Post by God King Dune on Mar 20, 2016 14:16:21 GMT -5
The thunderous clap of a bowling ball connecting with smooth, greasy wood greets us from the outset. The dense sphere is wrapped in a golden hue, and we follow in its wake as it picks up speed en route to the out-of-focus pins that stand ever so vulnerable at the end of the lane. The rhythmic churning of the ball becomes frantic before finally slamming into the gap between the front pin and the row behind it. All ten fly backward at once, and as a metal bar lowers to clear them out, we cut away.
Freeman: That’s one. Nine more and you’ll get your name in the paper.
Dune: I’d rather it wasn’t. Maybe I should throw the game.
Freeman: Cheer up, kid. What the fuck’s wrong with you lately?
Dune doesn’t respond. Instead he takes a seat beside his oldest friend and mentor. The bearded old man furrows his brow before rising and powdering his hand. He fingers his ball and takes his place a few feet from the line. When the metal bar clears the now-standing pins, he makes his approach and flings the ball down the lane...only to watch it sink into the gutter just before reaching them.
Freeman: Fuck me.
Dune: I thought you’d done this before?
Freeman: I used to roll rocks quite a bit...used to be damn good too. I blame these old bones.
Dune: The same excuse you used when I put you down in our first training session last year.
Freeman: Look at me - I’m an old man, Dune. Some of the best fighters on the planet can’t hold a torch to you, and you expect me to be able to?
Dune: I never said that...
Freeman: Ah...there he is.
Freeman snags the ball as it shoots up on the conveyer belt. He takes aim, breathes deep, and makes his approach once more. This time he knocks a few pins down, and he turns to Dune with a satisfied grin.
Freeman: Still got it.
Dune chuckles dryly to himself before standing up and wringing his neck around. A mother and her two sons walk by in search of the proper ball, and their eyes go wide to see the unmasked face of Dune staring back at them. The deep, jagged scars that line his jawline are enough to force a 180 degree turn out of them, and Freeman chuckles to see it.
Freeman: You should have worn your mask.
Dune: My face is a natural deterrent, Freeman. The WCF Faithful have been good to me, but I’d be lying if I said I want to be hounded by them in public.
Freeman: Fair enough.
Dune snags the heavy golden sphere as it shoots back up, and without much thought he steps toward the line and flings it down the lane. It smashed into the ten pins, sending each one flying backward once more.
Freeman: That’s two. Eight more and you’re famous.
Dune: Too late. I liked it better when I wasn’t.
Freeman: Fame is relative, Dune. You’ve been famous around these parts for decades. Now you just so happen to be famous the world over. And as such, each time you step in the ring, those you square off against become famous in their own regard...though most often they’re remembered for being ragdolled before eating the pin.
Dune: Is this where I talk about making the Family famous this week?
Freeman: They fancy themselves such already. Logan certainly is, but these other two - Chance Von Crank and Dag Riddick - they’re far from it. Sure, they’re making a name for themselves - carving out a niche just like you did in early 2015 - but they’ve got a long way to go yet.
Dune: Chance is following in my footsteps, it’d seem. All he’s got to do is keep moving on in the Trilogy Cup and he could become a World Champion. Easier said than done, of course...but he’s got a -
Freeman: Chance?
Dune: Shot.
Freeman, amused at himself, stands and bowls his turn, listening as Dune continues.
Dune: Logan’s proved himself a worthy competitor time and again, and there’s no doubt he’s the one to watch this week. He’s without a doubt the alpha in the Family, but granted that’s not saying a whole lot. Theirs is a dysfunctional one at best, and though they may have a competent leader, his underlings are rough around the edges.
Freeman picks up a spare and flashes Dune a wink before Dune steps up and awaits the metal bars to clear the pins. He steps once, twice, three times, then shoots the ball toward them. Again they scatter against the back wall, and Freeman nods as he speaks up.
Freeman: Dag - thoughts?
Dune: He’s prolific...on the tronz. If only keystrokes pinned shoulders for three between the ropes. He’s a desperate rookie and it shows time and again. When he went up against ZMac for the Internet Title he merely tried to adopt the legend’s ways, and what did it get him? A chuckle from those who knew he was hopeless against the immortal one. You don’t win in this business by copycatting others. If you want to make a mark, you make yourself first. Dag’s done nothing of the sort. He’s observant - I’ll give him that - but it takes more than observation and miming the skillsets of others to win in this business. He’s got heart, I suppose - he’s got a strong will to win - but if you’re not a strong fighter to begin with, you’ll never amount to shit in the WCF.
Freeman bowls his turn, and Dune once more bowls a hard strike - his fourth in a row. He takes a seat as Freeman gets up once more, and Dune’s icy blue eyes meet the camera as he speaks.
Dune: Are you listening, Dag? Advice from me is hard to come by, but you’d be well to keep your ears peeled. It’s obvious you want to win week in and week out, but something’s been holding you back. You’re yet to take that next step and become a dominant fighter in this game for a number of reasons, and they all boil down to this cold hard truth: you’re fucking yourself.
Is that a shock for you? I doubt it. You claim to be a man full of hatred - a man who lacks passion for his fellow man and especially his opponents - but these are mere claims. You don’t hate your opponents. More often than not, in fact, you envy them. Look at ZMac. He’s a shining example. You spewed all sorts of shit on WCF’s resident Zombie in the days and weeks leading up to your battle for his Internet gold, but unbeknownst to you, it was your actions that did the talking. You’re not ZMac, Dag, and yet you tried your damnedest to be. To this day his influence on you is apparent. It’s laughable. It’s embarrassing - or it ought to be, were you capable of being self aware. But you aren’t. We all know that - the fighters in the locker room and the WCF Faithful alike. They don’t dislike you because you’re a big meanie, as you claim to be. Your cheap heat doesn’t do anything but draw laughter from the masses. You’re universally disliked because you’re the least original motherfucker to come through here since...well goddamn, since Seth Lerch booked the very first Slam card more than 15 years ago.
Freeman: Dune!
Dune snaps out of it.
Freeman: You’re up.
Dune: Ah…
He rises and fingers his ball before recklessly flinging it down the lane. As before, ten pins crash to the ground, and he holds up five fingers before reclaiming his seat. Freeman rises, and Dune’s eyes find the camera once more.
Dune: You’re a pest, Dag. You’re an attention seeking whore who has no place here amongst the elite of the WCF. You belong somewhere else - somewhere unwanted motherfuckers go when they realize they can’t hang in the big leagues. And yet you persist, just as any pest would. It’s not your fault, in truth. I blame the others for giving you so much goddamn attention.
Have you noticed that I haven’t once acknowledged your bitch ass? There’s a reason for that, Dag. A wise man once said, “If you ignore him, he’ll go away.” And you would have by now, were it not for the bitches of Beach Crew and all the other dipshits who’ve been going back and forth with you on the tronz. You crave attention, and you’ve found it here...albeit the kind that makes a fool obvious to see. You haven’t made a name for yourself by winning matches and pinning top talent; you’ve only done so by being an annoying little shit.
You and I are polar opposites. I came into the WCF and captured the Internet Title within a month by being my own man; by outdueling and outlasting my opponents. Kaz Mazy was a fierce competitor in his day, and yet I didn’t adopt his style en route to earning my first title - the one you fought so hard to swing and miss at. I felt the breeze from your mighty wiff way out here in the desert, Dag, but it didn’t serve to provide me with relief from the scorching heat. All it did was clue me into the kind of a man you are: one who can’t win on his own. I suppose that’s why you joined up with Logan and his Family. Well you can ride the living legend’s coattails all you like, Dag, but it won’t get you anywhere so long as you keep your petty charade up.
Don’t get me wrong - I don’t hate you as you claim to hate me. I’m indifferent to you. You say your heart is full of hatred because of a bunch of bullshit like religion and politics and social matters...or all things hollow, rather. Again our polar opposite nature comes into play. Because while you in fact care deeply for everything you claim to not care about, I truly don’t give a fuck about any of it. I’m fueled by the fires of wrath because of experiences, Dag. I’ve been through hell - decades of it - while you sat in the lap of luxury, pouting and making up things to hate because you had too much fucking time on your hands. You hate imaginary bullshit, and that makes you the fakest piece of shit on the roster.
Dune stands and bowls again at the behest of Freeman, knocking down his sixth strike before finding the camera once more.
Dune: You want attention, Dag? You want something to be mad about - to truly hate?
Well hate me, because I am what you’ll never be. If you have to ask what that is, you’ve got no business in this company. And this Sunday, I’m going to prove that true beyond a shadow of a doubt. Afterward you can bury your head in the arms of your Family...but not before I bury your fucking head in the sand and pin your bitch ass for three.
Freeman: Yikes...I never knew you felt that way.
Dune: About what?
Freeman: Dag Riddick.
Dune: Who?
Freeman: Who...hmm...exactly. And Chance Von Crank…
Dune: He’s better than Dag...but that’s obvious. The man can atleast think for himself. It doesn’t help that he’s a Family member, but as I said before: moving on in the Trilogy Cup goes to show that he’s a competent fighter.
I’m gonna take a piss...don’t bowl for me.
Freeman shakes his head as Dune makes his way to the little boy’s room. He passes a group of children celebrating a birthday party, and both the kids and their parents shy away from him as he cuts through the celebration. He reaches the restroom door and pushes it open to a horrible stench of stale urine and dried feces. He takes it in, and as he unzips in front of a urinal, his eyes find the camera.
Dune: Piss break...fitting for a man like Chance Von Crank.
Sure, Chance, you’ve proven yourself somewhat worthy of praise...but you’ve still got a long way to go. Don’t let it bother you though - we’ve all been there. Even I didn’t come in and dominate right off the bat. You’ve got to roll with punches, Chance, and this week I imagine you’re rolling in bed, tossing and turning as you consider what’s to come this Sunday.
Joey Flash - the best goddamn fighter this company’s ever seen.
Occulo - the most underrated and and skilled man among us.
And then, of course, there’s me.
What do you think of me, Chance? Do you think I’m one to lay down in the face of adversity? Do you think I’m one to let a family of misfits and scoundrels run wild on me and mine? Flash, Occulo, and I are the greatest trio to ever step foot in a WCF ring. And look who we’re up against this week: a fucking ragtag team of mediocre talent - save a living legend who happens to be washed up and clinging to his glory days by a thread. You don’t truly think you have a chance against us at Slam. That’s not a question, Chance - it’s a statement. There’s no fucking way you could be so naive as to allow yourself any sort of confidence going into Sunday. You’re one of those bottom dwellers that’s found himself in the main event with top talent who actually belong there - guys who’ve been going on last for over a year now. A year in the WCF is akin to a decade in the real world, so do the math you piece of shit. I think even a mind so warped as yours could figure that one out.
Dune’s stream ceases, and he zips up before walking over to the bathroom mirror. The camera remains out of view as Dune gazes into the mirror and finds the screen.
Dune: I’d call you trash but that’d be a compliment, and I’ve done enough complimenting of you today. You survived a round of the Trilogy Cup, but let’s face it: you’re doomed to fail. You’re going up against a rat-faced fuck at Explosion, and though I hate to say it, Jared’s got your number all the way. Don’t expect me to run in and save the day for you, as I’d so like to do. Not for your sake, of course, but for my own. Nothing would satisfy mean as much as ruining Jared’s bid at my partner’s World Title at Asesinato de Mayo - save blowing Johnny Rabid sky-high by way of C4 - but I’ll leave him to you. And he’s going to wipe the floor with you like the trashy fuck you are. Meanwhile, this Sunday I’m going to wipe my shitty ass with you. It’s so shitty, Chance, and by god you’re going to be covered in my fecal excrement by the time it’s said and done. You’ll never get the smell off you; you’ll never forget the pain you endure by my hand. I’ll make damn sure of that.
Fuck you, Chance. Not for being a trashy motherfucker. I realize money’s hard to come by in this day and age. No...fuck you for making me making me feel like I’m addressing someone’s dog when I spit at you. I feel like I’m watching Homeward Bound and talking at the screen as that misbehaving little shit runs amuck all over the country. You’ve been doing the same thing, haven’t you, Chancey boy? Yes, you have. That’s a bad boy. And when you take a shit in the ring this Sunday, don’t think I’ll hesitate to rub your goddamn nose in it. Not to teach you a lesson, but rather to humiliate you in front of a global audience of the WCF Faithful. It’s something they’d love to see, along with me crucifying you on high and slamming that delicate vertebrae of yours onto the mat. It’s what I do, Chance - and it fucking hurts.
Are you ready to hurt? Fuck off. It doesn’t matter if you’re ready. Seth has seen fit to pit you against Mr. 2015 and one of the most dominant fighters ever to grace the squared circle. I’ve been fighting my whole life, and ain’t it funny, Chance, how everything leads up to this day? And it’s just like any other day that’s ever been...one that finds you bested by better men - men more capable than you’ll ever dream of being.
So it goes motherfucker. Such is life in a WCF where the three top guys in the game are all fighting out of the same corner. You’re fucked, Chance - but you know that. But like that shitty old pooch, you can run home when it’s all said and done - home to the trailer park where you fucking belong. From there, you’d be smart to find a single-wide sitting on cinder blocks to allow passage to the cold, damn, infested darkness beneath it. It’s what animals do when they’re set to die. So scurry along, Chance, because your in-ring death this Sunday is only a sign of things to come. You might as well curl up and let the reaper’s icy sythe (pronounce scythe) find your neck, lest you have the misfortune of running into me between the ropes sometimes further on down the line.
Dune turns away from the mirror and exits the bathroom. He once more cuts through the birthday celebration, silencing the children as he makes his way toward the concession stand nearby. He reaches the counter and speaks to the wary attendant.
Dune: Couple hot dogs.
Concession Worker: Coming right up.
The attendant hands him two hot dogs, and Dune slips him a $5 bill before turning around...but he does a double take at a poster on the wall beside him. It’s tattered and faded by time, and he chuckles as he reads the words aloud.
Dune: Marc Mayhem and Logan...the Hot Dog Kings.
His eyes find the screen.
Dune: Marc was better family than the one you’ve adopted, Logan. You had a good thing with the hardcore maniac...but you threw it all away. And for what? Katherine Phoenix - WCF’s resident psycho bitch? Jesus fucking Christ. Right in the ass, you know? Jesus fucking Christ right in the fucking ass. That’s what you did to Marc Mayhem, and he never recovered. You pretended to be his sworn ally only to stab him in the back with your processed meat tube. You fucked him over...now it’s time I return the favor.
You’re a living legend, Logan. I’ve been saying it all day. But that doesn’t mean I respect you. Sure, your in-ring work was once the stuff of legend, but now it’s become anything but. You may have beaten Steve Orbit twice in the past few months, but you’ve yet to face the three-headed monster that is Joey Flash, Occulo, and myself. I’m not a pimp like the Mack of the WCF, Logan, but I’ll bitch slap you for your sins all the same. I’m not talking about the seven laid out for the blind sheep of this country. I’m talking about you just being an absolute piece of shit human being and flapping your gums like you’ve been holding the World Title ever since you first one it in the early 2000’s. Check your fucking calendar, because we’re a long way out from a pre-9/11 world. Everything’s gone to shit since then...just as your chances of reclaiming your spot on the throne atop WCF Mountain have since me, Occulo, and Joey Flash sprang onto the scene within two months of each other.
You’ve got money. You’ve got fame. You’ve got a history of beating the piss out of top motherfuckers in this business. You’re not like the rest of your Family, Logan...and I suppose that’s how you’d have it. Surround yourself with lesser fighters and you’re sure to look like an absolute beast. But even with copycat fucks like Dag Riddick and trash pits like CVC latching onto your saggy old ass, you still don’t come off as the powerhouse you once were. Let’s face it, Logan - you reigned in a WCF where the skill-level was well below what it’s risen to today. Were Joey Flash around as long as you, you would have been perpetually playing second-fiddle. Add in Occulo and myself to that mix, and it’s safe to say you’d be buried in the depths of our collective shadow. It casts itself over the entire Federation now, and like it or not, it drowns you and yours each and every week. Your meatstick may penetrate noobs who come in here and naively seek fortune and fame right off the bat, but the dim light from the candle you hold doesn’t penetrate the darkness we cast the Trios Champions cast over you.
Dune takes one more look at the aged Hot Dog Kings poster before striding off toward his lane. Freeman finishes off a beer before turning to greet him, holding up his arms impatiently.
Freeman: God damn, took you long enough.
Dune: Did you bowl for me?
Freeman point to the screen, where it shows Dune’s six consecutive strikes. The arrow is next to his name, and he finishes off the first of two hot dogs before grabbing his ball and stepping up on the the raised wooden floor. He approaches the line, flings the ball down the greasy lane, and turns as each of the ten pins fly from their vertical bases. Freeman shakes his head and takes his place as Dune sits down, his eyes finding the screen as he continues.
Dune: This isn’t your coming out party, Logan. You’ve already had that. You were nothing for nearly a year, and you returned to capture a World Title shot at any time of your choosing. It’s a shame you didn’t take advantage of a lesser Champion, because now you’ll be waiting for a miracle before you can become World Champ. The entire world knows you can’t touch Joey Flash, and you know it most of all. You can’t touch him; you can’t touch the original Sentinels - Occulo and myself - and this week is the proving ground. All you had to do was climb a ladder to earn yourself a shot at the World Title, but you’ve got a far more difficult climb ahead of you this week. And with teammates like Dag and Chance weighing you down, yours is a fool’s errand.
You’ve built up some confidence though. You’ve got a bit of swagger back after having been an afterthought for months if not years on end. Well this Sunday marks the end of your run. Families break apart everyday, and the faulty foundation yours is built upon is going to show its flaws more than ever between the ropes on Slam. After the three of us have dealt with you and yours, there’ll be no turning back. The opening bell marks the point of no return for your Family. We’re the liquor that seeps down into Daddy’s belly and makes him lash out violently Momma and the kids. We’re the seeds of hate and contempt that grow in the hearts of the abused. There’ll be no love to be shared after we’ve dealt with your home. It’ll broken, Logan, if it isn’t already...and all because its leader couldn’t keep it together.
Dune rises and bowls yet another strike, his eighth of the day. A small crowd begins to gather in seeing the series of consecutive X’s next to his name on the screen. Freeman bowls a four, and Dune steps up and bowls again, sending each of the ten pins flying.
Freeman: One more and you’re famous.
The old man picks up a spare, nodding with satisfaction as he steps aside for Dune. A good sized crowd is on hand to watch Dune take his place before the line for a final time. He finds himself caring a bit about picking up a perfect game, and he exhales before making his approach. He sends the ball down the lane…
Freeman: There it is!
The ball smashes into the pins smashing into each one...but much to the dismay of the audience, and even Dune, one pin doesn’t go down right away. It spins...and spins....before maintaining it’s vertical base. The crowd lets out a collective sigh of disappointment before departing. Just as they do, Dune takes off down the lane. He nearly slips on the smooth, greasy floor, and about halfway down he slides on his belly.
Freeman: What the fuck are you doing, kid?!
But Dune doesn’t hear him. Blinded and made deaf by rage, he slides in and grabs hold of the stubborn pin. He slams it into the ground once, twice...and it shatters apart on the third. He lets out a monstrous bellow that echoes throughout the alley, and just before he eats the pin, the screen cuts to black.
Freeman: That’s one. Nine more and you’ll get your name in the paper.
Dune: I’d rather it wasn’t. Maybe I should throw the game.
Freeman: Cheer up, kid. What the fuck’s wrong with you lately?
Dune doesn’t respond. Instead he takes a seat beside his oldest friend and mentor. The bearded old man furrows his brow before rising and powdering his hand. He fingers his ball and takes his place a few feet from the line. When the metal bar clears the now-standing pins, he makes his approach and flings the ball down the lane...only to watch it sink into the gutter just before reaching them.
Freeman: Fuck me.
Dune: I thought you’d done this before?
Freeman: I used to roll rocks quite a bit...used to be damn good too. I blame these old bones.
Dune: The same excuse you used when I put you down in our first training session last year.
Freeman: Look at me - I’m an old man, Dune. Some of the best fighters on the planet can’t hold a torch to you, and you expect me to be able to?
Dune: I never said that...
Freeman: Ah...there he is.
Freeman snags the ball as it shoots up on the conveyer belt. He takes aim, breathes deep, and makes his approach once more. This time he knocks a few pins down, and he turns to Dune with a satisfied grin.
Freeman: Still got it.
Dune chuckles dryly to himself before standing up and wringing his neck around. A mother and her two sons walk by in search of the proper ball, and their eyes go wide to see the unmasked face of Dune staring back at them. The deep, jagged scars that line his jawline are enough to force a 180 degree turn out of them, and Freeman chuckles to see it.
Freeman: You should have worn your mask.
Dune: My face is a natural deterrent, Freeman. The WCF Faithful have been good to me, but I’d be lying if I said I want to be hounded by them in public.
Freeman: Fair enough.
Dune snags the heavy golden sphere as it shoots back up, and without much thought he steps toward the line and flings it down the lane. It smashed into the ten pins, sending each one flying backward once more.
Freeman: That’s two. Eight more and you’re famous.
Dune: Too late. I liked it better when I wasn’t.
Freeman: Fame is relative, Dune. You’ve been famous around these parts for decades. Now you just so happen to be famous the world over. And as such, each time you step in the ring, those you square off against become famous in their own regard...though most often they’re remembered for being ragdolled before eating the pin.
Dune: Is this where I talk about making the Family famous this week?
Freeman: They fancy themselves such already. Logan certainly is, but these other two - Chance Von Crank and Dag Riddick - they’re far from it. Sure, they’re making a name for themselves - carving out a niche just like you did in early 2015 - but they’ve got a long way to go yet.
Dune: Chance is following in my footsteps, it’d seem. All he’s got to do is keep moving on in the Trilogy Cup and he could become a World Champion. Easier said than done, of course...but he’s got a -
Freeman: Chance?
Dune: Shot.
Freeman, amused at himself, stands and bowls his turn, listening as Dune continues.
Dune: Logan’s proved himself a worthy competitor time and again, and there’s no doubt he’s the one to watch this week. He’s without a doubt the alpha in the Family, but granted that’s not saying a whole lot. Theirs is a dysfunctional one at best, and though they may have a competent leader, his underlings are rough around the edges.
Freeman picks up a spare and flashes Dune a wink before Dune steps up and awaits the metal bars to clear the pins. He steps once, twice, three times, then shoots the ball toward them. Again they scatter against the back wall, and Freeman nods as he speaks up.
Freeman: Dag - thoughts?
Dune: He’s prolific...on the tronz. If only keystrokes pinned shoulders for three between the ropes. He’s a desperate rookie and it shows time and again. When he went up against ZMac for the Internet Title he merely tried to adopt the legend’s ways, and what did it get him? A chuckle from those who knew he was hopeless against the immortal one. You don’t win in this business by copycatting others. If you want to make a mark, you make yourself first. Dag’s done nothing of the sort. He’s observant - I’ll give him that - but it takes more than observation and miming the skillsets of others to win in this business. He’s got heart, I suppose - he’s got a strong will to win - but if you’re not a strong fighter to begin with, you’ll never amount to shit in the WCF.
Freeman bowls his turn, and Dune once more bowls a hard strike - his fourth in a row. He takes a seat as Freeman gets up once more, and Dune’s icy blue eyes meet the camera as he speaks.
Dune: Are you listening, Dag? Advice from me is hard to come by, but you’d be well to keep your ears peeled. It’s obvious you want to win week in and week out, but something’s been holding you back. You’re yet to take that next step and become a dominant fighter in this game for a number of reasons, and they all boil down to this cold hard truth: you’re fucking yourself.
Is that a shock for you? I doubt it. You claim to be a man full of hatred - a man who lacks passion for his fellow man and especially his opponents - but these are mere claims. You don’t hate your opponents. More often than not, in fact, you envy them. Look at ZMac. He’s a shining example. You spewed all sorts of shit on WCF’s resident Zombie in the days and weeks leading up to your battle for his Internet gold, but unbeknownst to you, it was your actions that did the talking. You’re not ZMac, Dag, and yet you tried your damnedest to be. To this day his influence on you is apparent. It’s laughable. It’s embarrassing - or it ought to be, were you capable of being self aware. But you aren’t. We all know that - the fighters in the locker room and the WCF Faithful alike. They don’t dislike you because you’re a big meanie, as you claim to be. Your cheap heat doesn’t do anything but draw laughter from the masses. You’re universally disliked because you’re the least original motherfucker to come through here since...well goddamn, since Seth Lerch booked the very first Slam card more than 15 years ago.
Freeman: Dune!
Dune snaps out of it.
Freeman: You’re up.
Dune: Ah…
He rises and fingers his ball before recklessly flinging it down the lane. As before, ten pins crash to the ground, and he holds up five fingers before reclaiming his seat. Freeman rises, and Dune’s eyes find the camera once more.
Dune: You’re a pest, Dag. You’re an attention seeking whore who has no place here amongst the elite of the WCF. You belong somewhere else - somewhere unwanted motherfuckers go when they realize they can’t hang in the big leagues. And yet you persist, just as any pest would. It’s not your fault, in truth. I blame the others for giving you so much goddamn attention.
Have you noticed that I haven’t once acknowledged your bitch ass? There’s a reason for that, Dag. A wise man once said, “If you ignore him, he’ll go away.” And you would have by now, were it not for the bitches of Beach Crew and all the other dipshits who’ve been going back and forth with you on the tronz. You crave attention, and you’ve found it here...albeit the kind that makes a fool obvious to see. You haven’t made a name for yourself by winning matches and pinning top talent; you’ve only done so by being an annoying little shit.
You and I are polar opposites. I came into the WCF and captured the Internet Title within a month by being my own man; by outdueling and outlasting my opponents. Kaz Mazy was a fierce competitor in his day, and yet I didn’t adopt his style en route to earning my first title - the one you fought so hard to swing and miss at. I felt the breeze from your mighty wiff way out here in the desert, Dag, but it didn’t serve to provide me with relief from the scorching heat. All it did was clue me into the kind of a man you are: one who can’t win on his own. I suppose that’s why you joined up with Logan and his Family. Well you can ride the living legend’s coattails all you like, Dag, but it won’t get you anywhere so long as you keep your petty charade up.
Don’t get me wrong - I don’t hate you as you claim to hate me. I’m indifferent to you. You say your heart is full of hatred because of a bunch of bullshit like religion and politics and social matters...or all things hollow, rather. Again our polar opposite nature comes into play. Because while you in fact care deeply for everything you claim to not care about, I truly don’t give a fuck about any of it. I’m fueled by the fires of wrath because of experiences, Dag. I’ve been through hell - decades of it - while you sat in the lap of luxury, pouting and making up things to hate because you had too much fucking time on your hands. You hate imaginary bullshit, and that makes you the fakest piece of shit on the roster.
Dune stands and bowls again at the behest of Freeman, knocking down his sixth strike before finding the camera once more.
Dune: You want attention, Dag? You want something to be mad about - to truly hate?
Well hate me, because I am what you’ll never be. If you have to ask what that is, you’ve got no business in this company. And this Sunday, I’m going to prove that true beyond a shadow of a doubt. Afterward you can bury your head in the arms of your Family...but not before I bury your fucking head in the sand and pin your bitch ass for three.
Freeman: Yikes...I never knew you felt that way.
Dune: About what?
Freeman: Dag Riddick.
Dune: Who?
Freeman: Who...hmm...exactly. And Chance Von Crank…
Dune: He’s better than Dag...but that’s obvious. The man can atleast think for himself. It doesn’t help that he’s a Family member, but as I said before: moving on in the Trilogy Cup goes to show that he’s a competent fighter.
I’m gonna take a piss...don’t bowl for me.
Freeman shakes his head as Dune makes his way to the little boy’s room. He passes a group of children celebrating a birthday party, and both the kids and their parents shy away from him as he cuts through the celebration. He reaches the restroom door and pushes it open to a horrible stench of stale urine and dried feces. He takes it in, and as he unzips in front of a urinal, his eyes find the camera.
Dune: Piss break...fitting for a man like Chance Von Crank.
Sure, Chance, you’ve proven yourself somewhat worthy of praise...but you’ve still got a long way to go. Don’t let it bother you though - we’ve all been there. Even I didn’t come in and dominate right off the bat. You’ve got to roll with punches, Chance, and this week I imagine you’re rolling in bed, tossing and turning as you consider what’s to come this Sunday.
Joey Flash - the best goddamn fighter this company’s ever seen.
Occulo - the most underrated and and skilled man among us.
And then, of course, there’s me.
What do you think of me, Chance? Do you think I’m one to lay down in the face of adversity? Do you think I’m one to let a family of misfits and scoundrels run wild on me and mine? Flash, Occulo, and I are the greatest trio to ever step foot in a WCF ring. And look who we’re up against this week: a fucking ragtag team of mediocre talent - save a living legend who happens to be washed up and clinging to his glory days by a thread. You don’t truly think you have a chance against us at Slam. That’s not a question, Chance - it’s a statement. There’s no fucking way you could be so naive as to allow yourself any sort of confidence going into Sunday. You’re one of those bottom dwellers that’s found himself in the main event with top talent who actually belong there - guys who’ve been going on last for over a year now. A year in the WCF is akin to a decade in the real world, so do the math you piece of shit. I think even a mind so warped as yours could figure that one out.
Dune’s stream ceases, and he zips up before walking over to the bathroom mirror. The camera remains out of view as Dune gazes into the mirror and finds the screen.
Dune: I’d call you trash but that’d be a compliment, and I’ve done enough complimenting of you today. You survived a round of the Trilogy Cup, but let’s face it: you’re doomed to fail. You’re going up against a rat-faced fuck at Explosion, and though I hate to say it, Jared’s got your number all the way. Don’t expect me to run in and save the day for you, as I’d so like to do. Not for your sake, of course, but for my own. Nothing would satisfy mean as much as ruining Jared’s bid at my partner’s World Title at Asesinato de Mayo - save blowing Johnny Rabid sky-high by way of C4 - but I’ll leave him to you. And he’s going to wipe the floor with you like the trashy fuck you are. Meanwhile, this Sunday I’m going to wipe my shitty ass with you. It’s so shitty, Chance, and by god you’re going to be covered in my fecal excrement by the time it’s said and done. You’ll never get the smell off you; you’ll never forget the pain you endure by my hand. I’ll make damn sure of that.
Fuck you, Chance. Not for being a trashy motherfucker. I realize money’s hard to come by in this day and age. No...fuck you for making me making me feel like I’m addressing someone’s dog when I spit at you. I feel like I’m watching Homeward Bound and talking at the screen as that misbehaving little shit runs amuck all over the country. You’ve been doing the same thing, haven’t you, Chancey boy? Yes, you have. That’s a bad boy. And when you take a shit in the ring this Sunday, don’t think I’ll hesitate to rub your goddamn nose in it. Not to teach you a lesson, but rather to humiliate you in front of a global audience of the WCF Faithful. It’s something they’d love to see, along with me crucifying you on high and slamming that delicate vertebrae of yours onto the mat. It’s what I do, Chance - and it fucking hurts.
Are you ready to hurt? Fuck off. It doesn’t matter if you’re ready. Seth has seen fit to pit you against Mr. 2015 and one of the most dominant fighters ever to grace the squared circle. I’ve been fighting my whole life, and ain’t it funny, Chance, how everything leads up to this day? And it’s just like any other day that’s ever been...one that finds you bested by better men - men more capable than you’ll ever dream of being.
So it goes motherfucker. Such is life in a WCF where the three top guys in the game are all fighting out of the same corner. You’re fucked, Chance - but you know that. But like that shitty old pooch, you can run home when it’s all said and done - home to the trailer park where you fucking belong. From there, you’d be smart to find a single-wide sitting on cinder blocks to allow passage to the cold, damn, infested darkness beneath it. It’s what animals do when they’re set to die. So scurry along, Chance, because your in-ring death this Sunday is only a sign of things to come. You might as well curl up and let the reaper’s icy sythe (pronounce scythe) find your neck, lest you have the misfortune of running into me between the ropes sometimes further on down the line.
Dune turns away from the mirror and exits the bathroom. He once more cuts through the birthday celebration, silencing the children as he makes his way toward the concession stand nearby. He reaches the counter and speaks to the wary attendant.
Dune: Couple hot dogs.
Concession Worker: Coming right up.
The attendant hands him two hot dogs, and Dune slips him a $5 bill before turning around...but he does a double take at a poster on the wall beside him. It’s tattered and faded by time, and he chuckles as he reads the words aloud.
Dune: Marc Mayhem and Logan...the Hot Dog Kings.
His eyes find the screen.
Dune: Marc was better family than the one you’ve adopted, Logan. You had a good thing with the hardcore maniac...but you threw it all away. And for what? Katherine Phoenix - WCF’s resident psycho bitch? Jesus fucking Christ. Right in the ass, you know? Jesus fucking Christ right in the fucking ass. That’s what you did to Marc Mayhem, and he never recovered. You pretended to be his sworn ally only to stab him in the back with your processed meat tube. You fucked him over...now it’s time I return the favor.
You’re a living legend, Logan. I’ve been saying it all day. But that doesn’t mean I respect you. Sure, your in-ring work was once the stuff of legend, but now it’s become anything but. You may have beaten Steve Orbit twice in the past few months, but you’ve yet to face the three-headed monster that is Joey Flash, Occulo, and myself. I’m not a pimp like the Mack of the WCF, Logan, but I’ll bitch slap you for your sins all the same. I’m not talking about the seven laid out for the blind sheep of this country. I’m talking about you just being an absolute piece of shit human being and flapping your gums like you’ve been holding the World Title ever since you first one it in the early 2000’s. Check your fucking calendar, because we’re a long way out from a pre-9/11 world. Everything’s gone to shit since then...just as your chances of reclaiming your spot on the throne atop WCF Mountain have since me, Occulo, and Joey Flash sprang onto the scene within two months of each other.
You’ve got money. You’ve got fame. You’ve got a history of beating the piss out of top motherfuckers in this business. You’re not like the rest of your Family, Logan...and I suppose that’s how you’d have it. Surround yourself with lesser fighters and you’re sure to look like an absolute beast. But even with copycat fucks like Dag Riddick and trash pits like CVC latching onto your saggy old ass, you still don’t come off as the powerhouse you once were. Let’s face it, Logan - you reigned in a WCF where the skill-level was well below what it’s risen to today. Were Joey Flash around as long as you, you would have been perpetually playing second-fiddle. Add in Occulo and myself to that mix, and it’s safe to say you’d be buried in the depths of our collective shadow. It casts itself over the entire Federation now, and like it or not, it drowns you and yours each and every week. Your meatstick may penetrate noobs who come in here and naively seek fortune and fame right off the bat, but the dim light from the candle you hold doesn’t penetrate the darkness we cast the Trios Champions cast over you.
Dune takes one more look at the aged Hot Dog Kings poster before striding off toward his lane. Freeman finishes off a beer before turning to greet him, holding up his arms impatiently.
Freeman: God damn, took you long enough.
Dune: Did you bowl for me?
Freeman point to the screen, where it shows Dune’s six consecutive strikes. The arrow is next to his name, and he finishes off the first of two hot dogs before grabbing his ball and stepping up on the the raised wooden floor. He approaches the line, flings the ball down the greasy lane, and turns as each of the ten pins fly from their vertical bases. Freeman shakes his head and takes his place as Dune sits down, his eyes finding the screen as he continues.
Dune: This isn’t your coming out party, Logan. You’ve already had that. You were nothing for nearly a year, and you returned to capture a World Title shot at any time of your choosing. It’s a shame you didn’t take advantage of a lesser Champion, because now you’ll be waiting for a miracle before you can become World Champ. The entire world knows you can’t touch Joey Flash, and you know it most of all. You can’t touch him; you can’t touch the original Sentinels - Occulo and myself - and this week is the proving ground. All you had to do was climb a ladder to earn yourself a shot at the World Title, but you’ve got a far more difficult climb ahead of you this week. And with teammates like Dag and Chance weighing you down, yours is a fool’s errand.
You’ve built up some confidence though. You’ve got a bit of swagger back after having been an afterthought for months if not years on end. Well this Sunday marks the end of your run. Families break apart everyday, and the faulty foundation yours is built upon is going to show its flaws more than ever between the ropes on Slam. After the three of us have dealt with you and yours, there’ll be no turning back. The opening bell marks the point of no return for your Family. We’re the liquor that seeps down into Daddy’s belly and makes him lash out violently Momma and the kids. We’re the seeds of hate and contempt that grow in the hearts of the abused. There’ll be no love to be shared after we’ve dealt with your home. It’ll broken, Logan, if it isn’t already...and all because its leader couldn’t keep it together.
Dune rises and bowls yet another strike, his eighth of the day. A small crowd begins to gather in seeing the series of consecutive X’s next to his name on the screen. Freeman bowls a four, and Dune steps up and bowls again, sending each of the ten pins flying.
Freeman: One more and you’re famous.
The old man picks up a spare, nodding with satisfaction as he steps aside for Dune. A good sized crowd is on hand to watch Dune take his place before the line for a final time. He finds himself caring a bit about picking up a perfect game, and he exhales before making his approach. He sends the ball down the lane…
Freeman: There it is!
The ball smashes into the pins smashing into each one...but much to the dismay of the audience, and even Dune, one pin doesn’t go down right away. It spins...and spins....before maintaining it’s vertical base. The crowd lets out a collective sigh of disappointment before departing. Just as they do, Dune takes off down the lane. He nearly slips on the smooth, greasy floor, and about halfway down he slides on his belly.
Freeman: What the fuck are you doing, kid?!
But Dune doesn’t hear him. Blinded and made deaf by rage, he slides in and grabs hold of the stubborn pin. He slams it into the ground once, twice...and it shatters apart on the third. He lets out a monstrous bellow that echoes throughout the alley, and just before he eats the pin, the screen cuts to black.
