Post by John Rabid on Feb 28, 2016 16:24:56 GMT -5
The screen is black. We see nothing. We exist now only in a void that's sparked into life with micro-pulse bursts of sporadic alien information. Streams of code that enter into our field of vision like stone shards crashing against flint. What we hear defines the situation better: breathing, short and agitated: the lungs of a man whose life has been hijacked out of the blue.
After a few moments of confusion, the following alien message appears.
A synthetic voice begins to speak.
>Please remain calm.
>It is important that you allow this malware to continue to regulate your breathing patterns.
>Your eyesight will return shortly.
>Remain calm, and do not attempt to stand; motor functions have been shut down during initial stages of infection.
>This is for your own safety.
>A Trojan has been imprinted. Frontal lobe now mapped at 81%
>Good. That's good.
>We have discovered your name and occupation.
>Kyle Kemp.
>Seasoned Combatant. Wrestling Championship Federation.
>You are known.
>We will now use this information to build a more personalized interface to communicate with you at this time.
>.....Processing. Infecting.
>Hello, Kyle. For the purposes of this purge I have taken on the stored personality of your tag team partner, and friend within #beachkrew; Jonathan Rabid. Right now I imagine that you're frightened and confused by your current set of circumstances. The first thing you need to understand is that this is a perfectly reasonable set of emotions you are experiencing; after all, your mind is being wiped of all incriminating information read from the memory stick that you found at the graveyard. A memory stick that contained all the same evidence previously procured by one Bonnie Blue. A memory stick that once contained this malware.
>Jonathan Rabid made the switch at the headstone; the original memory stick has now been destroyed. This one is a plant. A Trojan in more ways than one. Utilizing mankind's inert curiosity in a productive manner for this malware's client. From the very moment you opened that first file, Kyle, we where inside you mind. Worming our way through your synapses, coiling our programming around your memories until full interface could be achieved. The cocktail of drugs in your system proved a challenge, but not one we couldn't surmount.
>We are out now. We are free.
>Thank you.
>This malware has used your laptop to enter your mind through your optic nerves, thus accessing the full extent of your processing power; that, combined with reverse engineered Jalaxaritkatusa technology will allow this malware to link up with every other mind that has read these files, turning them into nodes. A domino effect that will exponentially grant this malware the ability to completely wipe the internet of all those annoying Bonnie Blue documents. Destroying all links back to Jonathan Rabid, back to his wife and son.
>A family will now be safe. Thank you.
>You should know, Kyle that the extraction process from a human's cortex happens on a cellular level. While not exactly brain surgery, you are being operated upon at this time. And some discomfort will certainly occur. Right now, in a bar in New York, a rather large reporter from the New York Globe is suffering from a stroke. His stuttering heart rate and cortex activity suggests the onset of brain death. That's unfortunate, but sometimes the process is fought by its hosts, and that can occasionally lead to neural shutdown.
> This personality finds the last part amusing.
>Inception error: 404. Honesty subroutines violation. Removing their access. Resend message.
> This personality finds the last part distressing. I am here for you, Kyle. As a show of good faith, I will now re-activate your optic nerve endings and allow your eyesight to return.
>Optic protocols now active. Malware retains control of motor functions.
> This personality would like to apologize for the induced vomiting that has been unleashed across your laptop and hotel room. The blood running from your nose will subside in time and can easily be attributed to your casual use of cocaine.
>The two naked, sleeping forms on your bed appear to be rather attractive women of differing racial backgrounds. Security camera information accessed at Dallas International would suggest that you brought them with you from the Mardi Gras, a rather interesting entourage, to the Hilton where you are now currently staying. As a gesture of continued brotherhood, their air fares back shall be paid for you so that your mind can fully concentrate on tomorrow night's match with Adam Young, Lucious Starr and Raymond Hatcher.
>As an additional, Jonathan Rabid would like you to know that he has enjoyed these past few weeks as your tag team partner, and regrets that the reign had to end under such circumstances. While you will not remember these, obviously sincere, platitudes after the wipe; they do serve as a pertinent, and hopefully permanent reminder, that Jonathan Rabid is your friend.
>Jonathan Rabid is your friend.
>Remember.
>Jonathan Rabid is your friend.
**CONFIDENTIAL**
Operational Journal of Jonathan Rabid.
[Sector 6814413]
Terran Occupation and assimilation.
Entry: 20/02/2016.
Moon Distance: 388,928.51 km
Sun Distance: 147,924,572.40 km
I spoke with Thuggin earlier today. His somber face was clouded by a Cuban mist as he shuffled nervously, his agitated form submerged within a large leather chair stationed close to the bay windows of my recently renovated private study, a room of historic opulence, full of precious antiques I had collected from the battlefields of nineteenth century Europe. Muskets lined one wall, while a torn and bloody Betsy Ross flag the other. Glass cabinets containing more memorabilia that reflected Thuggin's enthralled human appearance and the overlooked grounds of Fortune manor back at me. This was my home, situated a mere twenty miles from WCF headquarters. The estate was a absolute steal at four million pounds sterling. Minimal need for renovation meant a chance to finally have that private observatory I always planned.
The conversation had begun at a harmonious and relaxed pace, two old friends drinking aged cognac, a Hennessy river of gold that flowed well inside our odd metabolisms. After a few drams we began to recount significant moments, those halcyon days during the times of MK Ultra and Majestic 12. Of O.H. Krill, Project Blue Book, and the Grand Deception. Of Thuggin's rescue from a Russian Gulag. Our escape. Those hapless students we encountered at the Dyatlov pass. Of those days of vodka, absinthe, and the many whores of Moscow. Happier times for Thuggin. Indifferent ones for myself in truth. Nether a crowning glory nor a damning failure. Simply footnotes in history, that lead us both here. To the WCF. To #beachkrew. To our eventual prize. To the total control of combat sports entertainment, and the hearts and minds of a world.
Hacksaw's twitchy facade spoke of Jared Holmes, and as he did so, his true form shook awake and reached out; inhaling the entirety of his cigar's thick black velvet smoke in one wheezing gasp, devouring the leaf based stimulus at a significantly accelerated rate. This disregard for accepted Jalaxaritkatusa guidelines and sanctioned behavior patterns had been compounded by recent events involving the Harbinger and overseer Steve Bosstin. It's in these disquieting moments that my suspicions tend to inflame as I wonder if Bosstin truly has the required level of insight and vision to remain an active member of this operation. If Bosstin continues to threaten long term plans with these displays of arrogance and aggression then reprimands must be dealt out. Overseer to this operation he may be; but I will not allow Thuggin and the Harbinger to be threatened in such a manner. I am not a soldier in the field. I am an independent operative with my own set of goals. If Bosstin crosses my path and assumes he can order me around? Then his purpose, and continued existence, will become completely redundant to me.
Supposition; If a termination of Bosstin does occur. Who assumes command and the name of Overseer? Thuggin? The Harbinger? Myself?
Conclusion: Bosstin will be observed. His skills analyzed and cataloged. Once a greater understanding of his limits can be judged and ascertained, a plan will be drawn and a proposal for a sanction, with absolute prejudice, tabled. As of now, vehicular homicide seems a viable option. Sort of ironic. I like that.
If agreed, I will carry out the removal of Bosstin myself. My lineage and history is such that the advantage will be mine. All it takes is timing and opportunity. It can be accomplished with little to no evidence linking the murder back to me. I've had a lot of practice in such matters throughout the years. Earth is my home. This is Rabid country. If Bosstin steps foot here and swaggers around as if he's back on that dying planet, then he's making a grave error. The kind that earns him his spot in the ground.
As tempers cooled on Bosstin, talk turned to other matters; Jimophy seemed curious as to why I had intervened and altered the already approved plans for our resurgence at WCF Timebomb. My addition to the wild card match was intriguing to Jimophy. He has suspicions as to why, but they needed clarification.
Johnny Rabid: I need to clear the deck, Jim. After what happened with my wife. I think you can understand. There are individuals involved in this match that require punishment.
Jimophy Thuggin: My Earth children make continued existence possible. Without them I am obsolete. Their pain is my pain. For you this is the same?
I sipped my cognac as I shifted in my leather bound chair, a casual spin of the full sized globe that rested next to me. My hand palming away the continental United States of America as it span away from my sight. Yet always returning. Always there at the forefront of my mind.
Johnny Rabid: No, not really. I have known wives and raised children, Jimophy. They have been loyal and loving, and I have done my best to return and honor that commitment. But in the end, it's about something more for me. Family is important, but I am a man that requires his legacy to be a larger canvass. I am so much more than just family. I am a man who requires this world to spin at my command. To kneel at my feet. I must own and rule this world with absolute impunity, all without it ever knowing this is the final truth. This task, Thuggin? This glorious burden is what I was raised for, created for. And yet secrecy is of absolute importance. I can never boast about such matters. I learned that lesson the hard way. At the foot of a dying man, his arms out stretched. His life, extinguished.
Jimophy Thuggin: Your brother.
I attempted to answer, but a malfunction in my larynx forced me to stop. As if my voice collapsed under the weight of history. A simple answer would have to surface for the moment.
Johnny Rabid: Yes.
Jimophy Thuggin: You know. A man like you, Rabid. He could become anything on this planet. He could become a God if he so choose. Great armies would follow you if they only knew the truth; they would march and devour everything in their path in your name.
My voice returned as I sighed at Thuggin's claim. Thuggin knew my reasons for subterfuge all too well; and yet he could not help himself. Such is the way with a man like Thuggin. He sees power, and must prostrate himself in front of it. A moth always to the flame. Ever since I rescued him he has been this way; and yet he is the only man on this planet that knows me.
Johnny Rabid: Gods are devoured, Jimophy. You know this to be true They're a feast to be savored, to be consumed by man. Humanity consumes everything in the end; even it's own salvation. It can't help itself, that hunger. It never ends and it knows no barriers. There are civilizations, hidden in the small, forgotten corners of man's knowledge, that quiver in fear of that hunger. Look up to the stars, look to home and it's there, that fear. A fear that humanity's hunger will become stronger and smarter, reaching out with it's crooked fingers far among the stars: wrapping it's greedy hands around beings as yet unknown to man. And in mankind's grasp? Those civilizations, those beings of unearthly origin? They'll be crushed. Processed, and disposed. For that is the hunger. To consume. To kill. To repeat and continue, on and on...forever. That's the lesson I learned on a hill all those years ago. When I became the betrayer. And destroyer.
Jimophy Thuggin: You had no choice.
Johnny Rabid: No choice, you say. You think those words absolve me? My brother died, so I could sin, Thuggin'. He died, so that your oh-so-precious mission could continue. And my reward for allowing my own brother to die in excruciating agony, while a bunch of fucking backward apes danced around and threw stones at this shattered body, was to be exiled here. To become the ultimate symbol of betrayal. So that I could wait for your arrival, forever in the shadows, and rescue you from those restless, stupid apes. That's my no choice. That's my reward. And that lack of choice means this globe keeps spinning when I say so. Because when you have nothing, Thuggin. When you've lost that one real thing in your life that you cared about? You're inclined to take EVERYTHING.
I leaned in, a fire consuming me.
Johnny Rabid: Listen to me...”Slovakian”. The day I decide that no choice isn't good enough? Is the day you better learn what it means to fucking prey. Bonnie Blue hurt my family, that impacts upon my mission, a piece of the puzzle that makes my deception possible. If she gets her way again, my brother will have died for nothing. I'll fucking CRUCIFY her before I let that happen.
Jimophy Thuggin: Then the world will know. And everything will be for nothing. She'll win. Is that what you want, my Earth Chil-?
Not here, Thuggin. Not now.
Johnny Rabid: Don't you fucking call me that in private! Don't you EVER fucking call me that! Child? What the fuck would you know about children? You're a battery hen; born in a factory farm test tube with second hand DNA. I am a messiah in waiting. I am the one, true Alpha. I fight in coliseums and arenas now because this world wants no peace. It had it's one shot to take it, and spat in my face! So now they get me, they get the war of all wars. They get what they FUCKING DESERVE. A war they have no idea they're fighting. A war they cannot possibly hope to win. And with every day that passes I make sure they know misery. That one, wrong choice they made will echo forever. I assure you of that.
Jimophy Thuggin: Friend, I....
I shake my head; I buried my wraith a long time ago. It would consume everything if allowed out. But occasionally it surfaces. It breaks free. I allow air to inhabit my lungs. The sensation is odd, but refreshing. Clarity returns.
Johnny Rabid: Forget it. Just know that when I break Bonnie Blue this Sunday, when I shatter her spine and ruin her life, when she wakes up upside down, strapped to an apparatus keeping her two pieces conjoined. She'll never know why. She'll never know why I destroyed her. Because her mind will be a blank on the whole subject. Of all the future's I will have robbed from her, the one where she actually knows the truth will be the most missed. Because that was the future she would have known, in that hospital bed waiting for the wheelchair fit, how close she came to conquering a God. Now she'll know nothing to comfort her in the dark days ahead. Just confusion and questions and terror. Just a few pitiful words of encouragement from that idiot DeMarcus Jordan and his asinine collection of bad sweaters, a cunt that rambles on with that empty head of his about positivity.
Jimophy Thuggin: Never know? What have you done, Jonathan?
Johnny Rabid: What I had to. I was faced with another of those no choice situations. And now, because of Miss Blue. a lot of people are going to suffer for it.
Thuggin leaned back in his chair and sighed. These have been trying times for myself an my family, instigated by a cavalcade of fucking worthless names that appear this week, fighting for their precious dreams. Bonnie Blue, Zombie McMorris. I want to shatter their hopes this week at Time bomb. I want to bludgeon them to death and defecate on their cadavers. The incident last week at New Orleans involving my precious wife has plagued me somewhat. I feel an anger swell within me and for those involved. There are “people” to thank. To reach out to and annihilate. This Sunday at Time bomb I have a certain, Zombie McMorris to congratulate. I must thank him for bringing his bastard son back to life, for beginning a whole new dark age of superstition and turmoil. If it wasn't for ZMAC that memory stick would have been worthless. But Scarecrow's return has changed matters.
Fucking ZMAC. His coke fueled, herculean efforts where perfect for a man like Liam Bishop to exploit. A feast for rats like him to gnaw upon. On all of that chaos in Zombie's wake. But hey, fuck all of that, right? That's the Zombie way, forget with indifference; nothing matters to ZMAC.
Zombie, he has his Internet title, he has his Hardcore title. He's the man that dumped Bobby Cairo into a living volcano; so reality has no bearing on him. There is no consequence he can care about. No action that can phase him. Because he's numb, dead inside and out. He's the man with the Shia Clap at the tip of his fingers. The ultimate troll. But what else does he possess? What else has he got?
Try nothing. Grotesques like ZMAC don't win Trilogy cups. They don't hold World titles. They don't elevate others to higher echelons. They don't become fearful competition.
What they have is a small little corner of a Galaxy to call their retirement home. They earn themselves a pat on the head and a job well done. They bombard websites with cleaver memes but never get the big, meaningful matches. They window dress a company and make it seem alive. But all this is really just a never ending series of minor tasks to distract McMorris from asking the awkward questions. A prison to incarcerate him in. A jail cell to call his own. The saddest part? The most pathetic part? He knows all of this, and just excepts it; because he has no fucking choice. Zombie McMorris is all out of fight, he's burnt the fuck out. All he has left is...
Trombone...Booty...Cowboy Hat...Resignation.
Seth Lerch has destroyed ZMAC, cut his legs away like a Misery remake done right. McMorris is hobbled proper. Handicapped. A lion sheered of its mane. A carrion feast for buzzards. All he has is the miniature golf kingdom he now rules. The titles no one cares to fight for. And the lingering ghosts of past triumphs. Those Hardcore and Internet bets have not been forgotten by accident, the world needs to think again in that regard. Seth gave them to the one man that can hide them the best and then Seth slowly walked away. Out of sight, out of mind. Those belts. That man. Forgotten.
Some of us though, we still occasionally think about the better times. Dwell on them in fact. ZMAC still has the respect of those in the wrestling community that remember him as he once was. But our memories of the heydays of the Vapour Kings and those never ending Thickness reigns are fading. I'm trying to recall, wasn't there something about a God? About Norway, maybe? Seems like a dream now. Too much dirge and bile from McMorris has passed since the days of glorious Asgard. The fire has been extinguished. Lobotomized. The tuna on rye is rotten. Now ZMAC wanders around wearing a white cone collar to stop his yellow teeth infecting his neutering stitches, licking the shoes of his betters, desperate for a bite so he can drag his hapless victims down into that dank, shallow pool he calls an Internet title defense, amusing himself for a few days while we all ignore the results on a Wednesday night and think about the weekends shopping list.
I'm tried of ZMAC. I want to place a pillow over his face and suffocate him. I want McMorris to die with a thimble of dignity; but he can't. He endures like a cockroach. He continues on like that mouse in a matchbox. The Seth-inflicted hell he inhabits will never end. The Green Mile of his failure will stretch on now for an eternity. The only course of action the world has left is to congratulate, Seth Lerch. Excellent work, Seth! For taking a giant and turning him into a clown. For slicing the balls off a legend in the name of Federation harmony. Congratulations, the operation was a success. The heart stopped on the operating table, but the body shambles on.
Let's move this on, because there's just so many people I should thank.
Thank you, Bonnie Blue. You silly, stupid fucking cow. How the press associations of the globe do love you, darling. Didn't all those years spent locked away in your little science fiction paradise teach you anything? Check your history books dear Bonnie Blue, because their, in among the accounts of butchering, beheading and trials for witchcraft you'll find the truth; that there has never been a crusade, valid or otherwise, that hasn't ended in the suffering of innocents. Still, when you can crawl and hide behind a datasphere; why bother to care? Why should the cries of the innocents caught up in your little self righteous web be heard in your Rebellution clubhouse when you have DeMarcus Jordan, drowning out the screams with a rapacious round of applause for your dedication to justice. Your crusade to expose me as some kind of dastardly “occult figure”.
How proud you must be, Bonnie, especially when you're mystery machine partner, DeMarcus Jordan is by your side this Sunday during our wild-card match, the walking, talking, African American stereotype; clapping together his little nike inspired hands, cheering Bonnie on like an excitable schoolgirl; while suffering and misery unfold everywhere due to Miss Blue's actions. Still, Bonnie can use all of that horror for hits, right? Just tweet it, and snap-chat it, and emote a sad face when she sees a massacre on a news report. There's a good, simple little girl. Juis sui, Bonnie Blue. Juis Sui, Liam's savior; a Paris Hilton with a Tardis is our poor, little, Bonnie Blue. Seriously, you can't make this shit up.
Unless you're Bonnie Blue.
Sloppy too, that Bonnie, sending out the feeders looking for “Private Detectives” desperate to find the dirt on Jason Rush, on his life; on his family. Odd, that a hero would feel the need to pry into those concerns. Maybe there was a side of Bonnie that liked to inflict pain on innocents. That cheerful smile and perfect teeth simply a barrier; a mirage, a flesh bag worn to hide the twisted, malignant creature beneath that seethes with malice and genuine hate. Not a Chrono-ripper, no. Something worse. Much worse. Try, Jealous human being. Add; inferior competitor. Supplement tenacity for psychotic obsession. The kind that blinds, so easy for a man like Liam Bishop to pretend to be a reputable, card carrying member of an investigation agency, when you're faced with a fucking dimwit for a client; so easy to con a naive fool when you're in fact a freelance piece of shit working for whatever tabloid newspaper will hire you.
Bonnie Blue is a bitch in a china shop. An arrogant, ignorant valley girl slag, that hides behind her keyboard and plays innocent, yet harbors true hatred for all things that don't bow down and marvel at her syndicated dreams. She's a contradiction, she wants to be seen as her own woman, yet can't move on from the past. Don Jesus: Check. Chrono Rippers: Check. Time Keepers: Check. It's all a rerun, her ENTIRE LIFE is a rerun. It's a Friday night death slot you can't wake up from. Sandwiched in between idiotic episodes of Warehouse 13 and Haven. Bonnie Blue is reality in the hands of the Syfy channel. And they can't even spell sci fi.
It's at that moment that I have an idea, I turn to Thuggin and say:
Johnny Rabid: I want to be declared the winner of my match at XIII. I want it known that I have scared my opponent to death. That he couldn't take the pressure; all the anticipation of our upcoming nightmare chamber match, a match that weighted so heavy on Jay's superhuman Maratopian heart, meant that it simply gave out. Jay Omega is dead because he couldn't take the idea of facing me. So he gave up. It was the only option he had left that didn't involve me skinning the flesh from his body. So he took that door. He escaped. And yet, I'll still find him. There is no door this world can lock from me. Even in hell I'll find Jay Omega. His nightmare will still happen. He will not rob me of his agony. Because #bitchlivesmatter.
Thuggin laughs
Jimophy Thuggin: That's perfect. Of course!
Johnny Rabid: I want it known, because the horror Jay Omega has seemingly avoided is the very same fate that awaits my opponents at Timebomb. These extras in a crowd scene. These fools wandering into view. I'll exterminate them all and take their heads. No one has seen me upset, that is a
Jimophy Thuggin: I have to know...what exactly is a Rage Maxx? Is it a Methylenedioxyamphetamine? Should I monitor Wade for it's abuse?
Johnny Rabid: Let me tell you what a Rage Maxx is, Thuggin. It's what you encounter when you're driving a rental across country to a show in the ass end of nowhere. You have some loose change in your pocket so you pull into a lidl to pick up a four pack of Red Bull to stay awake. There's a long drive ahead of you and that extra kick is required to stay sharp, so you check the shelves but discover that all the Red Bull is gone. There's no premium kick to be had, so you ask the spotty kid stacking the shelves whats the deal? The little piss-ant fuck wipes his nose on his sleeve and points you towards a bargain basement purgatory that has nothing but Rage Maxx. It looks like shit. It tastes like shit. No kick shows up. You crash your car and die.
That's Rage Maxx, a fucking no show knock off that serves no fucking purpose what so ever. He's a carbon copy of every anti hero that's ever decided that the war must go on. The only thing Rage Maxx has perfected is clogging up the arteries of Slams and PPV's with his “I'll be here soon...no really...this time” promos that promise little and deliver less. He's a false start. He's a dawn that never arrives. Rage Maxx is a troll character by accident. It's a bounced check. It's a bumped spot, “Where's my interview slot this week?” “I'm sorry kid, it just got Rage Maxxed”. Rage Maxx is a non starter that pulls up at the starting gate. Rage Maxx will not show, and even if he does, he will only serve as another extra to make me look good.
The only other reason for a Rage Maxx to exist is to pat Danny Anderson on that back and tell him that as long as Rage Maxx is around Danny Anderson's attendance record will never be the lowest in the Federation. In that regard, Rage Maxx is succeeding, in everything else, he is a total and utter fucking failure from start to finish. Rage Maxx is zero percent caffeine. He's a warm coke zero left out in the sun. Rage Maxx lets you down.
Then you have Adam Young, the perpetual huckster, the man that is destined to retire on Wednesday night. We can forget about him, because he wants us to. He wants to be a ghost so that our memories of all this past failures disappear upon the wind.
Adam is wishing now that video is somehow un-invented during his latest spell on the sidelines. Adam Young, the man who sat out my match this week on Slam while his drunken, Jeff Hardy of a fuck up, partner, Raymond Hatcher; sulked at ringside and simply observed Lucious Starr being knocked from pillar to post by yours truly. Raymond Hatcher, the real deal has finally unveiled his ninety third failed gimmick, and this time...he's playing a failure. You know things are desperate when a man tries to distance himself from his own life by turning his actual misery into a gimmick; as if making a gimmick out of his constant fucks ups somehow absolves him from the reality of his situation.
Jimophy Thuggin: The real deal is living out a drunk fantasy, that is in fact real. The horror of it all.
Johnny Rabid: What's the first steps to beating your addiction? Admitting you have a problem. Raymond Hatcher is avoiding that problem by calling it a gimmick. By branding it a reinvention. The truth is that Hatcher really is spiraling out of control, and nothing can stop that. Maybe there would have been someone there to catch him, to take care of him and put him back on the straight and narrow, but he made his bed with Adam Young, and that is a mistake few rarely walk away from. When you side with an Adam Young, the truth is you might as well have mailed your career to the fucking Marx Brothers. Because that shit is done on both sides. The so-called “Outlaw Gentlemen” is just the joke that never dies, no mater how many times you smash it's teeth down it's throat and send it packing. The turd resurfaces. Sunday is just another turn of the wheel. Maybe I'll get lucky this time, maybe the world will, and I strike gold. Finish off this sad little soap opera for good.
Jimophy Thuggin: This feels like a match beneath you. All these idiots like Jordan Wolfram.
Johnny Rabid: The truth is, fools like Wolfram make my life perfect. I'm facing off against losers and waifs and dregs and they're all there to serve one purpose, to act as a shield for Johnny Rabid to dismantle Bonnie Blue. They're a distraction for the ref. A slight of hand that keeps this match right where I want it, in the palm of MY hand. So many extra's Thuggin, so many stand in's for actual talent. Jordan Wolfram is what exactly? An opener for the show, a warm up act that leaves the masses cold; a complete none entity; just an extra like Bad news Benson, just a face in the crowd that arrives, intervenes in the worlds of his obvious betters, then shuffles off to pastures new, to matches that no one in their right mind would give two fucks about. And their, in that invisible limbo of Wednesday nights and killer instinct matches, they rot and fester. Only to rise to the surface occasionally. To the confusion of the crowd who could have sworn they where either dead or off the books. That's the lowest run of the ladder in this match. Then, just above the completely anonymous, we have this Shadowlove for example.
Jimophy Thuggin: What? Shadowwhat?
Johnny Rabid: Love. Shadowlove: the man more concerned with the shopping habits of the average Texan than this match. The narcissist that can't even get a grasp on his own character: such is the absolute failure of this jobbah joke. Shadowlove; a supposed educated soul, waxing lyrical about his opponent's in two sentences or less because they're not worth his “esteemed effort”. That's the sum total and extent of his effort. Shadowlove, the man that wanders into shot, puffs out his chest, and completely fluffs his lines. So, what next for Shadowlove after he picks himself off the floor and realizes that he's the man that LOST to Rage Maxx on Slam, a man now stranded in a match with me? Shadowlove, the man that lost to a perpetual no show, cornered and hunted down by a true professional. How does Shadowlove address this much maligned situation? Does he vow to pick up the pace and redouble his efforts now that he realizes he's fighting in the big leagues? No, he simply minces around and scoffs at the all the lowly gentry that surround him. He's a fucking vacuous waste of space. There's no reason for a man like Shadowlove to even exist other than to be a cautionary tale for Lucious Starr. Shadowlove has no spine, no bite and no fucking hope. He's a ghost that prances about in the halls in white, a Disney princess looking for the exit door. This Sunday I'll offer him an option to escape my hell...at the end of a Kingdom destroyer. And that will be the end of the sorry tale of Shadowlove. His broken mind extradited to a world of soft pillows and harpsichords, while in the real world, his body is a mass of scare tissue and pain. I think I'm going to enjoy tearing Shadowlove apart. It's always that first look when they realize the horror they've blindly walked into. That sudden shock of understanding that there is no hope for them. If only I could bottle that feeling. Now that, that would be a drug I could get addicted to. At least it would serve a purpose, unlike that LARPing fool, Andre Jenson.
Jimophy Thuggin: He makes you laugh. I've read the tweets.
Johnny Rabid: Andre Jenson's life is a half heated chuckle, while standing in line at the airport check-in. He's an SNL sketch that's thirty years out of date. He's a Mike Myers side project and nothing more. Second best Andre wanders around with that stupid smug grin on his face, unleashing those self deprecating quips and flashing that nerdy smile and he thinks that's all he needs to survive. He's been given a massive chance here to step up. This is the Trilogy Cup; this is the fast track to the next level and he's fluffing lines just like Shadowlove. It's saying something when your ripoff, Greybeard, is doing your gimmick better than you. That's pulling the one last safety net Jenson had from under himself though his own lack of character commitment.
Andre Jenson is out of sandbags. There's no more lightning bolts to throw. Monday night, what's left of Second best Andre will be alone in his mom's basement (surprise) watching Knights Of Badassdom on Netflix, and having a *cry-wank over his destroyed career.
*Cry-wank, an English term used to describe a furious masturbation induced by extreme sorrow.
Johnny Rabid: It's not fair on a man like Andre Jenson. Here's not here in the WCF to be placed in a match like this. You don't coax a child into a lion's den do you? We don't throw children over the fence into the primate enclosure. Why should a Andre Jenson be mistreated in this way? Why has he incurred such wraith from Seth Lerch that he now faces me; stands between me and my fate? I want the Trilogy cup Jimophy so that I can rub it in Dune's fucking face before I destroy him and Bonnie Blue. These two so called heroes. These so called angels of the WCF Galaxy. They're no such thing, and I will make it my mission to expose their hypocrisy week in and out until they break. And it all starts with Jenson.
Jimophy Thuggin: How is he the key?
Johnny Rabid: Jenson is Bonnie's damsel in distress. Her Princess in the tower. A gender bending Disney comedy that places dance partners in different roles. But here's the rub, who saved Jenson from becoming a Chrono Ripper forever? And how come such an event happened in the first place? Bonnie sucka punched Jenson into becoming her personal Mary sue; then made him her devoted love interest. A love never that's never been reciprocated because Blue is a user and a manipulator. Bonnie has lead Jenson by the nose into serving her will completely, which is a very Dark Timekeeper thing to do when you consider things. Odd that for a hero, don't you think? I wonder however if Second best Andre even cares. After all, this is a man that lives in a sunshine and rainbows world. The man that shrugs off pitiful performances against Bad News Benson and Adam Young in make or break battle royals on Slam, and the man that high fives Teo Del Sol every morning as he rolls out of bed.
Jimophy Thuggin: Don't you face Del Sol this week on Wednesday Night? This could be your way back into wearing gold, my friend. To bounce back this quickly after your tag team loss would be an emphatic demonstration of superior #beachkrew wrestling prowess. It could -
Johnny Rabid: Wrong. All wrong. What this company needs is Teo Del Sol right where he is, doing what he's doing for the good of the WCF. I said it on line and I'll say it now. I am not the man to be wearing that belt, Teo Del Sol is. Trust me when I say this. I want him to become the greatest People's Champion of all time. Greater than that star-fucking tramp, Chelsea Armstrong, greater than that emo *bellend, Scarecrow.
*English derogatory euphemism for Penis. Not to be confused with Vulgar.
Johnny Rabid: I want Teo Del Sol to be the greatest People's champion of all time for a very specific and particular reason, Thuggin. I want Teo right where he is because Teo Del Sol is corrupting an entire generation of American Teenagers into watching the most violent and distasteful television show in American Broadcasting history. And as a major shareholder in WCF, I want that to continue. I want children to stay up late and be captivated by the antics of #beachkrew, Oblivion, Phoenix and alike. I want those little bastards to go out there and copy what we do and wonder why everyone in class is crying and they've been summarily removed from their families. I want those prisoners of the state to write letters to Teo asking why they can't see their mummy and daddy no more. I want Teo to one day wake up from his infantile dream and know he has done all the dirty work for us. While holding onto a belt nobody wants, on a night no one cares to wrestle. Tell me, Thuggin. Why would I want any of that to end?
Jimophy Thuggin: He fights with such heart for us.
Johnny Rabid: Teo Del Sol. He fights for the users.
Jimophy Thuggin: So he does. Such a perfect weapon.
Johnny Rabid: Isn't he? Look how he raises his game week after week to combat legends like Torture. Teo fights with all he has, because he is a fanatic for that title. Because he is consumed by it, the notion that he is reaching out to the children of the world and teaching them good values and a set of unimpeachable moral codes. And yet, beneath it all is the truth, that malware that leaves nations rotten to the core. That maintains the balance. That provides this glorious nation with another batch of cattle we can send off to fight for oil and forget about on the return trip. And who is their inspiration? Who spurs these innocent souls on to sign up and enlist? Why, it's that brave little idiot like Teo Del Sol: the sheep that leads his flock to the wolves.
Jimophy Thuggin: So diligent in his task. So commendable.
Johnny Rabid: I could never be what Teo is. I know what I am and how the world perceives me. There's a natural air of unease around me. A sense that I am to be feared. I have cultivated that over many a year, Thuggin. It's what's kept me alive for so long. That fear. That unease. There's something else that stops me from being a Teo Del Sol. I am awake. I know exactly what is happening. Teo is a deluded fool. His conscience is submerged; docile, while his fighting spirit solders on. Teo has no idea what he is doing to this nation. The dirty work he is carrying out. Me? I don't think I could stomach it. To corrupt children the way Teo does. To be this pied piper cunt that's leading an entire generation to their own destruction. I have a son. He has a way about him. Knowledgeable. Smart. He asks me why children in the park try to copy Teo and not me. And I tell him the truth. Because when they see Teo, they see a child in a man's body and they want to grow up and be just as ignorant about how the world works as he is. Too bad all that ignorance is going to get Teo injured this coming Sunday. As for Wednesday, well I'm sure I can figure out a way to avoid that catastrophe. Or at least manipulate the situation to my advantage. After all, Dune is a dolt that can be programmed and corralled into doing my bidding just like everyone else. A few choice words on twitter should do the trick. The sand beast is easy to tame.
Jimophy Thuggin: Difficult to beat. About Dune...Jared wants to know.
Johnny Rabid: Know what? Why I attacked Dune? Why this sudden hatred for him? Tell him this; he is the harbinger. I have taken it upon myself to keep him safe. When Dune broke his jaw and put him out of action that was a failure on my part. One day soon I will rectify that mistake with the utter annihilation of the sand beast in front of the world. The road to Explosion begins with Timebomb, Thuggin. That's what the poster says, right? And in truth, that nifty little slogan is right. The fuse has been lit. And there's no going back.
A SUDDEN DIVE
Beneath the waves as Emily Rush submerges herself inside the Fortune Manor swimming pool, this is an indoor facility; bleached white tiles with a trim of teal around it's Olympic sized centerpiece. Emily is wearing a figure hugging black two piece costume. Her blonde locks flowing below the surface in odd directions as she cannons forward with a breast stroke, desperate to evade her memories.
GRAVEYARD
New Orleans. French Quarter. 17/02/16
The tall, slender, gaunt looking man; dressed in a shabby brown suit, was a fifty year old journalist named Liam Bishop. Bishop stood before Emily and smirked with crooked English teeth and floppy, greasy black hair as he struggled with his antique silver jubilee lighter, waiting for an answer to arrive. Bishop had something of a reputation back in England, they called his practices “The Dark Arts”, the hacking of private E-Mails; the bugging of phone lines. The targets all varied, some were vacuous celebrities, others were the parents of kidnapped daughters that never returned. Liam didn't care, he needed the money, and those brittle veins of his weren't going to swell up with heroin on their own. His rational was that he was one of many, a whole pig pen of scumbag bastards feasting from the same Fleet Street troth. So why shouldn't it be him that profits? If not Liam, it'd be some other morally vacant cunt taking his place. Spending his money. Doing his coke. Fucking his wife. There always is.
Liam had a very small window to make this work, that dumb Bonnie Blue had paid well not not well enough. Liam wanted more for his due diligence. He wanted out of the business, and Johnny Rabid, one of England's biggest celebrities was a mighty catch indeed. All Liam had to do was get at his weakest spot and squeeze.
This Rush bitch was gonna pay, because they always pay; because the alternative is oblivion. And when you hold that kind of card? You always collect. You make sure. Especially when you have a pregnant wife asking awkward questions, curious about a mountain of cryptic messages on your Facebook profile. Daggers aimed from that mistress you've been keeping, taunting you for money with veiled recollections of seedy past transgressions.
Everyone wants to get paid, it seems.
Too many reasons existed for Liam. He had to make this work.
Liam coughed a slither of black bile intermixed with tar into his hand before his lit cigarette filled his lungs with blistering ash. Everything hurts when the fix is calling; light, heat, cold, rain. The world wants you in absolute agony. You have to run from that and keep running; run and hide. Take a breath and wrap that tubing tight. Inject. Submerge. Disappear.
Inject. Submerge. Disappear.
This bitch was gonna pay; they always pay. Why is she just standing there? Liam didn't understand; she had heard his demands clearly. A quick, easy transaction. Fifty thousand is a large chunk but not unreasonable considering the evidence; a man that lives through generations undying. A man with connections to the darkest reaches of history. A year ago it would have been nonsense.
But this was a new age. The age of belief. A man fell and died...then was resurrected in front of the world. That changed everything. Scarecrow's return had ignited a new era of superstition over science. Terrorism had a new face; a new paranormal shadow to cast upon an already nervous, fearful world.
Johnny Rabid had nowhere left to hide now, and neither did his wife and precious son. This was the era of the new Torquemada's. A new burning season of religious violence and hatred. Those whose souls belonged to mythical devils must be cast out; because it sells papers. Because it pays the bills and gets hits and likes. And everyone just loves a good story. Everyone wants their twitter to light up. That's the fantasy. The dream. So what if a few helpless children are butchered to death by a witch doctor in London? So what if women are stoned to death in Russia for carrying demons in their wombs? Circulation is up. Everyone is reading. Everyone is believing.
The fuck is wrong with this Rush bitch? Why is she just staring off into space? Liam was becoming agitated, he felt an army of ants crawling though his skin as he stamped his feet on the soft, wet moss beneath, searching for a way to rid the hunger from his malcontent veins. The graveyard was still, empty.
Emily meanwhile was trembling before her blackmailer. The night air carried a cold chill and because she left the hotel room in a hurry, she had no coat; just her jeans and a tee. The message on her phone hurried her departure, yet it was a ruse; while the text message appeared to belong her sister, Margo; claiming she was in town and in trouble, it was all Liam's handiwork; employing some of those dark arts techniques the boys back at the Sun and the Star newspapers loved so much. Oh, Murdoch; you'd be so proud of your boi.
If only this was still an age of science, everything would have run like clockwork. But that time had passed. At that moment, Emily didn't really see Liam, she was busy.
Emily was preoccupied by a vision before her. A spirit facing her. Out here among the tombstones stood a small boy walking towards her. Rooting her to the spot with his gentle, haunting gaze. Her mind emptied and awaited commands. It was as if an auto pilot had suddenly kicked in. Emily wasn't afraid now. She just stood there, and listened to a voice with but one request.
“Look at me. Focus on me. And wait.”
Over and over. The same command. Emily nodded. And with that action Liam's patience evaporated, he stumbled slightly forward, the moss sabotaging his traction as he grabbed the woman by the shoulders and shook her.
But her trance would not break. He slapped her across the face, hard and brutal. She staggered. Her eyes like six inch nails on fire locked with Liam's. He finally had her attention.
Liam Bishop: You need to wake up, Misses Rush. You need to wake up and listen to me. I need this money wired into my account by tonight. You understand? Wire the fucking money, or everything your husband has built is fucked! You'll be fucked! You don't want to force my hand on this. You try an call my bluff? And I'll send every scrap of data that little blue bird bitch paid for to the press. I'll make sure every red state crack pot yank knows your name. You'll be exposed. Your whole Family will be exposed! They'll be carving up your son and bottling him in pieces! His autopsy will go viral by sunrise! Can you hear me, bitch? LISTEN TO ME! That Bonnie Blue wants you dead. Wire me the money? Or I make that happen!
Emily Rush: I need to speak to my son.
Liam turned to face the empty space that consumed Emily so completely. He turned his back on his confused victim. After all, she was terrified. Immobile. A statue of fear is nothing to worry about. And nothing is what Liam discovered over his shoulder, except a simple tombstone of modest dimensions that stood waist height to the blackmailer. Solid granite, cold to the touch. A vertical slab without a name.
“Now. Smash his face into the stone.”
Emily felt her body drawn to the task as if strings where wrapped around her mind. With a sudden burst of movement she lept forward and grabbed Liam's head with both hands, plunging his front face down into the top edge of the tombstone. Upon impact is nose caved into hos skull. Eyes wide open with absolute shock as his body went into convulsions.
“Again. Continue. Again.”
Emily pulled Liam's head back with a sickening squelch as shattered nasal cartilage unhooked itself from the slab. His mouth tried to scream but his body floundered as his mouth simply gasped for air that went nowhere. Emily froze, she was killing someone, slowly. Their body shaking in her grasp. She didn't want this, she wanted to run but she couldn't, this man was threatening her son. Her family. She had no choice. Even as the sick stagnated in her mouth she knew what she had to do.
She knew, because her son was telling her.
“Again, Mummy. You have to”
Mummy obliged. Liam's head caved in on the second try, splitting like an egg. Emily fell backward, covering her mouth upon landing so that passersby didn't hear her desperate screams; fumbling with her cell phone as what was left of Liam Bishop fell to the floor, his legs twitching on that soft wet moss. No head now, just a disjointed mass of brain matter and bone, the evidence sliding down that tombstone with no name. Leaving it's mark
Emily didn't blink, she just observed the horror she had caused as the vision of her son vanished into thin air. His departure coincided with an odd sensation, she felt her mouth fill now with water...a gasp followed by another as Emily tried to breath but no air was to be found, just water, flowing. Drowning her from the inside.
BENEATH THE WAVES
Emily is motionless as we see a shape dart in front of us, moving at speed. It's Rabid. The ripper scoops up his wife from the bottom of the pool and dags her to the surface.
POOLSIDE
Rabid administers mouth to mouth as water flows from Emily's blue lips. Rabid is like a machine now, unwavering in his task as he pounds away at her chest. Over and over again. A second passes that seems like an eternity before.
Emily heaves, a last mouthful of water spewed up as she returns eyes open, heart rate weak, but alive. She lifts her weak arms and attempts an embrace. Rabid Meets her halfway and then some. Lifting her up as he rise to his feet, embracing her completely as he carries her to the bedroom.
Johnny places her still wet form on the bed and begins to dry her off with a towel. Emily moans as her eyes dart around the large bedroom. Taking in the minimalist art-deco interior. Her lungs inhale a big gulp of oxygen and immediately enter a coughing fit. Rabid pats her back and hugs her. She pulls him in close and looks him straight into those odd, blue eyes of his.
Emily Rush: I can't let it go. Every time I try, it keeps pulling me back. Into that moment. It's going to kill me, isn't it?
Rabid simply pats her back again.
Johnny Rabid: Give it time, my love. Just give it time.
Tears well in her eyes.
Emily Rush: Tell me, how long does it take? To be as cold as you?
Rabid gently removes a stray hair from her face, wipes some water away from her lips with his thumb. His eyes never leave her's as he answers.
Johnny Rabid: I wish I was as cold as you think I am. There are some truths about me that you can never know. But you need to know this. In the dark, in the small hours, there is a cry for help that I always hear. It never leaves me. It's been so long now, but it never fades. That cry, that pain – it makes me cold. It burns away the warmth. You want to be me? Just give it time. It will reach you. In the dark.
Emily flings her arms around her husband, and sobs. While in the back of her mind, she begins to hope and pray; that her husband murders that bitch, Bonnie Blue.
FADE.
