Post by 6ix God on Feb 24, 2016 10:39:27 GMT -5
♫The look upon your face so glum, perhaps your little Chosen One, has never been our favorite son♫
As the melodic mockery of Bosstin fell upon Thuggin’s ears, the #BeachKrew manager shook his head. Indeed, the look upon Thuggin’s face was a grim one – his eyes locked on the table and dulled by troubled thoughts. His mouth opened momentarily, but the reality of the situation was difficult for him to entirely process.
♫Come now Jim, don’t look so grim, I thought that you had faith in him♫
Thuggin: It seems that you have overestimated yourself as the man in control. You actions are unprecedented; a direct action against our kind and our mission. Now you sit here to gloat about your potential treason.
Bosstin: Treason, Jimophy? I’ve done no such thing. May I reiterate your blind faith in this Earthling? No, I am separating the chafe from the wheat. It’s time you admit that you’ve been wasting time; that this childish little brat is not the Chosen One, and you’ve doubled down rather than coping to your mistakes.
Bosstin’s amusement vanished, replaced by smug contempt. His smile stretched thin as he spoke.
Bosstin: No, there will be no judge who will find me being treasonous. If anything, I’ll be promoted for efficiency, having ended your little run. And when your precious “Favorite Earth Child” is buried in a hole, they’ll be auditing your reports and records Jim. How does that sound? Having to explain your fanatical devotion to a project which was a speculation at best? This is why I am the Overseer and you are an observer. The only thing keeping you from cleaning interrogation rooms with Ricky “the Dragon” Leanboat has been the breakthrough of Jason Rush, but I think even that is debatable in terms of credit.
Thuggin’s head lowered, his limbs trembling with rage. Bosstin paced the interrogation table, his hands folded behind his pack as he circled the minor Jalaxaritkatusan like a buzzard.
Bosstin: So quiet, Jim. Is it perhaps finally sinking in how you’ve wasted our time and resources? From this idiotic little drug addict you’ve tried to pitch as our “destroyer” to Jared Holmes and that psychotic little slut he totes around? We have men in the field pulling the strings of world leaders, musicians, and innovators while you dilly-dallied with a professional wrestler; a delusional little runt and his posse of loser friends. You’ve crossed the line several times, Jim – introducing the Earthlings to Blue Velvet was toeing the line, but revealing your true form and introducing your “Favorite Earth Child” to our complex and New Jalaxaritkatusa has been unacceptable.
Consider the worst case scenario, Jimophy. Suppose the Owls were to capture Jared and torture him for information – do you think he’d keep quiet about us? Do you think he wouldn’t sell us out in an instant?
Thuggin rose from the chair along with his voice.
Thuggin: The Earth Children would not betray us!
Bosstin wheeled, his hand shooting up as the minor Jalaxaritkatusan flew from the floor and crashed into the ceiling, held in place by a crushing, invisible presence.
Bosstin: You think so, do you? Well, let’s go with that, then. What else? Suppose little Jared Holmes succeeds wildly. Suppose he truly is the Chosen One, and his power is as prophesized. Suppose he turns the whole operation around on us, and that is the destruction foretold. Have you not been listening to him, Jimophy? Have you not seen the abject blasphemy of his appropriation of the Yellow Sign and name of the King in Yellow to cater to his fucking “aesthetic”?!
Bosstin waved his hand, and Thuggin fell from the ceiling, catching himself in floatation a moment before colliding with the floor. Bosstin continued to circle him as he pushed himself to standing position, the Overseer’s eyes gleaming as his thin lips curled back into a snarl.
Bosstin: I’m not even sure how the Earthling discovered Carcosa – if at all – or he has any idea what name and sign he invokes. But your little pet Earthling is playing dangerous games. My hand is forced; I’m not going to break any of our rules, but I will not tolerate this child doing as he pleases any longer!
Thuggin: Have you forgotten the legend? Have you not seen the parallels? “Along the shore the cloud waves break/The twin suns sink beneath the lake,/The shadows lengthen,/In Carcosa”! Perhaps the prophecies meld! And maybe this is no mere appropriation but a deeper understanding that only the Chosen One woul-
Thuggin found himself thrown to the roof again with the wave of a hand by Bosstin. The Overseer floated upwards, catching the minor Jalaxaritkatusan by the throat as veins beat through his forehead.
Bosstin: Enough! Enough! I chose you as my Observer because of your “unique” insight, hoping it would involve into wisdom rather than insanity! I see that this was idiocy on my behalf.
Bosstin’s grip relaxed, his hand coming to the face of Thuggin to gently cup it.
♫But nothing more needs be said. Your “Chosen One” is soon to be dead♫
Thuggin: I believe, Overseer Stephem, that you have greatly underestimated the resourcefulness of the Harbinger.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
A gun shoot rang out through the night, then the town was silent once more. Immediately, the silence was broken by a piercing scream – a low and loud man’s voice which emitted the sort of agonizing wail which would typically draw every patrol unit in town to its location. No such luck in Portal, North Dakota. Falling to the ground, Malek Idris screamed as he clutched the remains of flesh, muscle, ligaments and bone. As his palm clutched in vain to cover the gushing stump, it seemed impossible for him to reconcile that the web of gore and marrow at the end of his wrist had once been his hand, the gun he’d held moments earlier laying harmlessly beside him on the ground. His eyes focused on the mangled appendage, he hardly notice the swaying form of a figure stepping from the shadows of the alley.
As she approached the scene, she raised the smoking barrel of the Smith & Wesson 500, an absolute hand canon of a magnum revolver, to her lips and blew away any vesper traces of the discharged bullet. She giggled as she threw an arm around Jared’s shoulder, giving him a kiss on the cheek and leaving a red print.
Thursday: Did I do a good job?
Jared smiled as his head turned and lips connected with hers, savoring the kiss before breaking their bond and raising a hand to affectionately stroke her hair.
Jared Holmes: You did excellent. Your aim has gotten incredible in these past weeks.
Her arms wrapped around his waist, her cheek resting against his chest as she let out a contented sigh.
Thursday: It helps to have the best teacher in the world.
This public display of affection did not bother or even really distract Malek Idris who still screamed and clutched what was functionally a stump at the end of his right wrist. Thursday and Jared’s eyes lingered on the wounded Owl for a moment before Thursday shook her head in disapproval.
Thursday: That’s really annoying.
Jared Holmes: I agree.
Tears had begun to stream down Malek’s face as Jared walked to him. Even as the Six God straddled his prone form, his eyes never wavered from the horror that was his crippled limb. A hand around the collar of his hoodie yanked him to a sitting position, and the impact of a blow to the jaw final snapped him from his trance.
Jared Holmes: You really were a stupid motherfucker. Did you actually think I would walk out alone?! Did you actually come alone? They didn’t send you faggots in pairs to make sure something like this wouldn’t happen?!
As the Owl fell back to the ground from the force of the punch, Jared threw a kick to his stomach, doubling the failed assailant over into fetal position. As stomps and kicks rained down on him, the man only continued to cry, a loud snap indicating the fracturing of his collarbone and a searing pain surging through his body as a rib broke. As the assault continued, the door to the Midnight Club banged open and heavy footsteps up the stair preceded the arrival of Wade Moor. Upon witnessing the scene before him, Wade froze in his tracks.
Wade Moor: What the fuck happened?!
Jared’s attack ceased as he pointed at the fallen assailant, barking loudly at Wade.
Jared Holmes: Get him up! Make sure he can’t get away!
Wade bolted into action, rushing to the fallen assailant and hoisting him up by the back of his sweatshirt before wrapping an arm across his chest to hold him up. As his eyes ran along the figure of the man, his eyes fell upon the final remnants of the tattoo on the man’s wrist.
Wade Moor: Oh, you son of a bitch.
Realization turned to understanding as Wade’s eyes came to the blood splattered blood lying on the pavement. Understanding turned to fear as Wade’s eyes went to Jared and horrors of the assailant’s possible success. Fear, of course, shortly turned to anger as Wade’s eyes widened and grip tightened around the man.
Wade Moor: You wanna fuck with us?! You wanna fuck with my brother?!
Cocking his head back, Wade rocketed forward and delivered a vicious head-butt to the Owl, sending his head snapping forward. After a second head-butt made the Owl’s eyes begin to glaze. Sinking his teeth into the ear of the Owl, Wade tore at the cartilage with his teeth, spitting a chunk of the ear out as blood stained his teeth and lips. The Owl continued to scream before a third head-butt from Wade caused his head to lull forward, a crack forming in the back from repeated blows of GodNilla’s skull. Finally, Jared snapped.
Jared Holmes: SWAG! If you knock him out, we can’t fucking interrogate him!
In the meantime, Jared’s hands went to the Owl’s pockets, turning them out and riffling through the contents. As a set of keys, pack of gum, and a cellphone fell to the ground, the plinking of metal on concrete caught Jared’s attention. As the little gold coin rolled away, its sparkle in the moon caught the Six God’s eye, and with a stomp of his foot, he caught the coin beneath his shoe. Lifting his foot, Jared bent down and retrieved the familiar gold Serpent Coin. Turning back to Malek, Jared raised the coin to his face.
Jared Holmes: This. Where the fuck did you get this?
The Owl did not speak, his eyes down and cheeks wet with tears as he sniffled softly. A fist to the gut made him cough and gag before Jared caught him under the chin and forced his head up, holding the coin before him.
Jared Holmes: You need to pay big bucks for this, and a jell-o eating motherfucker like you doesn’t strike me as loaded with cash. Now where the fuck did you get this coin?
The Owl continued to snivel. Sighing sadly, Jared shook his head.
Jared Holmes: Fine, have it your way.
Reaching into the coat of his tuxedo, Jared produced a thick metal tube which glowed with a display of green lights and a small black trigged with a guard. With a flick of his wrist, the baton extended, and as he pressed the tip against the chest of the Malek Idris, Jared curled his finger around the trigger to let off a sickening crackle of electricity through the baton. Malek’s body shot into convulsion as Jared pressed the weapon against him, Wade jumping and releasing the Owl to fall to the ground. The thick stench of urine filled the air as Jared released the trigger and left the Owl a crying mess on the ground. Jared tutted.
Jared Holmes: This is embarrassing; a grown man pissing his fucking jeans. I bet they didn’t prep you for this at the Shitty Assassin Academy, did they?
As he pressed the tip of the baton to Malek’s neck, he pulled the trigger again. Another crackle of electricity filled the air as the Owl continued convulsing and twitching on the ground. Thursday flinched and turned as Wade and Jared stared stone-faced at the mess of the man before them. When his finger released, Jared straddled the man once more, smiling pleasantly.
Jared Holmes: Now then, shall we try again?
The Owl nodded vigorously, his eyes red and puffy as his body trembled at the verge of going into shock. With his free hand, Jared gripped the man’s shirt once more and pulled him up. Bringing him face-to-face, Jared stared at him with dark eyes.
Jared Holmes: Now. Where. Did. You. Get. The coin?
The Owl whimpered, his chin falling and his body shaking. Jared raised the baton, causing the man to scream out in mercy.
Malek Idris: I’ll tell you! Please! Minerva! Her name is Minerva! Mistress Minerva!
Jared looked to Wade.
Jared Holmes: Ring any bells?
Wade shook his head. After a careful study of Wade’s face, Jared turned back to the Owl.
Jared Holmes: Who is Mistress Minerva?
Malek Idris: She’s gonna kill me. She’s gunna fucking kil-
Jared casually raised the baton to Malek’s cheek and pulled the trigger, sending another tear of electricity through his body. After a moment, Jared released the trigger and the convulsing ceased, though the smell of burning skin and hair lingered. Jared tutted again.
Jared Holmes: You’re under this impression we won’t. It’s a poor life decision, #fuccboi.
For good measures, Jared pulled the trigger again, causing the Owl to scream as electricity flooded his veins again, causing his limbs to curl in like a dying bug. As the trigger was released, the Owl twisted over to let loose a stream of vomit onto the pavement beneath him. As Jared released his grip on the shirt, the Owl fell directly into it.
Jared Holmes: Then again, poor life choices are why you’re going to be eating and wiping your ass with the same hand from now on and why you’re lying in your own puke with pants full of piss in nowhere, North Dakota. So if I were you, I’d start making better choice soon.
Crouching down, Jared grabbed the back of the Owl’s head by a handful of hair and yanked his face up.
Jared Holmes: Let me repeat myself: who is Mistress Minerva?
Malek Idris: She’s a high priestess of the Owls! That’s all I know!
Jared Holmes: Is that your final answer?
Malek Idris: Yes! She doesn’t talk to us lower members, just gives us orders! You have to believe me, please!
Jared stared into the man’s eyes. The faintest sensation like the tugging of a string came through Malek’s brain.
Jared Holmes: Well then, let’s follow up with where the Owls’ base of operations is.
Malek Idris: I don’t know!
Jared pulled the trigger to send a wave of electricity through the baton. Even though it was not pressed against him, Malek screamed and recoiled away.
Malek Idris: I don’t! We were relocating! Something about Detroit – I don’t know where specifically!
Jared Holmes: How did you find out I was here?
Malek Idris: I was just following the information given to me! They gave me a folder and the coin and said you’d be here to meet Wade Moor! Please, god, let me go!
Jared wrenched the Owl up once more and shoved him at Wade Moor, who deftly caught the injured assassin and locked his arms behind his back. Turning to Thursday, Jared snapped his fingers and pointed at her.
Jared Holmes: Get your phone out! Let’s send a message!
Thursday nodded, stuffing the magnum down the front of her bra before removing her phone from its place within the left cup. Holding it up, she counted down from three with her fingers before giggling and flashing a thumbs up.
Jared Holmes: Still there, Sarah, or have you quit already? Yeah, I’m not letting this shit go; not when I’m so eager to have the chance to finally crush you and prove that your time is officially over after it had barely ever begun. No matter, let them send whoever they feel: Benjamin Atreyu, Dune, David Sanchez. Fuck it, I’ll kill them all. But no, I don’t want them – I want you. I want to absolutely annihilate you. I want the FCC to come barreling in due to all the upset parents in the audience making calls in that exact second. I want a Jezebel.com cover article admonishing the WCF for its disgusting display of violence against women and a full-blown feminist protest. Shit, I don’t even just want that this week; I want it every single week for the rest of the year. If I could spend the entirety of my 2016 embarrassing you and doing nothing else, I’d consider it a good year.
Not that you aren’t an expert at embarrassing yourself already, you schizophrenic little dyke. It seems like every other hour you find a way to put your foot in your mouth and look absolutely stupid. The prime example is even calling out #BeachKrew in the first place, but if I keep beating that dead horse, I’ll be facing a PETA lawsuit. So what next? Should I tear into your on-again, off-again relationship with Katherine Phoenix? Maybe all your stupid teenybopper merchandise?
Jared pauses and rubs his chin, his eyes tilted up in thought.
Jared Holmes: Eh, fuck it, let’s go back to your shitty background story because it makes me genuinely mad. Yeah, I’m still not over this little deception of yours – probably the worst one you’ve pulled. Before you even try, yes, I know Tujunga is an incorporated part of the City of Los Angeles. No, that doesn’t mean you’re “from Los Angeles”. It’s the equivalent of someone from Piedmont saying they’re from Oakland; it’s an absolute bait-and-switch. So far, you’ve been lucky enough to get away with no facing anyone from Southern California, but now you’ve run into me. Time to expose you.
You being from Tujunga and saying you grew up in L.A. has as much merit as me claiming to be from San Diego while I’m from La Jolla. In fact, I probably have more claim to that line than you do, considering La Jolla is closer to San Diego than Tujunga is to L.A. Let’s do some Apple Maps shit, for those watching at home.
From his pocket, Jared removed his iPhone 6. After tapping in his password and sliding open the lock screen. Opening the “Maps” app, he punched a few names into the keyboard and held the results up to the screen.
Jared Holmes: Here’s La Jolla to San Diego. Thirteen miles away.
Bringing the phone down, he cleared the search and punched in a new set of names. Once again, he raised the phone to the screen.
Jared Holmes: There’s Tujunga; eighteen miles away. You literally live closer to Burbank and Glendale than you do actual Los Angeles. You can’t just bullshit about things like this to get street cred. I don’t care if you’ve got some faggot biker gang in your town; that doesn’t make you hard. It’s California; we have biker gangs in every fucking city and suburbia. You’re suburban. Even while being homeless – something you weren’t for very long at all – you were still a suburban little brat in an upper-middle class Californian city. For fuck’s sake, the L.A. Times offers an online crime rating index, and Tujunga is rated 143rd out of 204. The city you grew up in is safer than the fucking Hollywood Hills you live in now. You couldn’t get safer without moving to Orange County. You’re entirely posture. Getting beaten by daddy doesn’t make tougher. Living on the streets of beautiful suburban Southern California doesn’t make you tougher. It means you lack perspective, common amongst us affluent types.
What’s wrong, Sarah? Are you going to talking about how I had a non-violent relationship with my father as some badge of honor? Way to play the victim card, you fucking pussy. Or maybe you’re going to talk about how you earned everything while I didn’t because you’re supposed to be smart? No, don’t even try that shit. Let’s sit down for a moment and be honest with ourselves – you’re not smart. You’re not clever, and you’re not witty. At this point, I’m expecting you to give me a response shoot doctoral thesis, I’m #beachbodying you so hard. C’mon, Sarah, cave in and give me that hard response shooting. Prove to me and everyone else that you’re the sniveling, unimaginative, stupid piece of shit we know you are.
I use that word “know” very confidently. When someone’s best comeback is “retard”, you can tell you aren’t working with many lights on in the attic. Did you get intellectually stunted in high school? Maybe next you’ll ante up and call me a bastard? Nah, that would be reaching for you. Let’s get this out of the; we all know what comes next: beach jokes. Maybe I’m “a retarded mermaid”. Or are you going to say “you’re not a shark, you’re a goldfish”? How about this: “I’m going to storm your beach”. C’mon Twilight, demonstrate some simple understanding for me. How about call me a “swag fag”. Maybe you’d like to criticize how #BeachKrew’s gimmick is too meta and full of pseudo-intellectual postmodern pretentiousness. Maybe you’ll be a little more perceptive than your idiot former friend Morrigana and not do something stupid like accuse us of disliking EDM.
Jared chuckled, shaking his head dismissively.
Jared Holmes: Nah, fuck that. I’m waiting for another colossal snooze full of fish and sand jokes then a bunch of shitty exposition and sexual tension between you and Katherine Phoenix. Maybe your fugly sister will make a cameo, or maybe you’ll do some stupid magic shit. All I know is that it’s going to be dreadful and borderline unwatchable. Check this shit, I actually watched your last promo. Critical consensus? Fucking garbage. A bunch of morose shots of your shitty little vulgarian mansion, trite dialogue, and a fucking diner scene. And it’s funny because when I was done watching it, all I could do was shake my head. This is absolute trash. And it’s not even absolute trash because it actually sucks, it’s absolute trash because it’s overhyped rubbish. Who the fuck writes your life, the executives for General Hospital? Some angsty pre-teen girl who likes the number thirteen? Maybe some basement dwelling atheist edgelord with a Cheetoes beard and smug sense of euphoria? Here’s my best impression of Sarah Twilight dialogue:
“NO SARAH DON’T GO WRESTLING IZ BAD”
“I MUST.”
“Y SARAH Y.”
“I HAS… UNFINISHED BIZNESS!”
Cue dramatic pose. It’s like Fate was in the middle of a Buffy the Vampire Slayer marathon, got lazy, and wrote a fan fiction character. But you don’t believe in Fate, right? You’re a “witch”. Being a Wiccan is, without a doubt, the absolutely stupidest gimmick I can think up, and this is coming from a self-proclaimed God who has an alien for a manager.
“Celtic Traditional Witchcraft”? How the fuck is that going to help you in the ring? Are you going to spend all week pouring wine over flower pedals and quartz crystals while invoking Aibell to give you strength in this match? Maybe you’ll throw a candle at me? Looky here, Sarah, I can do witchcraft, too. The moon will be a waning gibbous on Sunday, which gives me a one-hundred percent chance of crushing out a stupid little dyke before a live audience.
Your little “Celtic Traditional Witchcraft”, by the way, was invented in either the 1950’s or 1999, depending on what shit New Age con artist you want to believe. Either it was some traumatized former British soldier or – I shit you not – a woman named “Silver RavenWolf”. There’s nothing “traditionally Celtic” about it; your shitty little hobby draws on the Celtic Revival more than historical facts. The closest thing a “Celtic Wiccan” has ever done remotely Celtic is run naked in the woods and wear the same stupid interlocking swirly pattern shit. Not that it makes any sense why anyone would want to glorify the Celts; that whole culture only became relevant again as an Irish protest of British cultural influence during their occupation.
Know who the Celts really were? They were a race and army of people so fucking stupid they charged into battle naked. They’re gone now because they thought being stark naked and smearing their body with honey would protect them from swords, spears, and longbows, until they received a Roman bitchslap at the hands of Julius Caesar. The Celts were as shit at defending their homeland and fighting invaders as the Comanche, the Zulu, and the Aztecs. There’s a reason these people aren’t around anymore; they tried to fight old-school against a modern force. Does this ring any bells, Sarah? Does this not sound a little like life right now?
History is about to repeat itself when I drop my cock across your nose on Sunday. This is the Aztecs facing the Conquistadors or the Celts facing the Roman Army. You’re an outdated, outclassed, and outmatched bundle of worthless traditions and methods fighting the Tamil Tigers. You’re probably at home paging through the Art of War to get some good tips. “WHY YES! I MUST CONCEAL MY WEAKNESSES WHILE MAGNIFYING MY STRENGTHS! EXCELLENT ADVICE! THERE’S ALSO SOMETHING ABOUT BEING STILL AS A MOUNTAIN BUT SIMILIES ESCAPE ME!” Here’s something else the Art of War said: “The greatest victory requires no battle.” So why don’t you just quit again; I get my win, and you get the victory of not being humiliated.
Know what else the Art of War said? It tells you to appear strong when you are weak. Of course, this advice is predicated on the enemy not seeing straight through you. You’ve failed spectacularly at this – I see through you so clearly, you really do make a better window than a door. Everything about you is carefully cultivated to give the appearance of being “bad-ass” in a Nineties sense. Everything from your shit religion to your black leather body suit to the faggot pony car you drive. It’s convertible, isn’t it? I bet you think convertibles are bad-ass. And I bet you keep a lot of Corn Nuts in the dashboard.
I have a fun little Wicca story of my own. When I was in high school, I was smashing the artsy theater girls on the reg, and one bitch’s father owned a New Age magic store in Pasadena. I remember her dragging me to it, and it was exactly what you expected – low light, pine bookshelves stained to look mahogany, and a stifling amount of incense burning at all times. The most curious thing was that the girl’s father proudly displayed his Geology degree above the register; whenever he’d upsell some pimply fat chick a rose quartz, he’d point to the degree and assure her that he had a scientific background. All of this while he talked all this crap about putting rocks under your pillow for a better night’s sleep or placing them around your bathtub to realign your chakras.
Eventually, I just had to know the truth. It was baffling to me – how could a man who literally got a scientific degree – believe this absolute bosh he was spouting? After plowing Daddy’s Little Angel for about a solid month, I caught him at their house and questioned him. Nothing too prodding. Nothing insulting. Just a few inquiries after the geriatric had a few glasses of wine. His answer? He didn’t believe any of it. He’d failed to get anything going in his life with his geology degree, so he opened a New Age Magick store to sell off all the minerals he’d acquired over the years from going to conventions. Originally, he planned to go work for Health Net Inc., but after he ended up making a killing on conning stupid bitches like you, he realized this was far more profitable. After all, who would question a man with a degree? Who wouldn’t shell out a few extra bucks to “buy local” or “Keep L.A. Weird”?
That’s who you are, Sarah: someone exploiting the confirmation bias or ignorance of others to look better than you are. You’re absolute shit. I’ve watch art movies that are more interesting and run for shorter durations than the swill you peddle. If I wanted to watch boring and snotty lesbians prattle about nothing while I chant “EAT HER OUT!” at the screen, I’d go watch “Blue is the Warmest Color” for the fifth time. You’re not a real person: you’re a pastiche. You’re a tide pool which has collected all the cultural flotsam of the post-Cobain years, thrown it in a blender, and made faggot smoothies. I don’t like you, I don’t respect you, and after I leave you with a compacted neck disk, I won’t have to see you again. Now look here.
Jared motioned over, and the camera followed his hand to focus on the wounded Owl, hardly conscious at this point, being held by Wade Moor. Jared strolled back into frame, gripping the Owl under the chin and waving at the camera.
Jared Holmes: Say "Hi" to Mommy and Daddy!
After flashing a used car salesman smile, Jared released the prisoner.
Jared Holmes: See this guy? This is a product of the “Fake It ‘Til You Make It” mentality. A little #fuccboi poser who thought he was smart, thought he was tough, and thought he could take the Six God. How’s that working out for you, buddy?
The camera zoomed in on the swollen and bloody face of the Owl, dried vomit caked to the side of his face and a perpetually bleeding remainder of an ear.
Malek Idris: P-p-please help me.
The camera zoomed out and swerved back to Jared as he grabbed Thursday’s forearms and positioned the phone in his face.
Jared Holmes: Gonna call me a “Joker wannabe” for this shit? Maybe you’ll think up some dumb snappy nickname like “Barnacle Boy”. Maybe you’ll hit the panic button and do none of this taking the “No Jared, I won’t take your bait; let me respond to your points” drivel. Come at me, Sarah. There’s nothing you can think up that I won’t predict. Nothing you can say that will ring true. Nothing you can do that will change the outcome of this match – besides quitting again. The #FuccboiGenocide continues. In what will probably be the most appropriate use of this catch-phrase ever: #BitchLivesMatter
Jared waved good-bye as Thursday tapped the screen to end the recording. After stuffing the phone in her bra, she squealed with delight and jumped onto Jared, hugging him tightly as she grapevined his waist.
Thursday: That was excellent, baby! God, you’re so fucking hot when you’re gonna kill a bitch.
She snuggled beneath his neck, her skin flush and her mouth stretched wide into a smile. Wade gave a small cough, and Jared turned to look at him.
Wade Moor: I’m, uh, happy you two have found one another. But we have some trash to dispose of.
Wade released Malek, causing him to crumple to the ground. For a moment, the Owl’s eyes flash on the .22 laying within reach – salvation. Hope. As he weakly turned and lunged, he hope was snuffed by a stiff kick from Wade Moor, sending the fire arm sliding across the alley. As Jared placed Thursday down, he withdrew the Smith & Wesson 500 from the strap of her bra, counting the bullets in the cylinder before stalking over the Owl. Cocking back the hammer with his thumb, Jared placed the barrel to the man’s forehead.
Jared Holmes: Before you try to be funny: yes, I know this also automatically cocks the hammer back when I pull the trigger. I just wanted to have my “Dirty Harry” moment.
The wounded man’s eyes locked with the piercing blue eyes of Jared, his horror and anguish met with a cold, unfeeling stare and plastic smile.
Jared Holmes: And considering what this guy did to your hand at thirty yards away, just imagine what it’s going to do to your skull at point blank range. Frankly, I can’t even believe Thursday held the thing steady after she pulled the trigger.
The Owl’s eyes flooded with fresh tears, his lips parting in silent horror as the barrel was pressed harder against his forehead. His voice was soft and weak, quavering in the night like a man in complete submission.
Malek Idris: P-please. P-please. D-don’t kill me.
Jared cocked his head to the side, the smile growing to its most faux-affable.
Jared Holmes: Kill you? No, I’m not gonna kill you.
Jared rose as the Owl let out a sigh of relief, his heart still racing even if danger had subsided. Jared turned to Thursday and offered the magnum to her.
Jared Holmes: I have others to do that for me.
The man’s eyes widened as Thursday’s hand began to wrap around the gun, the three members of #BeachKrew now smiling wickedly down on their prey. Before she could take the gun for her own, Jared yanked it away and leveled it at the Owl.
Jared Holmes: SIKE! I’m totally gunna fuckin’ kill you! Last words?
The Owl’s eyes grew wide. His lip quivered in horror as he looked skyward.
Malek Idris: M-Moloch. M-Moloch.
Jared shrugged, never ceasing his pleasant smile.
Jared Holmes: Whatever.
With the rumbling crack of a gunshot, the Owl was consumed.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Hacksaw Jim Thuggin smiled as Stone Cold Steve Bosstin’s smile faltered. In an instant, the power dynamic in the room had shifted – the minor Jalaxaritkatusan found himself contended and assured while the Overseer hurried to the table. With a drum of his fingers, a holographic surveillance image flashed up and the lights of the room dimmed. With narrowed eyes, Bosstin watched Jared Holmes’s Smith & Wesson 500 recoil as the head of Malek Idris was reduced to minced gray matter and shards of skull. As the three members of #BeachKrew turned away and walked off into the night, Bosstin drew his lower lip between his teeth.
Bosstin: I see. Very interesting.
Turning to face his suborindate, the Overseer smiled softly.
Bosstin: Perhaps you’re expecting my congratulations or apology, Jimophy?
Thuggin shook his head.
Thuggin: Unnecessary. I believe that you little test has been passed, has it not? I require no retraction of your previous views – they are innate.
Bosstin: So it may seem, so it may seem.
Turning back to the hologram, Bosstin waved a hand and the surveillance cut to a parking lot where Jared and Wade were at work trying to keys of the fallen Owl on a parked vehicle. Thuggin approached the table, standing beside his superior and watching as the two Earth Children opened the door and began to tear the interior of the car to pieces.
Thuggin: It appears as though the Owls have been extraordinarily sloppy on this evening.
Bosstin: Yes. Perhaps your little “Chosen One” got lucky.
Thuggin: Perhaps. Or perhaps the Prophecy is inevitable, whether our enemies rally against us or not.
Bosstin: Optimism and blind faith are dangerous things, Jimophy.
Thuggin: Perhaps skepticism is worse.
As Wade emerged from the vehicle, he held a manila folder out to Jared. Accepting the document, Jared flipped it open to be greeted with a large black-and-white surveillance photo of himself and Thursday, as well as several detailed notes, polaroids, and miscellaneous bits of paperwork. Thuggin’s brow arched at the discovery – not that he had eyebrows.
Thuggin: You certainly gave them a lot to work with.
Bosstin frowned, shaking his head while his eyes remained on the scene playing out before them. Trouble consumed his face.
Bosstin: That was not my doing. I dropped a mention of Jared’s meeting with Wade in Portal. Nothing more.
Thuggin turns, his own confidence waning and replaced with the same troubled look of his mentor.
Thuggin: You mean that this information is of their own intelligence operation?
Bosstin’s lip curled down, his voice raising.
Bosstin: It means that I was right: your group is reckless, careless, gaudy, and as easy to spot as Earth Child Andre in Salt Lake City!
With a wave of Bosstin’s hand, the image dissipated and the lights returned in the room. Turning, he strode across the room, his form melding and shifting as he became an old man with long white hair. With a wave of his hand, the door to the interrogation room opened, and Bosstin began to step through. He froze – slowly turning on his heels to face his subordinate.
Bosstin: Your little “Favorite Earth Child” has passed my test, but if you don’t want more thrown his way, I’d suggest you better condition your subject, Jimophy. Even one test proves nothing – there are far too many factors at play for me to be swayed either way. Now, it’s apparent that our enemies are watching, and they’ll be ready to strike again. I gave them the tip this time, but next time it could be someone else or perhaps they’ll figure it out on their own.
I’m disturbed, Jim, because I can see the potential you see in Earth Child Jared – there’s far more to this boy than meets the eye. Is he the Chosen One? Perhaps. I’m not convinced. But while we have promising preliminary results, you are not to get arrogant. You are not to coddle him; it does him no good in the long run, and it’s especially bad for us. Do not waste our time. Not when we have other, and in my opinion, more promising candidates to observe.
The initial metamorphosis to his disguise allowed Thuggin to furrow his brow, tilting his head in curiosity.
Thuggin: Are you discussing Earth Child Joseph? He was never considered a candidate.
Bosstin shook his head, his long white locks rippling at his chest.
Bosstin: No, not Joey Flash. Not even Occulo, Dune, or Wade.
Realization washed over Thuggin, his mouth hanging slightly open as his eyes ran back and forth across his mentor.
Thuggin: You have been keeping a candidate from me.
Bosstin smiled, giving a wink and a nod.
Bosstin: Naturally. My pet project.
Thuggin’s mouth curled into a snarl, his eyes narrowing as his voice raised.
Thuggin: And why did you think this would be productive to our goal? Why should I be kept intentionally ignorant of your activities in this mission?!
Bosstin chuckled as he turned, his gait taking a skip as he left the room.
♫Dearest Jim, I’ve watched you grow, but my decisions are not yours to know.♫
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Check that shit out, Sarah. Get a good look at it. That’s what being the fucking man looks like: it looks like your enemy sucking your dick before he tries a limp-wristed shoot on you. That’s something you’ve yet to see in your vapid little failure of a wrestling career, especially not since coming back. It’s got to be feeling Sisyphean, isn’t it? Your enemies hate you. Your “family” decided they hate you. Those who don’t even give a fuck about you hate you. I can’t wait to see the whole federation lining up to slob my knob over this match. Too bad for them, they’re just going to be cleaning off the flaccid, twat-soaked remains; you’re getting the nut tonight, bitch.
How’s that zero-three record feeling? How’s zero-four going to feel? Has your butt-hole started puckering with excitement at the thought of getting that #KrewBang and #6ixGodRub and joining the Pantheon (#puns lulz) of bitches I’ve made famous via my boot? It’s a real shame Seth isn’t going to be able to protect your neck as well as he’s protected your career thusfar. Then again, Seth threw you into the tank with a starving great white. Maybe things have changed. Maybe Seth fucking hates you as much as everyone. Then you’re stuck alone with Katherine Phoenix. Ain’t that a bitch?
Check the record: Sarah Twilight gets hyped up as a massive event. You getting signed back by Katherine Phoenix move was the heel move of her career, blasting “literally not paying people” out of the water. You come in strong with your merry band of losers, telling me the “beach party is over” then proceed to start back pedaling immediately. Not even a week in and Sarah Twilight is pulling some Jay Omega bullshit, trying to keep her little yappie dogs at bay. You had all the momentum, Sarah. All eyes were on you, and your second match back was a title shot against a champion your boy couldn’t put away. That was the time to make the statement: that you were the undisputed powerhouse of your group – not Logan – and that we were all on alert. First you put up a limp-wristed effort. Then you spammed some shitty Jason Vorhees gifs and put up an anemic bit of trash talk. Then you kicked your ball into the woods and went home. Then you turned around and said “LOL I TROLL U” and come back to your sinking ship with a bucket, hoping that bucket would stop the Titanic from sinking. The result? ZMac fucking embarrassed you in front of your own clique.
Speaking of ZMac, guess what homeboy said about me:
How’s that for motherfuckin’ pull? Z and I don’t even really like one another. Yeah, I jumped in that #InternetTitle match between him and Dag, but that had far more to do with them #DagFagFails than any sense of good-will between ol’ DankMorris in me. Shit, where do you think #beach_krew_faggotry came from?
I’m getting off topic; the point is that real recognizes real. The reason that this whole locker room sucks my dick, that Joey Flash follows me to every corner of the net I go to beg for my attention and why Seth Lerch will put three returning guys in the main event right away, is because there’s no disputing that I’m the rawest guy in this fed. By the end of this curb stomping, you’ll be smelling the glove if I tell you, too. How did I earn this status? I came hard every week and made a motherfucker earn his guap in the ring with me.
Who the fuck took a cast-off match with Derek Moreno and won Promo of the Week? Who took Teo del Sol the furthest since David Sanchez while smashing the WAR record? Who spoiled Grayson Pierce’s career achievement by getting his name penciled in beside it? Who called the shot, spun the wheel, and drove a group of rookie weirdos with a gimmick involving drugs, swag, and the ocean into Stable of the Year? Who brought it to the Sentinels with a failed star and another who had never been given a chance or taken seriously? You could never do what I’ve done. You could never compare to my accomplishments in this day and age. At Time Bomb? That all becomes clear.
Speaking of dated relics, what the shit is up with this whole Jason Vorhees thing? Here’s a baffling bit of insecurity from Sarah Twilight: this chick is so desperate to be over, she killed Jason Vorhees in a fucking movie. Seriously. The strongest, toughest, closest to indestructible horror villain of all time was taken out by a 5’8”, 142 pound ginger chick. Just when you thought the Friday the Thirteenth franchise couldn’t jump the shark more than Jason X, we get this shit. It is sickening how badly you have to force yourself over. You are the Roman Reigns of this federation from the way Seth slobs your she-cock to putting yourself over in a movie like the Canon Sue you are. So what the fuck is it, Sarah? By posting Jason pics, I assume you’re trying to make yourself look like some “gurr, I big sp00ky tuff girl!!! I kill u XD” shit, but when you’re actively burying the guy, you make him look like a faggot. You can’t have it both ways. Either he’s a badass or he gets beaten up by shitty “2edgy4you” wrestlers. What you’ve done is reduced him, and yourself by association, to a laughingstock paradox of BrOblivSEAon proportions.
The worst part was you had all the time in the world to prepare. After all, you got “arrested” and left Katherine Phoenix high and dry to get gang stomped by Price and Orbit. Anyone else find this funny? It’s two years later, and the cops just show up and arrest her? There’s no warrant issued two years ago? Has anyone looked up the statute of limitations for assault in Tennessee to see if this is bullshit or not? No one has thought of trying to extradite her to Tennessee to faces charges? I assume this has to do with your little gang stomping on Ana Valentine, but then why isn’t anyone trying to arrest Katherine Phoenix as well?
Or maybe, just maybe, there was no assault charge. Maybe, just maybe, you concocted the whole thing up to ditch out on a match you knew you couldn’t win and a partner who wouldn’t be able to save you so you could go be on Twitter until Wednesday. Good one, Twilight. That sure is some big mischief from you. Congratulations: screwing your team got you a shitty Bleacher Report article (same publication that said Roman Reigns truly was what’s best for business) which probably got some intern fired and an Axe Wound.
Week two, the rumors are flying around. Is Sarah Twilight getting cold feet about facing Six God? Is she scared she’ll get scraped in round one? Is the Family finally imploding? Nah, Sarah goes and gets a Reuben with the gents then proceeds to lose a match and get turned on by her own clique. And that’s it. That’s the Comedy of Errors which has been Sarah Twilight’s return up until now.
Zero-three. About to be zero-four. I’m gonna beat you with that until it sinks in. That’s half of your original losing record before returning. You were so hyped. So lauded. Everyone had heard these rumors of this force of Sarah Twilight when you came back. This is what you’ve given us: absolutely nothing to go on. You’ve busted your own myths. You’ve shit the bed. The last time we’d seen Logan in the ring, he lost to bioWalker, and his career has taken off hotter than yours upon your returns. This is as embarrassing as Waylon Cash coming back and challenging Hunter Updegraff to a match. This is worse than Torture’s return run. At least Torture won Promo of the Year with a funny song. You can’t even do that right.
I’d ask if you get how lopsided this contest is in my favor, but I know you do – you were rumored to be quitting. What’s wrong, Sarah, can’t take the heat? I thought you were a tough little LA punk who was gonna smack around a “retarded mermaid”? No, you’re not beating anyone. We know how your career goes from here – you choke like you do in the big match and leave soon after. That’s what you did after losing the Trios Cup Tournament in 2012. That’s what you did after getting passed over for a World Title shot in 2014. I’ll be generous and say you go as far as Explosion before you’ve taken your ball and gone home again. But I emphasize: that’s being generous.
You’re a fraud. A charlatan. Everything about you is fake from your “hometown” to your shitty little religion to your dyed hair to your fucking record. You were handed to me on a platter: the perfect prey to sink my teeth into. The man who would show you how to actually get into someone’s head. You can’t play mind games with someone who knows you, Sarah – I’ve seen plenty of dumb bitches like you all over the streets of Hollywood pursing their dick-suckers for a chance to make it. I’ve seen all sorts of wigger fucks front like they’re hood only to get their teeth kicked out a few blocks from school. Me and you? We’re almost the same, Sarah. The difference is that this isn’t an act.
You’ve treated the WCF like it’s your own little roleplaying game. Maybe you can walk in here and pretend to be a wrestler, pretend to be an icon for empowering women, and pretend to be a witch, but that only goes so far. This isn’t a game. This is real life; you can’t just be something you aren’t. A scrawny white kid from Iowa can’t be a young lightskin, and some cunt from North Yorkshire can’t just be a Brooklyn mobster. In the same way, some twat who never got over her high school goth phase can’t just come in with a smug grin and think she belongs in the same ring as the Six God.
You don’t belong. You’ll see as much. When the bell rings and I stand victorious, the locker room will shake their heads, sigh sadly, and mutter about how it’s bullshit that my ego is being stroked by the management with a free pass to round two. I’m starting to suspect that’s all your return ever was: someone to feed to me so I’d go over. From the moment you stepped back into the building, the same night that I returned, the first words out of your mouth was calling my clique out. In the span of a mere month, #BeachKrew has torn your ambitions limb-from-limb. Come at me, Twilight. Bring a response shoot. Bring boring exposition. Bring your record and accolades or whatever the fuck you want. It doesn’t matter. Here’s how your saga ends: Sarah Twilight gets slapped around until she has flashbacks of her childhood.
Here’s the number to the Genesis Women’s Shelter in Dallas:
(214) 946-HELP (4357)
Give them a call. I’d tell you to give Tiffany White a call but…
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination?
-Allen Ginsberg
Minerva closed her eyes and gritted her teeth as she inhaled sharply, a stabbing pain echoing through her head. Her hands came to her temples, pushing aside her hair and pressing against the indention just before her ears to rub in a fleeting attempt at staving off the pain. When she opened her eyes, she turned to gaze at the enthroned figure at the end of the dark chamber in which she stood.
Minerva: Idris is dead.
The cloaked figure had no reaction. In the candle-lit chamber, the hood draped over the figure’s head obscured his face in darkness, save the whites of his teeth and the piercing yellow color of his eyes.
The grand hall in which they stood – the massive old factory main room which had been converted into the altar of the Owls’ new citadel – groaned with age and reeked of mold. A cold draft rolled through the room, scattering leaves and casting dust along the floor. Once, Minerva and the Owls had roosted in the glorious citadel of Owlstadt, where they’d loomed over the world, eyes sharp and eager to swoop down and strike. That time had gone – Wade Moor had seen to that. From the simple ornate elegance of stone masonry and ancient chambers of yore, the Owls now found themselves amongst rusted metal, cracking concrete, and broken glass. They lived, Minerva assured herself. Perhaps, they even thrived. But they’d been careless, and this mausoleum of deteriorated glory was the reward of their hubris.
Upon his throne, the blasphemous eyes of Moloch stared intently upon Minerva. Even if the features had changed many times over the years – even if the body he possessed seemed weak or brittle – Moloch’s eyes remained the same. She turned; it was difficult for her to look at him for too long. Without the eyes, the figure beneath the cloak was a gangly, bird-chested and rat-faced man with thin hair; with the eyes, he was the the Owl. The look of that beakish face could only be read one way – displeasure. Woe to those who displeased Moloch. As his lips parted, the voice which echoed from the mouth of WCF Owner Seth Lerch was not his own. He hissed like a serpent, roared like the winds, and shrieked like an owl on the hunt. His voice was everywhere and nowhere. His voice was in Minerva’s soul.
Moloch/Seth: I know.
The words fell like hammers, sending a shiver through Minerva’s body. Her head hung in shame, her own voice trembling in fear at the anger of her god.
Minerva: These pawns of the Jalaxaritkatusans… they’ve been more difficult to subdue than we anticipated.
Moloch: And who deserves blame for these failures, Minerva?
Minerva’s eyes widened in horror as she spun and locked eyes with the cold gaze of Moloch. Her speech was rapid, stumbling over itself as words cascaded from her mouth; the implications of the entity’s question cut her to the core.
Minerva: M-my lord, I have been nothing but faithful to you for as long as I can remember! We’ve had accidents and unexpected results but I thi –
Moloch: Accidents? Unexpected results? You’ve grown arrogant and lazy. Your incompetence borders on blatant sabotage. How, Minerva, would you expect me to respond to such failures were it a subordinate of yours?
Minerva’s eyes fell, her body feeling limp and worthless. Her words escaped her – speech was forced from her throat as her heart raced in her chest and the visions of gnashing, ravenous beaks filled her imagination.
Minerva: H-have I not been successful all these y-years? Would you see fit to punish m-me for a few months’ t-time?
Moloch raised a hand, beckoning Minerva. Her legs trembled, and her body felt heavy but she walked. When she reached the foot of his throne, Moloch’s hand rose to cup her under the chin, bringing her eyes level with his. As his wide black pupils dilated even larger, his voice remained the same monotone it always held.
Moloch: Your life will not end tonight, Minerva. With that said, you’ve proven yourself unable to be trusted with leadership. Thus, I shall be directly overseeing our activities until you prove yourself – able to continue.
Minerva’s lip trembled as Moloch’s hand roamed up her face, coming to the back of her head and drawing her into him. Face to face – eye-to-eye – with the Lord of the Owls, fear course through Minerva’s veins like a sick poison.
Moloch: You know my power, Minerva: if I chose to relocate Owlstadt, I would. With the faintest twitch of my finger, that coast would be barren once more, and our lair would be safe. On the other hand, I’m not sure you’ve earned the right to return home. We will remain here so long as I deem necessary. You may return to your roost when you’ve earn your keep.
Moloch released Minerva and rose from the throne, guiding the Owl Mistress aside as he strode through the empty hall of the crumbling factory. After several steps, he raised his hand and beckoned her again.
Moloch: Come.
Minerva dared not disobey, even in her terror – she hurriedly moved to his side and followed him closely as they stepped through deteriorated rooms and debris-strewn corridors. The walls – the paint long gone and the plaster beneath stained with mold and graffiti – seemed to stretch on forever; Moloch’s choice in location had been as grand as Owlstadt. Still, the decision to reside in a dilapidated building in a dilapidated city puzzled Minerva; a smile crossing Moloch’s lips indicated his sense of his bemusement.
Moloch: Your confusion is indicative of your inability, Minerva. Detroit was a simple selection; it’s large but empty, industrial but dying. The streets run thick with tender-faced youths dreaming of riches and escape. In their anger, they turn to crime: to theft, to murder, to arson. This city is bleeding, Minerva. Asthenia has wrapped its tendrils around the throats of every man, woman, and child who remains. The war of the streets has gone on for so long and reached such heights, they’ve become numb and desensitized. If a gunshot rings out in Detroit but no one has the emotional vacancy to care, does it make a sound?
Moloch chuckled to himself; a low and rumbling laugh which shook like an avalanche cascading down a mountain packed with climbers. Minerva’s eyes widened as she slowly nodded.
Minerva: It’s like a world in which we’ve won. A feeding ground.
Moloch: Precisely. I’ve given you the most ideal location you could ask. You can recruit, kill, and consume relatively unmolested.
Moloch paused, his face growing still as he stared forward in silence.
Moloch: However, you will not be untested. Before he was murdered, Idris revealed our location to the Harbinger.
Minerva froze, her mouth opening in a gasp.
Minerva: We need to disperse! They could be here any moment!
With a raise of Moloch’s hand, Minerva’s protests fell silent.
Moloch: I said you would be tested. The Jalaxaritkatusans are a house divided, even if the pawns of Jimophy Thuggin are not.
Moloch stopped and turned, staring intently at Minerva once more. His voice grew quiet, a deadly veil of deliberate force coating his monotone.
Moloch: If you cannot secure our premise here, you are not worthy of returning to Owlstadt.
Turning back to the hallway before him, Moloch continued to walk, his form illuminated only by the moonlight streaming through the shattered windows of the abandoned Packard Auto Factory.
Moloch: The hubris of the Harbinger – his confidence in his abilities and his leadership – will likely be the deciding factor in whether or not the Earth Children are brazen enough to stage an outright attack. There is no element of surprise; should he destroy Sarah Twilight – an overwhelming likelihood – he will move on us. Invigorate his prestige and support within his faction while he makes his way through the Trilogy Tournament. Funny, isn’t it, how much a little wrestling federation can determine the eventual fate of the human race?
Moloch paused, his lip curling momentarily in displeasure before his blank expression returned.
Moloch: This host is likely in jeopardy for me. I require a more suitable host soon. I trust you’ve made the arrangements required to capture our target.
Minerva nodded, her gaze steeling.
Minerva: At your command, the Owls swoop for our prey.
Moloch: Good. Prepare immediately. And if the Earth Children assault our compound…
A smile twisted over the lips of the Owl God, his eyes widening with wicked hunger.
Moloch: …I’ll be ready to feast.
