Post by John Rabid on Mar 20, 2016 17:23:32 GMT -5
Six bloody mouths gasped for breath as their nostrils filled with salty, mid-Atlantic ocean; their screams silent as their floundering bodies were observed with distant malevolence through the sights of a periscope. The piercing blue eyes that glinted at their slowly drowning bodies belonged to Submarine Captain Jonathan Rabid; commander of a U-Boat assigned to hunting wayward jobbers, idiots stupid enough to be sailing through the mindscape of the ripper's twisted subconscious; six sub par opponents, corralled by a school of six, hungry, snarling mutated sharks that swam unperturbed by the chill of the deep. Six sharks surrounding unfortunate souls, bite sized morons forming an orderly cue for their seemingly unavoidable extermination.
Rabid contemplated his next decision as Shadow Love, Zombie McMorris, Katherine Phoenix, Vengeance, Teo Del Sol and Mikey Extreme where observed huddled, helpless and adrift; whilst behind them sank the broken bow of the once mighty “Hope of St. Louis.”; the few screams that could be heard from this once proud and resolute ship now silenced as their expectations where dashed. Their heroes damned. And their city humbled. St. Louis would sink beneath the waves, as would all that challenged #beachkrew. To consider otherwise, thought Rabid, was folly. It was madness. An insanity that would be cleansed by a new, ever rising tide.
Yet, there was still a decision to be made. What to do? WHAT TO DO? Rabid contemplated the survivors fate, while behind him sat Wade Moor at his battle station, the soon-to-be Two Time World Champion eager for the answer, his finger poised to deliver the firing solution that would open up one of two torpedo tubes; each containing a separate fate.
Wade's mass was always huge, but here, inside the cramped confines of the U-Boat, his size and shape were dimensions of a truly imposing figure; clad in that infamous Bahamas shirt of his, Wade Moor was a mountain: topped with a German navy cap.
That hat, mere lip service for the occasion. That's how the real world Wade Moor would have paid his respects, thought Rabid. With a sly nod and nothing more; Wade wasn't interested in throwing all his weight behind just one cause. Wade always kept something back, locking those doors of his mind tightly shut. Imprisoning the deep, dark nightmares away from all those that might pester and pry into his business.
Back inside that dream, Wade Moor was as close to a juggernaut as a human had yet achieved. Not just in size, but in mental fortitude also. Eager to get this show on the road, Wade also knew there was really no rush, after all, he was aware this was a dream. While still imposing, Wade was just an echo, a fragment of the reality that awaited all this coming Sunday.
But still, even as a phantom, he was as sharp as a tack.
Lieutenant Wade Moor: Sir! Your decision? You know, before you wake up.
Rabid smirked as he pulled away from the periscope, looking back to observe the amassed crew that he now spearheaded. Wade Moor: the Broseidon, the leviathan of the bayou where twisted secrets dwell; the demented fuel for an engine of unstoppable power and focused ambition. Many saw Wade as a deluded visionary, but Rabid knew otherwise. Wade was the one that could deliver the death knell at a moment's notice, that Broseidon Punch, as deadly and as merciless as any payload resting in those torpedo tubes.
Captain Jonathan Rabid: The six. They have, what? Eight minutes before they sink beneath the waves? Why hurry, then? Let the seconds burn, while their bodies freeze. They'll know my decision soon enough.
And so, as Rabid mused over the quandary, a dream began. A new, thriving dream that had residence within another dream. This new dream blossomed as Rabid considered his opponents for this week. Those bobbing, helpless bastards in the water. He began to think about Teo Del Sol and Katherine Phoenix, could either of them possibly stand up against Wade Moor? Poor, cruiser-weight faire, they'd be eaten alive. Even a hundred and fifty day champion like Teo would need to be encased in a Sherman Tank, surrounded by a team of half starving, insane Polar Bears, stationed in a field of trigger happy land mines, and even then, it wouldn't be enough; nothing more than a formality before Wade found the right moment to strike. And in that inevitable moment, Teo's brave little ears would finally hear the yelping of a bear jaw snapping and the rap-tap-tapping of Swagrid knuckles upon the tank's hatch. Del Sol forced to concede bitter defeat as he recited his final, timid prayers while Wade beamed that insane smile, towering over the Teddy Blaze vermin that cowered beneath his huge feet.
The odds were just too great in #beachkrew's favour this week. Too many small fish lost at sea. Too many herbivore's intimidated by the presence of true predators thought Rabid. True monsters. Teo and ZMAC where floundering out here, dragged from their shallow habitat into deep, dank waters. Zombie McMorris is a troll at home beneath a very specific bridge, you remove him from that ecosphere of Shia claps and Trump memes and his little honey badger heart just can't take it, his eyes grow big and round, as large as dinner plates, as the blinding light from the upper card swamps his vision with too much competition to handle. ZMAC needs to be kept on a nature reserve for throwbacks such as him, sealed inside an impenetrable bubble, protected and fondly remembered. Placed on a plinth that's engraved with the time and date that his cuddly, sweet little era expired...let's call it, for want of a better term, “The Vaporasic period”. After all, without them, he's truly nothing.
Zombie McMorris is nothing more now that a quaint throwback to lesser times. The world expanded, yet Zombie stayed the same, and thus his stature shrank. ZMAC gave up running to stand still months ago, now he's the abandoned dog left tied up at the tenancy with the foreclosure sign. The fans driving away, unable to look back and make eye contact with their once mighty and proud champion. It hurts too much to witness the fall. The implosion of a voice that sang so loud and fierce for so long. But in the end, every voice gives in; every memorable speech becomes faded history. Every hero, a tainted memory, that sinks beneath the waves. To be forgotten. To become yesterday.
But before this bitter ocean can confide ZMAC to the history books, the Coked Up Madman will go out fighting, that's for sure. He's out there now...flapping his arms on the surface, snarling, making hubris with the Six God sharks that incircle him. Those sharks, they're hungry. Salivating at the idea of gruel in their bellies that still thinks and feels. Think about it. An immortal man eaten alive by a shark. Torn to shreds, but that flesh remains alive: still feeling. Still capable to experiencing emotion. Can you imagine what that must be like? To be nothing. Yet unable to die. I wonder what you'd call that?
Try the Internet Belt.
The Internet Championship, an isolation tank, separated from actual society like a caring in the community programme; like a charity funded mental health outfit, that's what the internet title has become in the hands of ZMAC. Occasionally, you'll see kids like Ethan King throw stones at the window of that spooky old house on the hill called Z-'merica. Inside rests an old, piss-stained arm chair, inhabited by a man who mumbles to himself about “pushing your shit in” while outside, the kids laugh at the cantankerous old fart, they laugh at that McMorris git that belches bigotry and hated; a misogynistic fool that can't let go of his racism, or his homophobia. Trapped forever more inside a musty, dank, dry old hovel that wrestling forgot. His prison. His hell. His--
“BEEEEEEEP, BEEEEEEP!”
“BEEEEEEEP, BEEEEEEP!”
Now, here's the part of the show where hell stops being about the four walls for 'Mac and starts becoming other people. The dream morphs and changes into a diabolical sitcom, for as bad as facing all of #beachkrew single handed would be for McMorris, facing them side by side with five other couch tripping idiots is a whole new level of misery. And for ZMAC; that deep six of depression is about to begin.
The beeping sound signals the arrival of Teo Del Sol's custom made clown car; the Luchador Pee Wee Herman, with just as many cases of indecent exposure on his rap sheet, is here. The sunshine has arrived, people! We should rejoice! How did we ever have fun without him?
Teo's has just moved in next door to that cobwebbed, cross stitch knitting ZMAC. The walls of Mac's hovel are reverberating now to the sound of “The wind beneath my wings”, while Teo, and a carefully selected, multicultural cross section of society; smile and laugh as they paint Teo's new house white and gold in an uplifting montage sequence that ends with a jump and a freeze frame.
This is Teo's happy-go-lucky world. It's smiles and fun and important life lessons, it's always searching for the sun; for that ray of hope on the horizon. Teo is all about the never say die, even while he sinks beneath the waves. Teo is optimism stretched to the point of absurdity. That's what makes him so plastic. So false. He never falters. Teo Del Sol is Mr. Rodgers with a Championship belt, the only belt a “man” like Teo could or should ever possibly carry. A popularity contest that betrays the very essence of the sport at every conceivable turn.
Teo Del Sol doesn't fight, he performs. His devil may care attitude carries him like leaf on a cushion of air, and while he did indeed fight and win in a so-called Scaffold Match against mid card joke Andrew Marx, that farce bared little resemblance to what the actual stipulation should be about. It was so safe, so rehearsed, and so P.G. 13 in nature that they both might as well have been scrapping in a playpen full of fluffy Nerf.
Still, as ZMAC grinds his yellow teeth, while welded to that arm chair; he really shouldn't complain.
After all, the People's Championship belongs right next-door to the Internet; that's it's rightful home. Both are Purgatory, both have zero real world worth, and both are titles held by miscreants that can only observe the public at a safe distance before their restraining orders kick in.
But they aren't alone when it comes to mental health issues and embarrassing portfolios. Because out on ZMAC's overgrown lawn now is a teddy bear's picnic about to convene. It's a large spread, comprised of plastic tea cups, paper plates and plasticine sandwiches with the crust cut off, just like how Logan likes it. And sitting there, at the centre of it all in a frilly pink dress with a print of a teddy bear's face on the chest, sitting inside a dream within a dream; is KROD...or KMAC...or KMART...or Katherine Phoenix, or Lilith...or a transvestite cookie monster: you take your fucking pick, it doesn't actually matter, because none of these roads lead anywhere but psycho-vile. No course plotted grants escape velocity from the presence of a maniacal, dimwitted stereotype. A stupid cow that embarrasses herself at every conceivable turn. Right now, Kat wants to play with ZMAC. KMAC is shining a beam of golden sunlight off her newly won title. The beam focused from the plate of the Hardcore Championship, sizzling outward, burning a hole into the face of a growling and low ebbed Zombie McMorris. That light from the title, taunting it's former holder like a laughing deathray.
ZMAC would drag his soggy carcass out of that armchair, but the effort he considered would be a waste. After all, what could he actually do once he stood up? He proved to be completely ineffectual against Phoenix two weeks ago; his fourth wall breaking comments were designed to unbalance Katherine, but when you're dealing with force that considers “Sylvanian Families” as her next of kin, you're never going to make a dent that way.
Katherine Phoenix is not a clever woman, she's not smarter than she looks. She is exactly what you expect. There's no enigma wrapped up inside a riddle with her. Katherine Phoenix is a crazy person. She's the loon at high school who would have kept her pretty face if she'd only managed to figure out what a toothbrush was for. Phoenix bounces around from faction to faction, from pretend husband, to pretend husband, like a nomadic Tex Avery cartoon. She's every direction, that arrives constantly nowhere. The only advancement in her career has been the hardcore belt, and that wasn't won, it as dropped at a show by a talent too listless, too self obsessed with the Shia clap, to actually show up and compete. Now ZMAC has to undie with the knowledge that “the tranny” bested him.
Dare I say...
“Oblivion slide?”
Katherine does have a habit of turning the horror-shows inside out; of pushing “Their shit in”, and ruining them forever. Maybe she's finally discovered her forte; to destroy the mystique of the monsters of this world. A technique perfected while Logan wrapped his hands around her throat and tried to kick her off a balcony. Strange that, when you think about it. All these years Logan has put up with her, yet as soon as he dumps her, suddenly his career skyrockets again. It's almost as if she was some kind of parasite, a succubus that sucked the life out of a former multi-time champion and WAR winner, and left him a shadow, hollow shell of his former self. Just as she's doing right now to poor old ZMAC, as she shines that golden light off that belt into ZMAC'S tired eyes, stinging his vision with a loss that will echo on into this week's disaster as there personalities explode and gift #beachkrew with yet another avenue of attack to exploit.
ZMAC needs to distract himself from the laugher outside. He should hit the net, he thinks. Make a dank post about how the Pride aren't bothering him anymore, even though they are. He should, but then he hasn't spoken to Mikey eXtreme yet to tell him the bad news. So ZMAC decides to write a text:
“That Hawt American Darkness is no more, Nig. You don lost dat U.S. title to Sting. Dat be dah end of us, nig. Ya feel? There's no thick in ya. Not unless I push it in....#LOLZ”
Message sent. Mikey's reply in this dream within a dream takes a while to arrive; things are slower here. We're in Inception country now and you can't just expect tirades to materialise in an instant. A few moments pass as ZMAC gets a few more cross stitches in on that scarf he's knitting his resurrected boy, before:
“We were in a tag team? Oh yeah, that was the week we did that home invasion and hung out in a child's closet. Yeah, we probably shouldn't tag any more. We lost our credibility and ended up on bait car. You're an embarrassment. You cost me the U.S. Title. Now the world has to put up with Vengeance spelling his name wrong on posters while ignoring the fact that there's a law against mime artists running for president. I mean, I'm a multiple time rapist and murderer, I have a reputation to upkeep! But that Vengeance dickhead? He'll do anything to get noticed!
As for you, ZMAC: you don't figure in my upcoming plans. In fact, you don't feature in ANYONE'S upcoming plans. I'm basically going to throw you to #beachkrew this week and hope they do a Scarecrow on you. Maybe by the time you dig yourself up out of that rose garden, Special Agent Donald Mosley will stop bugging my phone and quit asking me questions about missing children.
Yours, Fuck you
Mikey eXtreme.
CLUMP!
ZMAC sighed as a bag of human excrement was thrown at his hovel's window; it exploded on impact; eclipsing the golden hue of KMAC'S hypnotic hardcore title with a brown cloud of putrid shit. BMX tires span as those Pride kids cycled off, laughing, mocking the tired old ZMAC that lived down the lane as Katherine Phoenix chimed in “Grrrrrrrr, you leave poor Zombear alone! He's my bitch, understand?”
“My...Bitch”
With that, ZMAC discovered a glimmer of energy and anger still lingering inside his feeble, broken down legs; with a heave and a moan he pushed himself upright and shuffled to his front door, stepping over the wreckage of his shattered career. Somewhere, in among the cockroaches and the ringworms trodden into ZMAC'S threadbare floor was Shadow-love. Living between the floorboards, admiring his own chiselled, perfect psychique reflected in a bottle top. Musing on the eateries of the world as nobody on planet Earth cared.
If shadow love cuts a promo on a wrestling show, is it heard? No, the world is more preoccupied with the falling tree. Shadow Love is a zero calorie non entity that is both equal parts boring and completely ineffectual. Shadow Love is toe jam. The WCF has already discarded this flotsam, yet the fax never arrived for Mister Love. Instead he's still living the dream...or in this case, inside a dream: like an unemployed man that still turns up for work with the vain hope of a rehire that will never happen.
As ZMAC steps over Shadow Love, the narcissist notices that some gum is lodged between the treads of the Coked Up Mad Man's Nike's, so he hitches a ride and crosses his fingers. Maybe they'll all get a tag match with the Family...they're easy to beat. After all, only one of them is contractually obliged to give a shit at any one time.
The door opens to the hovel, the sunlight blinds the scene as one dream ends and we're...
Back inside that submarine. The rest of #beachkrew hanging on tenterhooks for Rabid to make that final, fateful decision. Which firing solution to choose? Able Seaman Beaver is anxious for the decision; industriously chewing his gum as he taps his foot.
Captain Jonathan Rabid: Anxious, Seaman Beaver?
Able Seaman Beaver: Yes, sir. I'm itching to know.
Captain Jonathan Rabid: Itch no longer, Beaver. Wade?
Lieutenant Wade Moor: Yes, sir?
Captain Jonathan Rabid: Fire the harbinger.
Ship's Doctor, Thursday and Nurse coconuts shook their heads.
Doctor Thursday: Goodbye, KMAC. You poor fucking bastard.
The harbinger sat next to the destroyer in the Torpedo room; the Wednesday Night Acting Club loaded the projectile and radioed the skipper. A moment later and the harbinger was launched, cutting a fast, lightning quick sway of white surf through the water as it exploded on impact.
The destroyer would have messy, but quick. A high yield explosive that would have decimated the corpses. But this?
The harbinger torpedo had a payload of blood, bait to lure the sharks in on the drowning six; Rabid's decision was made a while ago in all honesty, the moment he contemplated the immortal man forever rotting inside a sharks gut. That was a misery he just had to deliver on. You can't pass that kind of opportunity by. It would be a waste.
As Rabid's eyes gloated on the spectacle through the periscope he wondered if any of this had an actual bearing on the real world. Offering these useless mid carders to a personification of Jared Holmes inside a dream. What did it mean? Johnny imagining himself as Captain, while the 6ixgod was a discombobulated monster to be gifted harmless presents. Maybe it meant what Johnny knew all along. That when it came down to it; there was still a long way to go before they'd be ready for the final battle.
And for the choices they'd be forced to make.
FADE.
Rabid contemplated his next decision as Shadow Love, Zombie McMorris, Katherine Phoenix, Vengeance, Teo Del Sol and Mikey Extreme where observed huddled, helpless and adrift; whilst behind them sank the broken bow of the once mighty “Hope of St. Louis.”; the few screams that could be heard from this once proud and resolute ship now silenced as their expectations where dashed. Their heroes damned. And their city humbled. St. Louis would sink beneath the waves, as would all that challenged #beachkrew. To consider otherwise, thought Rabid, was folly. It was madness. An insanity that would be cleansed by a new, ever rising tide.
Yet, there was still a decision to be made. What to do? WHAT TO DO? Rabid contemplated the survivors fate, while behind him sat Wade Moor at his battle station, the soon-to-be Two Time World Champion eager for the answer, his finger poised to deliver the firing solution that would open up one of two torpedo tubes; each containing a separate fate.
Wade's mass was always huge, but here, inside the cramped confines of the U-Boat, his size and shape were dimensions of a truly imposing figure; clad in that infamous Bahamas shirt of his, Wade Moor was a mountain: topped with a German navy cap.
That hat, mere lip service for the occasion. That's how the real world Wade Moor would have paid his respects, thought Rabid. With a sly nod and nothing more; Wade wasn't interested in throwing all his weight behind just one cause. Wade always kept something back, locking those doors of his mind tightly shut. Imprisoning the deep, dark nightmares away from all those that might pester and pry into his business.
Back inside that dream, Wade Moor was as close to a juggernaut as a human had yet achieved. Not just in size, but in mental fortitude also. Eager to get this show on the road, Wade also knew there was really no rush, after all, he was aware this was a dream. While still imposing, Wade was just an echo, a fragment of the reality that awaited all this coming Sunday.
But still, even as a phantom, he was as sharp as a tack.
Lieutenant Wade Moor: Sir! Your decision? You know, before you wake up.
Rabid smirked as he pulled away from the periscope, looking back to observe the amassed crew that he now spearheaded. Wade Moor: the Broseidon, the leviathan of the bayou where twisted secrets dwell; the demented fuel for an engine of unstoppable power and focused ambition. Many saw Wade as a deluded visionary, but Rabid knew otherwise. Wade was the one that could deliver the death knell at a moment's notice, that Broseidon Punch, as deadly and as merciless as any payload resting in those torpedo tubes.
Captain Jonathan Rabid: The six. They have, what? Eight minutes before they sink beneath the waves? Why hurry, then? Let the seconds burn, while their bodies freeze. They'll know my decision soon enough.
-------
And so, as Rabid mused over the quandary, a dream began. A new, thriving dream that had residence within another dream. This new dream blossomed as Rabid considered his opponents for this week. Those bobbing, helpless bastards in the water. He began to think about Teo Del Sol and Katherine Phoenix, could either of them possibly stand up against Wade Moor? Poor, cruiser-weight faire, they'd be eaten alive. Even a hundred and fifty day champion like Teo would need to be encased in a Sherman Tank, surrounded by a team of half starving, insane Polar Bears, stationed in a field of trigger happy land mines, and even then, it wouldn't be enough; nothing more than a formality before Wade found the right moment to strike. And in that inevitable moment, Teo's brave little ears would finally hear the yelping of a bear jaw snapping and the rap-tap-tapping of Swagrid knuckles upon the tank's hatch. Del Sol forced to concede bitter defeat as he recited his final, timid prayers while Wade beamed that insane smile, towering over the Teddy Blaze vermin that cowered beneath his huge feet.
The odds were just too great in #beachkrew's favour this week. Too many small fish lost at sea. Too many herbivore's intimidated by the presence of true predators thought Rabid. True monsters. Teo and ZMAC where floundering out here, dragged from their shallow habitat into deep, dank waters. Zombie McMorris is a troll at home beneath a very specific bridge, you remove him from that ecosphere of Shia claps and Trump memes and his little honey badger heart just can't take it, his eyes grow big and round, as large as dinner plates, as the blinding light from the upper card swamps his vision with too much competition to handle. ZMAC needs to be kept on a nature reserve for throwbacks such as him, sealed inside an impenetrable bubble, protected and fondly remembered. Placed on a plinth that's engraved with the time and date that his cuddly, sweet little era expired...let's call it, for want of a better term, “The Vaporasic period”. After all, without them, he's truly nothing.
Zombie McMorris is nothing more now that a quaint throwback to lesser times. The world expanded, yet Zombie stayed the same, and thus his stature shrank. ZMAC gave up running to stand still months ago, now he's the abandoned dog left tied up at the tenancy with the foreclosure sign. The fans driving away, unable to look back and make eye contact with their once mighty and proud champion. It hurts too much to witness the fall. The implosion of a voice that sang so loud and fierce for so long. But in the end, every voice gives in; every memorable speech becomes faded history. Every hero, a tainted memory, that sinks beneath the waves. To be forgotten. To become yesterday.
But before this bitter ocean can confide ZMAC to the history books, the Coked Up Madman will go out fighting, that's for sure. He's out there now...flapping his arms on the surface, snarling, making hubris with the Six God sharks that incircle him. Those sharks, they're hungry. Salivating at the idea of gruel in their bellies that still thinks and feels. Think about it. An immortal man eaten alive by a shark. Torn to shreds, but that flesh remains alive: still feeling. Still capable to experiencing emotion. Can you imagine what that must be like? To be nothing. Yet unable to die. I wonder what you'd call that?
Try the Internet Belt.
The Internet Championship, an isolation tank, separated from actual society like a caring in the community programme; like a charity funded mental health outfit, that's what the internet title has become in the hands of ZMAC. Occasionally, you'll see kids like Ethan King throw stones at the window of that spooky old house on the hill called Z-'merica. Inside rests an old, piss-stained arm chair, inhabited by a man who mumbles to himself about “pushing your shit in” while outside, the kids laugh at the cantankerous old fart, they laugh at that McMorris git that belches bigotry and hated; a misogynistic fool that can't let go of his racism, or his homophobia. Trapped forever more inside a musty, dank, dry old hovel that wrestling forgot. His prison. His hell. His--
“BEEEEEEEP, BEEEEEEP!”
“BEEEEEEEP, BEEEEEEP!”
Now, here's the part of the show where hell stops being about the four walls for 'Mac and starts becoming other people. The dream morphs and changes into a diabolical sitcom, for as bad as facing all of #beachkrew single handed would be for McMorris, facing them side by side with five other couch tripping idiots is a whole new level of misery. And for ZMAC; that deep six of depression is about to begin.
The beeping sound signals the arrival of Teo Del Sol's custom made clown car; the Luchador Pee Wee Herman, with just as many cases of indecent exposure on his rap sheet, is here. The sunshine has arrived, people! We should rejoice! How did we ever have fun without him?
Teo's has just moved in next door to that cobwebbed, cross stitch knitting ZMAC. The walls of Mac's hovel are reverberating now to the sound of “The wind beneath my wings”, while Teo, and a carefully selected, multicultural cross section of society; smile and laugh as they paint Teo's new house white and gold in an uplifting montage sequence that ends with a jump and a freeze frame.
This is Teo's happy-go-lucky world. It's smiles and fun and important life lessons, it's always searching for the sun; for that ray of hope on the horizon. Teo is all about the never say die, even while he sinks beneath the waves. Teo is optimism stretched to the point of absurdity. That's what makes him so plastic. So false. He never falters. Teo Del Sol is Mr. Rodgers with a Championship belt, the only belt a “man” like Teo could or should ever possibly carry. A popularity contest that betrays the very essence of the sport at every conceivable turn.
Teo Del Sol doesn't fight, he performs. His devil may care attitude carries him like leaf on a cushion of air, and while he did indeed fight and win in a so-called Scaffold Match against mid card joke Andrew Marx, that farce bared little resemblance to what the actual stipulation should be about. It was so safe, so rehearsed, and so P.G. 13 in nature that they both might as well have been scrapping in a playpen full of fluffy Nerf.
Still, as ZMAC grinds his yellow teeth, while welded to that arm chair; he really shouldn't complain.
After all, the People's Championship belongs right next-door to the Internet; that's it's rightful home. Both are Purgatory, both have zero real world worth, and both are titles held by miscreants that can only observe the public at a safe distance before their restraining orders kick in.
But they aren't alone when it comes to mental health issues and embarrassing portfolios. Because out on ZMAC's overgrown lawn now is a teddy bear's picnic about to convene. It's a large spread, comprised of plastic tea cups, paper plates and plasticine sandwiches with the crust cut off, just like how Logan likes it. And sitting there, at the centre of it all in a frilly pink dress with a print of a teddy bear's face on the chest, sitting inside a dream within a dream; is KROD...or KMAC...or KMART...or Katherine Phoenix, or Lilith...or a transvestite cookie monster: you take your fucking pick, it doesn't actually matter, because none of these roads lead anywhere but psycho-vile. No course plotted grants escape velocity from the presence of a maniacal, dimwitted stereotype. A stupid cow that embarrasses herself at every conceivable turn. Right now, Kat wants to play with ZMAC. KMAC is shining a beam of golden sunlight off her newly won title. The beam focused from the plate of the Hardcore Championship, sizzling outward, burning a hole into the face of a growling and low ebbed Zombie McMorris. That light from the title, taunting it's former holder like a laughing deathray.
ZMAC would drag his soggy carcass out of that armchair, but the effort he considered would be a waste. After all, what could he actually do once he stood up? He proved to be completely ineffectual against Phoenix two weeks ago; his fourth wall breaking comments were designed to unbalance Katherine, but when you're dealing with force that considers “Sylvanian Families” as her next of kin, you're never going to make a dent that way.
Katherine Phoenix is not a clever woman, she's not smarter than she looks. She is exactly what you expect. There's no enigma wrapped up inside a riddle with her. Katherine Phoenix is a crazy person. She's the loon at high school who would have kept her pretty face if she'd only managed to figure out what a toothbrush was for. Phoenix bounces around from faction to faction, from pretend husband, to pretend husband, like a nomadic Tex Avery cartoon. She's every direction, that arrives constantly nowhere. The only advancement in her career has been the hardcore belt, and that wasn't won, it as dropped at a show by a talent too listless, too self obsessed with the Shia clap, to actually show up and compete. Now ZMAC has to undie with the knowledge that “the tranny” bested him.
Dare I say...
“Oblivion slide?”
Katherine does have a habit of turning the horror-shows inside out; of pushing “Their shit in”, and ruining them forever. Maybe she's finally discovered her forte; to destroy the mystique of the monsters of this world. A technique perfected while Logan wrapped his hands around her throat and tried to kick her off a balcony. Strange that, when you think about it. All these years Logan has put up with her, yet as soon as he dumps her, suddenly his career skyrockets again. It's almost as if she was some kind of parasite, a succubus that sucked the life out of a former multi-time champion and WAR winner, and left him a shadow, hollow shell of his former self. Just as she's doing right now to poor old ZMAC, as she shines that golden light off that belt into ZMAC'S tired eyes, stinging his vision with a loss that will echo on into this week's disaster as there personalities explode and gift #beachkrew with yet another avenue of attack to exploit.
ZMAC needs to distract himself from the laugher outside. He should hit the net, he thinks. Make a dank post about how the Pride aren't bothering him anymore, even though they are. He should, but then he hasn't spoken to Mikey eXtreme yet to tell him the bad news. So ZMAC decides to write a text:
“That Hawt American Darkness is no more, Nig. You don lost dat U.S. title to Sting. Dat be dah end of us, nig. Ya feel? There's no thick in ya. Not unless I push it in....#LOLZ”
Message sent. Mikey's reply in this dream within a dream takes a while to arrive; things are slower here. We're in Inception country now and you can't just expect tirades to materialise in an instant. A few moments pass as ZMAC gets a few more cross stitches in on that scarf he's knitting his resurrected boy, before:
“We were in a tag team? Oh yeah, that was the week we did that home invasion and hung out in a child's closet. Yeah, we probably shouldn't tag any more. We lost our credibility and ended up on bait car. You're an embarrassment. You cost me the U.S. Title. Now the world has to put up with Vengeance spelling his name wrong on posters while ignoring the fact that there's a law against mime artists running for president. I mean, I'm a multiple time rapist and murderer, I have a reputation to upkeep! But that Vengeance dickhead? He'll do anything to get noticed!
As for you, ZMAC: you don't figure in my upcoming plans. In fact, you don't feature in ANYONE'S upcoming plans. I'm basically going to throw you to #beachkrew this week and hope they do a Scarecrow on you. Maybe by the time you dig yourself up out of that rose garden, Special Agent Donald Mosley will stop bugging my phone and quit asking me questions about missing children.
Yours, Fuck you
Mikey eXtreme.
CLUMP!
ZMAC sighed as a bag of human excrement was thrown at his hovel's window; it exploded on impact; eclipsing the golden hue of KMAC'S hypnotic hardcore title with a brown cloud of putrid shit. BMX tires span as those Pride kids cycled off, laughing, mocking the tired old ZMAC that lived down the lane as Katherine Phoenix chimed in “Grrrrrrrr, you leave poor Zombear alone! He's my bitch, understand?”
“My...Bitch”
With that, ZMAC discovered a glimmer of energy and anger still lingering inside his feeble, broken down legs; with a heave and a moan he pushed himself upright and shuffled to his front door, stepping over the wreckage of his shattered career. Somewhere, in among the cockroaches and the ringworms trodden into ZMAC'S threadbare floor was Shadow-love. Living between the floorboards, admiring his own chiselled, perfect psychique reflected in a bottle top. Musing on the eateries of the world as nobody on planet Earth cared.
If shadow love cuts a promo on a wrestling show, is it heard? No, the world is more preoccupied with the falling tree. Shadow Love is a zero calorie non entity that is both equal parts boring and completely ineffectual. Shadow Love is toe jam. The WCF has already discarded this flotsam, yet the fax never arrived for Mister Love. Instead he's still living the dream...or in this case, inside a dream: like an unemployed man that still turns up for work with the vain hope of a rehire that will never happen.
As ZMAC steps over Shadow Love, the narcissist notices that some gum is lodged between the treads of the Coked Up Mad Man's Nike's, so he hitches a ride and crosses his fingers. Maybe they'll all get a tag match with the Family...they're easy to beat. After all, only one of them is contractually obliged to give a shit at any one time.
The door opens to the hovel, the sunlight blinds the scene as one dream ends and we're...
--------
Back inside that submarine. The rest of #beachkrew hanging on tenterhooks for Rabid to make that final, fateful decision. Which firing solution to choose? Able Seaman Beaver is anxious for the decision; industriously chewing his gum as he taps his foot.
Captain Jonathan Rabid: Anxious, Seaman Beaver?
Able Seaman Beaver: Yes, sir. I'm itching to know.
Captain Jonathan Rabid: Itch no longer, Beaver. Wade?
Lieutenant Wade Moor: Yes, sir?
Captain Jonathan Rabid: Fire the harbinger.
Ship's Doctor, Thursday and Nurse coconuts shook their heads.
Doctor Thursday: Goodbye, KMAC. You poor fucking bastard.
The harbinger sat next to the destroyer in the Torpedo room; the Wednesday Night Acting Club loaded the projectile and radioed the skipper. A moment later and the harbinger was launched, cutting a fast, lightning quick sway of white surf through the water as it exploded on impact.
The destroyer would have messy, but quick. A high yield explosive that would have decimated the corpses. But this?
The harbinger torpedo had a payload of blood, bait to lure the sharks in on the drowning six; Rabid's decision was made a while ago in all honesty, the moment he contemplated the immortal man forever rotting inside a sharks gut. That was a misery he just had to deliver on. You can't pass that kind of opportunity by. It would be a waste.
As Rabid's eyes gloated on the spectacle through the periscope he wondered if any of this had an actual bearing on the real world. Offering these useless mid carders to a personification of Jared Holmes inside a dream. What did it mean? Johnny imagining himself as Captain, while the 6ixgod was a discombobulated monster to be gifted harmless presents. Maybe it meant what Johnny knew all along. That when it came down to it; there was still a long way to go before they'd be ready for the final battle.
And for the choices they'd be forced to make.
FADE.
