You know that. You never have to say a word to me about what happened here. None of it matters. All that matters is you. You're my wife. You're the mother of my child. And you know how important that is to me.
Emily's eyes began to return to some semblance of normality.
Emily Rush: He wanted money. He said he was going to ruin you. Destroy us.
Johnny Rabid: Who sent him? Did he give you a name?
Emily Rush: He said a “little blue bird” sent him.
Bonnie. The fucking bitch. This was all her fault. She didn't clean up after herself. This guy wanted more money; wanted to get rich quick. Someone would have to pay for this. And pay dearly.
Emily Rush: He...he put his arms on me, touched me. I felt the fire in my veins again.
She looked down at her wrists. Blood on her hands, but no scares. Clean. As if reborn.
Emily Rush: I pushed him; so hard. I didn't know I could do that. He tripped and fell on the stone. I tried to call you...
Johnny Rabid: I'm sorry.
Emily Rush: What do we do? I don't know what to do.
Johnny embraced his wife, a moment of revulsion as she remembered the apartment and the pain of that night in Paris eight years ago. Then it all slipped away; she pulled herself tighter to him, nestled her face into Rabid's chest and tightly shut her eyes. She remembered the worlds he showed her. The ideas, the concepts. The vastness of possibility. The horror of it all. That field of daffodils. The embrace of a dying mother.
Somewhere in between, she existed. Not us, not them. But also, not afraid. Not anymore.
Emily looked up and smiled into the eyes of a strange man with a million machinations on his mind.
Emily Rush: I like your blogs. A little less swearing though, okay?
Johnny shrugged.
Johnny Rabid: No promises.
Then, the cleanup began.
FADE.
