Post by 6ix God on Feb 23, 2016 12:26:17 GMT -5
♫The boy was getting out of hand. I did what I needed, you understand.♫
Within the gleaming chrome intestines of the craft, Stone Cold Stevem Bosstin and Hacksaw Jimophy Thuggin found themselves sitting across from one another in an all too familiar interrogation room; perhaps the seat beneath Thuggin still lingered with the human stench of its last occupant, Mr. Joey Flash. Deceptions were naturally aside as the two, practically indistinguishable, gray men stared across the table at one another, delicate and cunning smiles crossing the lips of both. Cigar smoke wafted delicately from the burning end of Thuggin’s cigar – one Earth custom he found himself drawn to even outside of his façade – and with a casual flick of his thumb, the ashen end cascaded to the floor, vanishing immediately with a dull pulse of light from the metal.
Thuggin: Your lack of faith in the prophecy is disturbing, Stevem. I struggle to find how you can ignore the obvious parallels and allusions, and should this man be the destruction as foretold why you would offer him any hints while simultaneously signaling his attempted execution. Your actions and words contradict themselves.
The calm smile across Bosstin’s lips, a smile of all too human arrogance. The great black eyes of the Jalaxaritkatusan blinked as he leaned forward and folded his hands before him, his voice falling dangerously low.
♫Dearest Jim, I’ve watched you grow, but my decisions are not yours to know. ♫
Bosstin: At any rate, Jim, it should be me inquiring about your actions. Suppose you’re correct: that this man is the “lightning” as foretold in the Prophecy. What then? Wouldn’t his elimination be the most practical solution going forward? Perhaps it is you and not me who is potentially jeopardizing our mission.
The insult stung Thuggin like a wet slap, causing the Examiner to stiffen in his seat, his mouth falling open.
Bosstin: What’s wrong, Jim? Have you become so endeared to the peculiarities of your “Favorite Earth Child” you’ve not considered his whims may not always be parallel with our own?
Thuggin placed the cigar down upon the metal table, the flat surface curving up to provide him a holder. The Examiner blinked before leaning forward on his forearms.
Thuggin: Should he be the destroyer, as foretold, would it not be best to seduce and harness his power? Would it not be the wisest to bring him into our proverbial web and twist his mind to our devices? Remove him as a threat rather than as an entity?
The smug smile on Bosstin’s lips faded as Thuggin’s manifested. Now it was the minor Jalaxaritkatusan’s turn to speak softly.
Thuggin: The Blue Velvet has given us a crack in his mind which we can continue to leverage open until his resistance is futile. He is no hero or paragon, Stevem: he is a broken and flawed man. One easily tempted and seduced by his vices and more unfortunate elements of his psyche. Remember his role in removing ‘The Red One’.
Bosstin’s voice became the hiss of an angry cat as he stood, planting one hand on the table as he jabbed a long finger at Thuggin.
Bosstin: Don’t tell me about ‘The Red One’, Jimophy. His involvement was your idea. And as for your little “closest thing to perfection”, may I remind you of his failure to put ‘The Red One’ away? How, in fact, it took a dismissed Candidate and his never-once-consider-important little friend to actually destroy ‘The Red One’? Perhaps I should bring John Mullins and Howard Black in for examination!
Thuggin’s response came in the form of a blink, his smile never wavering and his body never twitching despite the outburst of his superior. Bosstin leaned in close, his thin lips pulling back into a sneer as he barked out at Thuggin.
Bosstin: And may I remind you of what ‘The Red One’s’ puppet almost did to your precious little Chosen One?
Thuggin: Or perhaps Harbinger Jared’s beating at the hands of Daniel was the catalyst for the Earth Child to realize his destiny. Before the beating at Daniel’s hands, the Earth Child allowed Arbiter Jason to usurp him with minimal resistance. The potential of the Earth Child was never at question in my mind; what mattered was finding the spark to bring out the qualities in him I predicted.
Thuggin’s fingers drummed a quick pattern on the table before rising himself, a hologram projecting up and between the two men as the lights in the room lowered for visibility. The hologram displayed a rotating image of Jared Holmes, his Aryan features beautiful rendered and perfectly sculpted – the epitome of classic masculine aesthetic. A veritable wall of text scrolled beside the figure, written in a strange language of dashes and dots that perhaps none on Earth could understand.
Thuggin: As I once outlined in my reports, my assessment of Harbinger Jared felt frustratingly incomplete due to a remarkably natural mental barrier he seems to possess against any probing or persuasion. While he had consistently seemed “well rounded” – a euphemism for lacking any prodigious qualities – I had often felt that this barrier prevented a thorough and objective assessment of Harbinger Jared’s qualities. Instead, I noted a natural sense of leadership and uncanny ability towards deception, suggesting the qualities I sought lay under the proverbial surface of the water.
With a wave of his hand, the image of Jared changed: now beaten, battered, and bruised with a swollen face, an arm in a sling, and several grisly wounds.
Thuggin: The usurpation of Arbiter Jared by Jason Rush did not motivate the Earth Child. But the beating at the hands of Daniel changed him almost overnight. Of course, we see a Daniel motivated by ‘The Red One’ – who is his target? Not Arbiter Jason. Not Arbiter William. Not Joseph. Harbinger Jared. In his attempt to “cut off the head of the snake”, Daniel and ‘The Red One’ instead awoke a dragon.
With a wave of his hand, the wounds of the hologram of Jared healed and a mask formed over his face, a full face diamond studded mask with a glistening platinum crown of thorns topping it. This naked body became clothed in a flowing gold cloak etched with the same sort of eldritch symbols scrolling by the screen, and his fingers became adorned with shimmering rings of fantastic gems. In an instant, Jared had become the King in Yellow.
Thuggin: During his time in convalescence, Harbinger Jared was able to deduce the Galactic Prophecy and his place within it on his own wit and intellect. More impressive, his understanding of the intricacies and repercussions of the Prophecy and ability to persuade others to its virtues has been staggering. The material success of Arbiter Jason’s tenure as leader proved fruitful, but it has never been our overarching goal. Championships are but tools and measures of prestige. What Arbiter Jason lacked was the ability to unify #BeachKrew as a collective against outside threats, as well as a poor judgement of character when it came to the recruitment of some less than ideal subordinates.
Thuggin’s lip briefly curled in disgust at the thought of the late Monster Guardian of the Brocean before turning his attention back to Bosstin.
Thuggin: Arbiter Jason lacked vision and direction; his motivations and values were shallow and limited in scope. I have placed Harbinger Jared back in control of the Earth Children because he offers both vision and direction; while in-ring results have been mixed – I suspect a product of pettiness towards the reign of Arbiter Jason – his talent for instilling unity and cultivating talent have delivered us Earth Child John and provided the development of Arbiter Andre. And now he sits at the cusp of the absolute victory. I have full faith he shall excel in this position.
With a wave of his hand, the image disappeared and the lights returned to their sterile brightness. Bosstin smiled.
♫I see your line of thought thus far, but you forget the boy’s a wild card♫
♫And honestly it brings distress to see so much faith in a man of such carelessness.♫
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The fire apple red Lincoln town car stretch limousine wove through the desolate country roads of North Dakota in the middle of the night. Through the blackness of the lonely winter prairie, the high beams were the only light for miles, save the faint blinking on the horizon of a distant city. In the back of the limousine, Jared Holmes sat alone. Music floated through the air, the melody far less prominent than the rumbling growl of the bass which sent faint ripples through the surface of rosé that the Six God nursed in a glass. Beside him, the open bottle sat on ice in the cooler adjacent to the seat.
An outsider may question what this lavish limousine containing such a figure could be doing in the middle of rural North Dakota, so close to the Canadian border. The Six God had no such thoughts – with the knowledge of his destination, he was perfectly suited to an appearance. An all-black Burberry London tuxedo was accentuated with lavender Belvedere oxfords and a fat gold Rolex Oyster iced out around the face. Jared’s eyes watched as the melancholy fields passed him before turning his attention to the camera. He leaned back in his chair, cocking an eyebrow and taking a sip from his glass before beginning to speak.
Jared Holmes: Is this supposed to be a “surefire victory”? Or maybe a “Clash of Titans”? I suppose there’s gonna be some drivel about how “whoever wins this match is going to take the tournament” and how this is an affirmation of “the next big threat” and “validation of the next wave of domination.” Yes to all of the above, besides the second point. This is a surefire victory. The winner of this matchup will win the tournament. This match is the statement win and the shot heard around the WSeaF, but it is no “Clash of Titans” – this is me burying you, Sarah, and crushing out the final choking embers of your laughable little return. This is an affirmation of the #BeachKrew era and a friendly reminder that our wave of domination has not slowed for a second. After a single grating month of false prophets and smug cynics, the mangled wreck of your body and career will underscore my message and debunk all rumors: the #fuccboigenocide continues.
And I’m sure you’re going to trot out #BeachKrew failures. I’m sure you’re going to question the effectiveness of my leadership and legitimacy of my vision; such projections are only natural to those on the hot seat, desperate to point a finger and say “See? I’m not that bad.” No, Sarah, you are that bad, and no one is going to be duped by your diversions. No parlor tricks or mischief or whatever the hell it is you think you do is going to help you this time. The curtain is pulled back. The show has begun, and you weren’t ready – the magician’s act is absolutely ruined. You are not me. You are not even near me. You will never reach the level I am, no matter how many songs of faded glory you sing. The power disparity between the two of us is so sickeningly lopsided, I’m surprised you haven’t picked up a copy of the Communist Manifesto and tried to rally a revolution against me.
Oh, wait, you did! How has that been working out for you? This couldn’t have been how any of your former fun bunch saw this going. When you scraped up your stable of C-list, rejected, failed, discredited, unimportant, washed-up, green-eared, untalented, unimpressive, and unintimidating misfit toys, you thought you were going to make waves, right? “The beach party was over” or some dumb shit – like others haven’t been saying the same thing since we entered this company in August? Did you legitimately think this would change; that two disgraced veterans, two discredited jobbers, and two unproven rookies could topple the dreams of Imperium manifest? Did you actually think that you, Sarah, could control the likes of Logan, Dag Riddick, and Katherine Phoenix and then coordinate them to a degree effective enough to prevent us from conquest? For fuck’s sake, repeat this back to yourself a few times. Turn it over in your brain. Say it out loud. Do you understand how fucking stupid you look? Do you understand how fucking stupid you sounded? You were a kindergarten laser tag team facing off against the Nazis. Andre Jenson versus the Spartan Army. This isn’t “Red Dawn” or “Inglorious Basterds” – there are no miracles or happy endings in real life; not without Six God’s intervention.
But perhaps the most damning failure of this little escapade you’ve led is this mistaken belief that you’d unite the federation against us. How has that worked out for you? You have no allies. No friends. You had no momentum, no good will, and no cohesion, and now you don’t even have that because you don’t have a fucking stable. #BeachKrew stands tall as the tide laps away at the walls of your sandcastle, and soon the shore will be smooth again as the waves continue to crash forth. Nothing will have changed from one month ago, and your failure rests on two critical errors.
Jared held up two fingers to the camera, wiggling the first as he spoke.
Jared Holmes: First, you assumed that you could unify the federation against us in any manner, underestimating the hostility your own group had accrued. This isn’t World War II or the Cold War; Bosnia isn’t just going to forget Serbia raped and murdered the shit out of it and team up because Russia is a bigger power. Israel and Iran are not going to suddenly become teammates because the Islamic State is rising; that’s not how real life works. It was stupid, blind, and disingenuous of you to suggest otherwise, almost as stupid, blind, and disingenuous it is of you to think you have any modicum of a shot at winning this match.
As he lowered the fist finger, he wiggled the second - his pointer finger.
Jared Holmes: Second, even if this little scheme of yours worked, you assumed that #BeachKrew would buckle under the pressure of “the whole fed turning against them.” Maybe I missed the memo, but at what point wasn’t the whole fed against us? Rebellution? Hates us. Sentinels? Hate us. People’s Choice? Hate us. Mikey Extreme? Hates us. Bernard Core? Hates us. Every other worthless pipsqueak under the sun is following the Dag Riddick model of cheap success by putting our name on their tongue to get a #BeachKrew rub. Fuck it, Twilight, I’m bigger than Jesus, and we’re bigger than the Beatles; you think we couldn’t handle six more #fuccbois getting in line? That’s why we dominate: it was always #BeachKrew versus everyone. That’s what made us stron. That’s what forged our bonds. You didn’t do anything revolutionary, just Rebellutionary: a reiteration of the last batch of faggots who talked hard, sat on their hands, and had to throw their best guy at our middle talent to win a belt. And you couldn’t even get that done.
But excuse me, this should probably be considered irrelevant because you’re not even in that group, right? How does it feel to know that your sorry ass was kicked out of a group containing Logan, Dag Riddick, and two nobodies because they felt it was you who was lowering their brand? Amazing, isn’t it, how #BeachKrew stands while the Family implodes. I guess water really is thicker than blood.
Pausing, Jared snicked at his joke. He smiled widely, the grin of a hungry shark. Leaning forward, he directed the wide-eyed grin at the camera, his voice low.
Jared Holmes: So where are you now, Sarah? Can you feel the waters rippling as the sharks circle you? Can you hear the howl as the wolves close in? You’re lost in the woods with no one but Katherine Phoenix at your back, and I think I speak for everyone when we talk about how shocking that one is.
His voice returned to a normal level as the smile fell back into a pleasant grin, like that of any affable chap. His voice bounced melodically, the edge of condescension riding it.
Jared Holmes: See, it’s funny, but in some ways Katherine Phoenix is the epitome of every shit decision you’ve made since coming back. She’s the albatross around your neck; your failure incarnate. From the moment that Katherine Phoenix signed your contract, you had the stench of fetid failure circling your head; the ire of everyone who has worked to get where they are. The parallels are funny – rejected, washed-up star gets hired again, gets position and prestige she doesn’t deserve, and never gets what’s coming to her. You know what bad leadership looks like? It doesn’t look like mixed results. Not embarrassment. Not even failure. Bad leadership is burying your people to keep your head above water. Let’s take a look at Katherine Phoenix.
Yeah, I know you two have some sort of bizarre pathological lesbian thing going to back when Katherine went as “Lilith”, right? I’m not interested in discussing that just yet. I’m not going to discuss how you dragged Lilith so far down with you the first time that she had to completely rebrand herself so she could erase the residual film of oily X-Pac Heat from her skin. Instead, riddle me this – what sort of “family” would first encourage an existential crisis as massive as Katherine’s Andre Holmes delusion for a few laughs?
Normally, I’d assume you know the term “gaslighting”, but you’ve proven to be such a stupid cunt that I’m going to spell it out for you. The term is a psychological one, describing abusive behavior in which one party uses selective information or outright deception to make another doubt their own perception of reality; it comes from an old black-and-white film called “Gas Lights” in which a husband searched an attic for treasure, causing the gas lights below to dim, then insisted to his wife that her perception of the dimming lights was her own imagination. What you did, Sarah, was feed Katherine Phoenix’s delusion about her “marriage” for a chortle, never understand that you were playing with fire. When the news that Katherine Phoenix swallowed a bottle of pills broke, I don’t think anyone batted an eye. This is your definition of leadership – treating a member of your unit as a joke prop like a whoopee cushion or a rubber chicken. As a diagnosed psychopath, I’ve got to hand it to you – that’s a new low even by my standards.
But the hilarious part was the consequence, which highlighted your own short-sighted, thick-skulled thinking. So now Katherine Phoenix has tried to off herself and gone to the hospital to get her stomach pumped, you all look like a bunch of morons who milked their “family member” into insanity. Well shit, wasn’t Sarah Twilight supposed to have things under control? Haven’t you been issuing gag orders and breaking phones to keep Dag Riddick and Kathy P from embarrassing themselves against us on Twitter? Now something that you directly encouraged, directly approved, and directly contributed to has almost cost you a life. Maybe you could double down: point a finger at Andre Holmes and blame him. Maybe you could start gaslighting him and producing bullshit marriage certificates and drunk Vegas photos. Hell, even we helped you peddle that story with our boy Kit Harrington.
Instead? “Katherine ate seven bags of gummy bears”. Are you fucking kidding me? That is your bold move to save face? “Eh, fuck it, let’s continue to rape Katherine of her credibility and feed a half-true narrative about her so I don’t look like an absolute waste of a leader. Sure, TMZ and ESPN have already dished out the big scoop, but fuck it, I can guarantee everyone’s going to believe someone who is the self-proclaimed ‘Mistress of Mischief’ over an actual publication. Sarah, you little fox, you’ve done it again!” Yeah, there’s your cunning leader and friend, Kathy: not only is she gonna throw you under the bus, she’ll drive that bitch herself just to make surte it’s going full speed when it hits you.
For all the shit #BeachKrew gets, there is absolutely no evidence that any of us are “out for ourselves” or “not really friends”, as much as this line gets trotted out. I’m sure you’re anxious to hit me with some variation on that or talk about how I’m using this group as a platform for myself. Truth be told, I probably have the least accolades of the whole bunch. I’ve held one belt for a week, survived Hellimination, and came in third at War. Beaver held that one belt longer than me, Rabid and Kyle got the Tag Belts from the guys Wade and I face-planted against, and Wade actually won the top prize. And you know what? I feel like a proud parent. I’m clapping my boys on, making toasts in their honor, and throwing parties for this shit. If Kemp and I end up in the final round of the Trilogy Tournament, I’m going to have a clean and competitive bout with him. There is literally no evidence to suggest otherwise. There is no proof I’m putting anyone down. I occasionally give tough love, but that’s how good leaders operate. “Tough love” isn’t calling my team mates pathetic, taking their phones, or covering up their suicide attempts: it’s standing tall as a leader and having their backs while telling them to do more.
In every facet of every sense, I am your superior. I’m a better leader than you. I’m better at cultivating and maintaining talent than you. I’m better at drawing heat than you. If the reaction of “#BeachKrew versus the Family” is any indication, I’m even better at drawing cheers than you. I’m smarter than you. I have more vision than you. I speak harsher, and I fight better than you. You’re a stupid little ginger rat with thin hair and no tits stepping to an absolute giant. Even Occulo, my fucking opponent who has no reason to do anything but loathe me, will tell you I’m going as far as I want and actively shackling myself for the good of my team. This is it, Sarah: just two kids from the City of Angels fighting for turf. The battle is over, and the war ends at Time Bomb. No more parties in L.A. for you; by the time the bell rings, you’ll be selling your shitty little Hollywood Hills mansion and moving to Tuscaloosa.
The sound of a window rolling down cut the monologue as the lights of town passed the windows. A voice called back.
Chauffeur: Mister Holmes, we're here.
But don’t worry, that’s not even the beginning. I’m just getting started with you.
The limousine crawled to a halt, and after a moment, the door beside Jared opened. After throwing back the last of the glass of wine, he stepped out, nodding to the chauffeur who closed the door behind him. Before him sat a pathetic little building: the Smokey Bonz Café and Bar. It was the only real establishment for food and drink in this miserable little town, but Jared was wholly unconcerned with the upstairs area of the establishment. What drew Jared to this trembling little border town was the ugly little secret which caused the casual Tuesday night patrons to lower their heads in shame when Jared stepped through the door of the dilapidated dive.
Crossing assuredly through the room and out the back door, Jared did a sharp turn in the alley to descend a flight of stairs cloaked in shadows, finding himself facing a plain red door with no handle. After knocking once, the door opened and the smell of Eastern spices and pungent incense wafted into the air as a stocky young African man in a letterman jacket, black shirt, black sunglasses, and an earpiece glared down at him. His jaw, covered in patchy facial hair, opened for a bark of a voice betraying a foul breath like cheap booze and cigarettes.
George!: Let’s see it, NERD!
Jared reached into the breast pocket of the jacket and removed a gold coin, a curled dragon glaring up from his palm at the doorman. George! nodded in recognition and stepped aside to open the door to the interior of the Midnight Club.
Joey Flash vs. Jayson Price
Joey Flash – 4:5
Logan vs. Steve Orbit
Steve Orbit – 5:8
Vengeance vs. Mikey Extreme
Vengeance – 3:5
Chance Von Crank vs. Tiffany White
Chance Von Crank – 1:2
Benjamin Atreyu vs. Occulo
Benjamin Atreyu – 2:5
Dune vs. Kyle Kemp
Dune – 15:16
Jared Holmes vs. Sarah Twilight
Jared Holmes – 2:3
Jared smiled to himself as he read the display before a hand on his shoulder caused him to turn. The man facing him was a small, rotund Japanese man with eyes like a rat and thick lips curling into a coyote’s smile. He wore a smart black tuxedo with a white shirt, and a black bowler hat topped his head, making him look like a penguin. Still, one would be foolish to overlook the true identity of this man: a bird of prey. Many had met less than savory fates underestimating Nobunaga. Not that this concerned Jared – a connection was a connection, and he’d given the yakuza advance of his arrival and admission of his guest.
Nobunaga: Mr. Holmes, it is a pleasure to finally have you in our establishment.
Nobunaga offered a hand which Jared gladly accepted, giving a firm handshake.
Jared Holmes: A pleasure to be here, Nobunaga-sama. I trust all of my accommodations have been kept?
Nobunaga looked from Jared to a table in the corner.
Nobunaga: I’ve allowed him in, yes. However, you’d be advised to remember this club is not #BeachKrew’s playground and while you are a …
Nobunaga’s eyes gleamed in the dim light with wicked greed as he savored the words.
Nobunaga: …generous patron of our establishment, rules must be maintained for the sake of honor. We hold a high caliber of prestige for our clientele.
Jared nodded solemnly, placing an understanding hand on the shoulder of Nobunaga.
Jared Holmes: Nobunaga-sama, I understand. I appreciate your leniency in this occasion.
Nobunaga smiled and reached up, patting Jared affectionately on the cheek.
Nobunaga: You’re a good boy, Jared. Your guest is waiting for you – I have provided bottle service to the table as you requested.
Nobunaga stepped aside and strode across the room, his eyes set on a scene of public revelry between a group of geriatric men and a single solemn cocktail waitress involving splashed drinks on a sheer white dress.
Nobunaga: ねえ！そのカーペットは高価です!
Jared’s eyes instead fell to his reserved table in the corner – a table where a thin curtain hung to partition the table from the rest of the club. A single long candle cast light and illuminating the figure of Wade Moor sitting at one end. As Jared approached, he drew the curtain back and slid into the booth, smiling at the face of his friend across the table.
Jared Holmes: My brother from another mother.
Wade grinned, offering a fist bump to Jared.
Wade Moor: My nilla! This is a pretty crunk place.
Jared Holmes: Yeah, no shit, huh?
Wade Moor: Shame it wasn’t around when I was #Whirlpool Champion; would’ve been a sick place for a third date.
Wade’s lips drooped as he looked down at his glass on the table. Jared reached out and clasped his hands, giving them a faint squeeze. Wade looked up and locked eyes with Jared, a smile of sympathy on the Six God’s face.
Jared Holmes: You’ll be back in no time. Tom Brady versus Brian Hoyer.
Wade’s sour mood lightened, his lips arcing up as he nodded vigorously.
Wade Moor: Yeah. Short-term memory.
Jared released Wade’s hand and reached for the bottle of Blanche Tranditionelle absinthe. He twisted the lid open (the seal cracked – undoubtedly from Wade awaiting his arrival) and poured the glowing emerald liquid into the glass placed before him before reaching for a carafe of ice water on the table to cut the liquor and cause it to louche into a milky white.
Jared Holmes: At any rate, we’re here, and I’d like to talk.
Wade smiled, lifting his own drink to his lips for a small sip.
Wade Moor: Of course, Brohammad. What’s good?
Jared’s eyes shone in the low light.
Jared Holmes: I’d like to discuss the Owls.
Wade’s smile flattered, his eyes casting down to the hazy drink before him. His nervousness was evident; he lightly circled the glass on the table to spin the contents – a nervous tic, no doubt – before he spoke with a low voice.
Wade Moor: What about ‘em?
Jared Holmes: They’re circling us, and it’s time we brought this war to their doorstep. My initiative upon retaking control was to crush our enemies – I think they pose our main adversary.
Wade Moor: I mean, what about the Team of Torture?
Jared Holmes: In the ring. The Owls pose an out-of-ring threat. I see no reason we should place one adversary of equal danger on the backburner for another.
Wade nodded in consideration.
Wade Moor: That’s… fair, I guess. What do you wanna know?
Jared Holmes: Well how did they enter the picture? What was your first encounter with them?
Wade reached a hand up to scratch his chin hiding deep within his #neckbeard.
Wade Moor: Well I guess it was probably when someone busted into the #BeachKrew hotel room with a fireman’s axe trying to kill me.
Jared cocked an eyebrow.
Jared Holmes: Killjoy.
Wade’s gaze became distant, his eyes somber.
Wade Moor: Yeah, something like that.
He paused to take a long pull of the drink before reaching for the bottle.
Wade Moor: It was my fuckin' brother.
The cocked eyebrow stayed.
Jared Holmes: You have a brother?
Wade laughed bitterly.
Wade Moor: I did.
Tilting his head back, Wade opened his mouth and tossed the freshly poured drink down his throat, sans chaser. As his head returned to its level position, he wiped his lips with his forearm. His voice quavered, a mixture of deep and agonized remorse with legitimate helplessness.
Wade Moor: I killed him. They were using him to get to me, and I had no choice.
Placing the glass on the table, Wade folded his hands and locked eyes with Jared.
Wade Moor: They’ll come for you next, bro. They know the Prophecy. They knew I wasn’t the top brass – they wanted to put as much of a dent in it as possible.
Jared Holmes: I was bed-ridden for a month. Why not take me out?
Wade smiled wryly.
Wade Moor: Perhaps you had a guardian angel watching over you.
Jared’s eyes dropped, his lips turning up in a thin smile as he nodded once.
Jared Holmes: Yeah. Maybe.
Jared looked up, taking a long sip from his glass of absinthe
Jared Holmes: So you killed your brother. Give me the scoop. Did you kill him there in the hotel room?
Wade shook his head.
Wade Moor: No. We confronted the Owls at their citadel. I killed him there.
Jared’s hand froze in mid-action, his placement of the glass on the table halted by these words. His voice dropped.
Jared Holmes: You found their base of operations?
A flash went through Wade’s eyes, a faint tremble in his lips matching the jolt of uncertainty. Still, he nodded.
Wade Moor: Yeah.
Jared’s voice remained low but hissed with intensity and intrigue as he leaned forward in his seat.
Jared Holmes: How?
Wade Moor: Rabid knew. Said he knew a guy.
Jared’s smiled widened, though it telegraphed no joy. Instead, his voice hissed out dripping with disappointment.
Jared Holmes: And you didn’t burn their home to the ground?
Wade shook his head. His hand went instinctively to the scarred thumb, rubbing it softly though his eyes had drifted from the table to the curtain.
Wade Moor: I had… more pressing matter on my mind.
Jared Holmes: Do you think they’d be there still?
Wade Moor: Nah. If’n they’re smart, they’d have packed up.
The Shark smelled blood in the water. He muttered to himself.
Jared Holmes: Or if they’re cowards.
The booth fell silent, the unbroken aura hanging thick on the shoulders of the two men. It was odd for these two to find a moment of silence in their conversation – such instances perhaps emphasized the urgency of the matter at hand. As Wade’s eyes trailed back, he found them locked once more with Jared. The proceeding question was oddly nonchalant.
Jared Holmes: Hey Wade?
He paused, his words coming forth slow and deliberate, as though being actively considered.
Jared Holmes: Who… is…? Nikita?
As the name fell from Jared’s tongue, Wade’s body seized. The tension going through the former World Champion was subtle but all too noticeable to an acquaintance as familiar as the Six God.
Wade Moor: Dunno. Never think I heard that before. Maybe some groupie I was smashing in Phoenix? Why?
Jared smiled.
Jared Holmes: No reason. Just curious.
Jared rose drawing the curtain back as he stepped out into the club.
Jared Holmes: I’m gonna grab a smoke. Be back in a sec.
As he strode across the floor, a cellphone popped in his face. A beaming young Asian woman in a low-cut red dressed grin and shrieked with delight.
Broad: Oh my god, it’s Jared Holmes! Smile for Facebook!
With a lightning-quick swipe, the phone was in his hand, the camera leveled with his face.
Jared Holmes: Here’s your fucking Facebook moment, you cunt. Hi, Sarah! Having a good time getting ready to get your fucking neck broken on Sunday? I hope you’ve been apply a good handful of Gold Bond to your asshole for me; I like my bitches hot, itchy, and tight. By the way, are you lesbian or straight right now? It seems like you switch sexuality every other week depending on what’s going to get the most attention; if only it had the consistency of your inability to be competent. Don’t worry, by the time I’m done sodomizing you in the ring, you’ll be begging for dick on the reg.
I’m so glad you didn’t pussy out on me. Don’t think I didn’t read the rumor mill and hear about how you almost chickened out on this match and quit like a faggot. What’s wrong, Sarah, getting cold-feet over the losing record you’ve had since coming back? Are you gonna do the same thing as last time where you called out Johnny Fly just to kick your ball into the woods and go home? Maybe you’ll attack someone who is down and out just to get some cheap heat and make yourself look tough. Ana Valentine was an easy one, wasn’t it? Yeah, you sure looked intimidating curb stomping someone on their way out the door. It’s so easy to pick apart how sniveling and worthless you are, it’s almost making my shoots on you look like I’m a face. What next, are you and Kathy going to jump my non-wrestling girlfriend or maybe punch my old man manager like your former buddy Dag Riddick?
Here’s the difference between us: when I broke the neck of Derek Moreno’s #fuccboi partner, I gave him motivation. I made that bitch famous, to quote the Chi-Town bard. I’m not going to bother ending a bunch of no-lifes with no chance of retaliation; I end a faggot then end his faggot partner the next week at a pay-per-view. That’s all #BeachKrew does: make fucking waves. Since the second any of us graced this company with our presence, we’ve had the entire federation in our palms to give it a good stroking whenever we wanted. Why do you think Flash is so desperate to call himself the #BeachKrewGenocidist? Why do you think there are a billion stupid anti-#BeachKrew catchphrases? We’re the center of this Galaxy. It’s at the point that we have so much attention, I’m confusing Charon’s snappy anti-#BeachKrew catchphrase for Doug Murdock’s. Don’t worry, I’ll make you famous, too.
And speaking of Kanye, I’m happy for you and I’ma let you finish, but I was the greatest WCF Owner of all time! I didn’t need to dupe some idiot into marriage contract or play games with Jeff Purse to do it, either; I walked into the ring, made the People’s Choice my personal cum box, then I sat on the throne. Know what domination looks like? Go replay last year’s Hellimination. This was at a time I’d just been usurped. This was at a time I wasn’t even riding in the WINObago. I grabbed my two most trusted men, and I invaded Poland and France. What the fuck have you done to something even remotely of that scale? How has anything you ever touched come close to beating my success? I grabbed Kyle Kemp, a lower midcarder who was fresh off a streak of losing to Spencer Adams and made him a fucking stud. I led a group of newbies and took control. I called the shots the night that Wade won the World Heavyweight Championship, and I ran through the Angels of Destruction without losing a single member.
This is real talent, Sarah. This is real influence. I’ve been put through flaming tables by Corey Black just to force my hand. I’ve beaten Jeff Purse like the fucking loser he is and dismantled Pantheon. I’m the star of this show. I’m the least recognized performer of this bunch because I need no personal validation: what’s #BeachKrew’s is mine. I made XIII a relevant show again by derailing it. I made Dustin Beaver go from two-bit wannabe to fucking rock star. My touch is ubiquitous. You can’t swing a dead Scarecrow without hitting something that has my signature on it. And what did you do when you ran the place? You gave Lilith the Elite Championship.
Jared stuck his finger in his cheek, popping it out and sarcastically spinning it in the air.
Jared Holmes: Good job, faggot, you gave Katherine Phoenix one of the only three belts she’s ever held. That’s pretty fucking lulzy, even by my standards. Shit, for as blatantly rigged as #Beachmania was, you didn’t see me just tossing belts to my buddies. But then again, why would I need to? My clique was actually competent enough to earn shit on its own. I could’ve stripped the People’s Choice of their belts. I could’ve fired Kamon and Dune, jobbed Teo del Sol out to a pack of rabid dogs every night. Truth be told, for all the Caligula jokes I made, my regime was remarkably subdued. Nah, fuck that shit; I don’t need to abuse power for prestige, I just go fucking take it.
In the same way, you’re going to be the first of a series of proofs about that claim as I absolutely obliterate you at Time Bomb to inch towards a shot at Flash or Price. I have literally nothing to fear from you. You’re a has-been who never-was. Check this shit: I actually did my research on you. Know what the funny thing about you is? For all this talk of you being “elite” or “dominant” or whatever, this is the most underwhelming history I can imagine. Sarah Twilight: referee for a title match. Sarah Twilight: fucks things up in a triple threat against Fly and Price. Sarah Twilight: wins against some nobody rich guy. Sarah Twilight: loses the belt in a Triple Threat and actually eats the pin. Talk about absolute shit; in a match also featuring Waylon Cash, you were the worst participant.
And that’s not all: Sarah Twilight wins the Television Title. Sarah Twilight loses the Television Title in a triple threat. Sarah Twilight wins the tag belts. Sarah Twilight quits like a faggot and vacates the belts. Shit, why am I noticing a pattern? It’s almost like when you’ve got stiff competition, you’d rather run off to mommy and cry about it than take your licks. And yes, that’s a lesbian joke.
I think I finally see something about you, and it brings the whole picture into clarity: you don’t actually belong in the top tier. You aren’t a threat. You aren’t dominant. You’re not a good champion. You’re the epitome of “also ran”. Pure hype and no substance who needs something practically handed to her on a silver platter because she could never actually achieve it by her own merit. What you are is an owner surrogate: you’re the projection of what Seth Lerch wishes he was, so he’s given you everything you’ve ever wanted. Even that goes so far; that’s not going to get you a win over a Jonny Fly or a Steve Orbit. Apparently, that’s not even going to allow you to survive a Waylon Cash. Instead, what you do is slither in when no one’s looking, grab the thing and run until you’re chased down and bent over.
I thought you were supposed to be “empowering to women”. I thought the women in WCF were just as tough as the men. You’re the first woman champion of two belts, and both of those reigns are blighted by the fat black mark of conniving worthlessness. You’re not a “powerful woman”; you set women back. You reinforce the stereotype that women will never belong in the same ring as men. You prove that you can’t hang with the best of them. You prove that there’s a top tier and there are some people who will never achieve that top tier, no matter how hard they try, without fucking the owner. I should take away your ability to vote, let alone wrestle.
You’re not a competitor, you’re fan service. Everything about you seems carefully calculated to appeal to the low-brow basement dwelling neckbeard segment, so they can write erotic fan fiction and fap to you like they were Chris Morrell’s roommate. Black leather bodysuit? Check. Red hair? Big check. “No make-up because so perfect XD”? Check. Shit taste in music like Evanescence? Check. Stupid fucking wicca background? Big check. Fucks men to get ahead in life? Check. Pathological lesbianism otherwise? Check, check, check. How many people on your design team wore fedoras? Is this why you picked up Dag Riddick for a stable; was he a creative consultant for you in the early days?
And what the fuck is up with “Twilight” actually being your last name? At first I was going to ask if your parents were a couple of hippies who named you “Sarah” because they got sober long enough to realize naming their daughter “Moonflower” would equate an adolescence of virginity and bullying, but apparently your Dad was an alcoholic blue collar worker. Now all I can think of is that he must’ve been the wash-up of some gay Motley Crue cover band, and I suppose this is where you got all your shitty tastes and neanderthalic sex appeal from. “Alec Twilight”; what a stupid fucking name. And your sister was seriously named, Rachel? At least we see that a lack of inspiration and taking the path of least resistance when it comes to creative decisions runs in your family. And by the way, if Thursday popped out a daughter as pathetic as you, I’d probably get drunk and beat her on the nightly as well.
So you ran off or something, and we’re supposed to believe that living on the streets made you strong. How? Living on the streets of Tujunga, a “picturesque” middle-class town with a higher median income than the average of the state of California, is supposed to be rough? You didn’t actually grow up in Los Angeles, Sarah. You weren’t homeless in Hawaiian Gardens or Long Beach or South Central. The average income of the place you “lived on the streets” is twenty thousand dollars more than the average of Los Angeles. It’s ten thousand dollars higher than the average income of West Hollywood. Your high school is so safe that more movies, commercials, and television shows have been shot on location there than any other high school in the United States. Fucking “Not Another Teen Movie” was shot there. Arizona Governor Jan Brewer and the Smothers Brothers graduated from that shit. It doesn’t make you look tough at all; it’d be like me claiming I was homeless in La Jolla to look tougher. For all you kids at home watching, go punch “Tujunga (Sunland)” into city-data.com. You can see the numbers and know that I’m not full of shit on this.
And it all comes down to reinforcing the easiest interpretation of you: you’re a mallcore wrestler. You’re Hot Topic incarnate. You’re all the posturing and posing like some emo faggot in girl jeans and black nail polish thinking he’s “hardcore” because he dances like a spazz at scenecore shows and likes breakdowns. It’s everything from your fucking Evanescence ringtone in the year 2016 to your shitty dyed hair. If you owned a pair of fishnets, I wouldn’t be surprised. You’re a cultural relic of the late Nineties to early Two Thousands; a time when Limp Bizkit was one of the biggest bands in the world. You’re Avril Lavigne-Kroeger who thinks that Good Charlotte is punk rock. That’s all it is: a fragile pastiche of angst and rebellion carefully sculpted to give preteens erections and emulate authenticity for those who think they can get counter-culture for thirty-five bucks a shirt.
You’re last year’s girl. Everything about you reeked of “short shelf-life” and it’s even more glaringly in focus upon your return. If there has ever been an “old timer” who looks antiquated, outclassed, and totally out of their element – an absolute product of a time and place long faded into obscurity – it’s you. I’m ending your story, your career, and your myth. You’re a rusting sculpture looking for a good hit to send it toppling. That much will be clear when the bell rings. I’d call you the female Corey Black, but that would be insulting to him. You’re not even close to being on the level of the worst legend in the business – you’re a failed attempt at aping his success with tits. Sorry, Sarah, no one listens to Avenged Sevenfold, and nobody likes you. Time to go back to the clearance bin where you belong.
You shouldn’t have come back.
As he finished speaking, he tossed the phone casually over his shoulder and onto the floor – the bitch could get her “likes” for all he cared. As he twisted the handle and stepped out into the cold air of North Dakota, he was keenly aware of the footsteps in the hall behind him, catching the door and following him up the stairs. By the time he’d stepped into the alley, he was hardly taken aback as the sensation of a cold steel barrel pressed against the base of his skull. The voice of the assailant hissed in his ear, cutting the rural ambience of the quaint border town.
Assailant: I hope you’ve enjoyed your last evening, Harbinger.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
♫If your Chosen One will bring success, why hasn’t he yet been put to test? ♫
Thuggin: Perhaps to a casual glance, Harbinger Jared seems untested. I find it disturbing your perception goes so shallow. Tell me, Stevem, where this skepticism comes from?
Bosstin: Did he win the Trios Titles?
Thuggin: Will you consider the intervention of Seth Lerch to be legitimate in the defeat of my Earth Children?
Bosstin’s smile remained, growing oddly frozen and unwavering. It was a strange smile, one which chilled Thuggin to the bone even if his face displayed no apprehension. He had seen the sadistic hand of his superior far too many times; that slasher smile all too human which crossed his mouth as his hand moved for the kill.
Bosstin: You understand, of course, that Seth Lerch is an obstacle for the Prophecy outside of the ring as much as in it. Let’s not play coy and acknowledge the real role Seth Lerch plays in your little Prophecy.
Thuggin looked down, his smile faltering.
Thuggin: Perhaps we should. The Owls have been a constant thorn in our side. Seth Lerch’s identity as power player within their faction is troubling, but it is not impossible.
As a memory crossed Thuggin’s eyes, the smile slowly returned. The carefully calculating mind of Jim Thuggin whirled to life as ideas formed and dots connected. The frown was premature – the minor Jalaxaritkatusan looked back up and smiled.
Thuggin: But tell me, sir, we can also acknowledge the true Puppet Master behind Seth Lerch, can we not?
Bosstin quivered. It was unusual to see the superior Jalaxaritkatusan be visibly disturbed, and the entity which crossed his mind deserved all of the horror and ire he offered it. His voice was low and hateful as the blasphemous name left his tongue.
Bosstin: Moloch.
Thuggin: Of course, we have seen this dynamic before. Have we not been dealing with a puppet master of our own? Have we not seen the puppet liberated from its strings?
Bosstin glared, the sense of audacity and insult from his pupil coming like a wave.
Bosstin: You dare imply that ‘The Red One’ and his little sand ape compare to Moloch?
Thuggin merely nodded.
Thuggin: ‘The Red One’ pales in comparison to the power of Moloch, but their means and methods are remarkably similar. Seth Lerch moves against the Chosen One because he is compelled, much as Earth Child Daniel tossed little Christian Malignaggi to his death. Moloch’s grasp on the Lerch Family is documented, but if any of our observations on Earth Child Seth prove true, it is that he is a chaotic intangible. Seth Lerch is a boy king on a throne, not a killer or a mastermind; his ability of influence comes from his position which is manipulated by Moloch. His will power and mind are fragile, and prying him from Moloch’s bonds should be no different than freeing Daniel from ‘The Red One’; that is, to say, in an incredibly painful manner.
Bosstin: Suppose you fail, Jimophy. Or suppose that the Chosen One falls at the hands of the Owls.
If Thuggin had an eyebrow, he would have cocked it inquisitively at Bosstin.
Thuggin: I see no way for the Owls to have an ability to pinpoint Harbinger Jared’s location, even with his gaudy and flamboyant tastes in aesthetic. Harbinger Jared is blends into the crowd of his kind; another spoiled and vulgar man of wealth and influence. A common occurrence in Los Angeles. Beyond this, we have taken steps to conceal our whereabouts and movements. At any rate, Harbinger Jared is the Chosen One; prophecy has dictated his destiny. I fear not for his safety.
Thuggin narrowed his eyes at Bosstin.
Thuggin: On the other hand, I trust that you would not be foolish enough to take the matter into your own hands. If, as our findings suggest, that we Jalaxaritkatusans can directly shape the events of prophecy, I think that the Directors of Prophecy Fulfillment would be greatly disturbed if our greatest hope was felled at the hands of one of our own. Such actions could potentially doom our species.
Bosstin’s slasher smile returned as he leaned back in his chair.
Bosstin: I would do no such thing, dear Jimophy. Such a direct intervention against one of our own would be tantamount to treason. However…
He paused and savored the thought, his eyes glistening as he licked his lips.
Bosstin: You have so much faith in your “Harbinger Jared”, he has remained untested. And as the Overseer of this project, it would be grossly neglecting my duties and the advancement of our people if I allowed such. I won’t kill your “Favorite Earth Child”, Jimophy…
Bosstin leaned forward in the chair, placing his hands on the table once more.
Bosstin: … but others would like to. Others may be incredibly interested in the movements and actions of the Chosen One. And considering your faith in this prospect and the supposed power he shall wield in his coming destiny, it feels unfair to not level the playing field. Maybe leave something here, tell someone there.
Thuggin: You would jeopardize destiny by allowing him to fall into the hands of our enemies? To actively aid them in their pursuit of our destruction, the annulment of the Galactic Prophecy, and the death of the Chosen One?
Bosstin smiled.
♫If he is the Chosen One, as you say, then I see no reason he won’t get away♫
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Jared’s hands slowly rose, though his smile never fell. It was an odd tableau for the common man, but it was a sadly common tableau for the odd residents of Portal, North Dakota. Since the smoky underbelly of the Midnight Club had opened in their town and brought the law within its coils, the shine of the moon on a chrome barrel and the ringing of violence in the dead of night had been all too common. Perhaps the only discrepancy on this occasion was the calm demeanor of the victim. Even with the cold steel gun pressed against the base of his skull, Jared showed no fear; he did not tremble, his voice did not quaver, and his face showed no distress. If anything, the chaotic jumble of fear and anger was painted upon the lips and face of his assassin.
The man wore black leather gloves to conceal any fingerprints from the handle of the black-painted snub-nose Ruger in his grasp. He was young – possibly in his mid-twenties, and his skin was the golden bronze of an Egyptian. A black hooded sweatshirt concealed a crop of short black hair, and his thick eyebrows scrunched down into a conflicted scowl of hate. It was not often that this lowly Owl, Malek Idris, found himself tasked with such an important objective. The source of his apprehension came from success – the dossier he’d been given outlined a cunning man of ruthless deception, tight security, and vicious cunning. Holding a gun to the head of this man, a traitor to the human race and the infidel of his god, had gone off without a hitch.
Jared Holmes: I have to commend you for being smart enough to follow me out rather than attempt to shoot me in that club.
Malek Idris: No sense in dirtying an expensive carpet and being killed on the way out. If any of us has been the stupid one, it’s you. Why would anyone step out for a cigarette in a club that allows in-door smoking?
Jared Holmes: Because I saw you watching me from the moment I stepped in the door. I’m commending you because I expected your intelligence to be as poor as your subtlty.
The assailant snarled, pressing the barrel forcefully against Jared’s skull.
Malek Idris: You’re in a poor position to be insulting the man who will kill you tonight. You knew I was watching you, but you stepped outside knowing I would follow?
Jared Holmes: Well, as you said, no sense dirtying expensive carpets.
A dry smile crossed Malek’s lips, though the rest of his face remained locked in the twisted visage of hate.
Malek Idris: No, of course not. But to leave your friend behind? To come unaccompanied?
Jared Holmes: This doesn’t concern Wade. If Wade came with me, you’d have just shot us both in the back. Coming alone, I knew you’d feel good enough to launch into some self-congratulatory speech.
Malek’s smile fell as his lips parted to reveal teeth.
Malek Idris: As I should! The blood and brains you spill tonight will baptize my rise in the order! You’re a paycheck, Mister Holmes. A badge of honor. If there’s anything left of you head, I’ll be rewarded handsomely for bringing it in.
Jared Holmes: You’re very sure of yourself. Do you think I left because I have a death wish?
Malek Idris frowned, the apprehension setting in as he considered the words and attitude of his prey. Despite the power he wielded – the gun in his hand, the barrel at the man’s neck, the man’s hands in the air as a sign of submission – Malek felt oddly out of control. Jared scoffed at the silence.
Jared Holmes: Have you heard about the assassination attempt on Gregori Rasputin?
Malek Idris: Of course. He died in the end, so if that proves your point, I’ll be sure to empty the whole clip into you.
Jared Holmes: No, I said attempt. No murder. Those nobles weren’t the first ones to try to off the dirty little monk; the first time, a hooker disemboweled him in the streets. As he fell to his feet, she raised he blade in the air and screamed “I have killed the Anti-Christ” in triumph. Short-lived considering Rasputin scooped his guts up off the ground, stuffed them back in, and chased her down before beating her half to death.
Malek Idris: I assure you it would be incredibly difficult to scoop your brains off the ground and chase me.
Jared Holmes: No, you’re missing the point. You’re so fucking sure in your triumph, when you haven’t done the deed. I’ve literally laid out everything and stated outright I came out here to face you, and you think this is going your way. Christ, you really are a dumb bastard.
Malek’s snarl intensified.
Malek Idris: You’re bluffing.
Jared Holmes: Am I? Or are you? You haven’t even cocked the hammer back.
Malek’s hand had begun to shake. His thumb reached up and cocked the hammer down with a click.
Jared Holmes: And now you’re so freaked out you forgot that gun would cock the hammer back automatically as you pulled the trigger.
Malek’s voice rose in anger as the gun pressed harder.
Malek Idris: Your insolence ends! Last words, “Chosen One”?
Jared smiled.
Jared Holmes: Eat a dick, #fuccboi.
A gun shoot rang out through the night, then the town was silent once more.
