Post by 6ix God on Mar 22, 2016 17:05:47 GMT -5
With a piercing moan of ecstasy, the nubile blonde tossed her head back and curled her toes, her body shuddering in the final waves of her orgasm. As her cry trailed off – replaced by the tell-tale shallow pant of a bitch in heat – she let gravity take her, falling through my air to land against my chest. Her lips twisted up and eyes closed, a content giggle running from her tongue to her toes as she laid a hand and her head against my chest.
Ke$ha: Christ… I haven’t been fucked like that since my producer slipped me one.
The morbidity of the joke hardly phased me – I’ve never been one for pillow talk. Within seconds of shooting my wad into the maligned pop star, I was reaching for a joint. I sat up, the warm body obliging me the freedom of movement, and placed the twisted gold leaf tip of the blunt to my lips. With a flick of the Bic, the exotic and spiced aroma of Blue Velvet filled the room, perfectly complimenting the deep, sweet taste of the Remy Martin I used to chase the toke. As she took the joint from my hands, a single finger traced down my arm and to my chest, leaving a path of body glitter like a slug’s slime trail. This is about what I expect from a woman who gave me a rainbow party by herself an hour ago. She giggled and cooed as I brushed at it in vain, her delicate sparkling fingers raising the blunt to take a drag of her own.
Ke$ha: Goddamnit, Jared, you score the best shit.
Even pillow talk complimenting my drugs is still pillow talk – I rose out of bed and let the night air roll over my skin as I walked to the fragmented remains of the hotel window and gazed out at the Detroit evening. Far below on the street, the piecemeal remains of a shattered television set smiled up at me like an old friend – a reminder of a fleeting moment of fun over all too soon. Atreyu could learn from this television – it’s all flying and fancy until you hit the pavement. Joy replaced by terror replaced by nothing. You should’ve told him to jump, Benjamin; you damned that poor would-be jumper to a continued life. The John Oliver Show had been playing when the bitch and I hucked the box; do you think he felt the impact?
Still, I could hardly be bothered to empathize with an inanimate object when there was unbroken furniture and the artist of “Tik Tok” lying in my bed not completely gazed in my semen. As I turned back to the room, I took a moment to admire my handiwork: the inoffensive landscape paintings trashed with crude Sharpie drawings, the empty television cabinet covered in blow, the minifridge missing a door – quarter-full bottles shoved haphazardly into the cooler along with half-eaten pot brownies, and (of course) the shattered glass coffee table above a spot on the carpet soaked with urine (the dumb bitch went on about “House of O-pee-lia” or something. Mental Note: rave sluts half-crazy on ketamine peeing on your carpet before drunkenly careening through a glass coffee table is both lulzy and pretty hot).
I flopped back onto the bed just as she sat up; when she tried to snuggle down, I sat up and reached for my drink and blunt which was now smoldering undisturbed in the ashtray. Looking down at the sheets and bedspread, I noticed my chest and crotch were not the only victims of a body glitterbomb. An imagine floated through my mind of some underpaid maid openly weeping at the mess; with any luck, her tears would mirror those of good ole Benjy after the bell rang on Sunday. As Ke$ha rolled over and began playing with herself, I wondered what was arousing me most: her, the thought of the maid, or the thought of Benjamin Atreyu failing to make the finals of the Trilogy Cup for the first time in his life. Before settling on an answer, the scream of the alarm clock tore me to the land of the living – laying next to Thursday in my unblemished hotel suite.
At the sound of the buzzer, Thursday bolted upright as she always does. She smiled, and I was received with a good morning kiss before she bounced out of bed to start the coffee. My head throbbed from last night – the mixture of MDMA and Courvoisier XO I’d been consuming was ugly. Still, it hardly throbbed as hard as my other head, still more than excited from fantastic dreams of cum-hungry pop stars, crying maids, and a lifeless Benjamin Atreyu. Both were easily killed in one stone: Thursday knows I like my coffee spiked heavily with Bailey’s, and with a pinch of her ass, she was on me like a fly on shit. After getting my rocks off, I rolled out of bed and trundled to the shower, my arm draped over her shoulders for support. In the bathroom, I cracked another Budweiser as she got the water to temperature, then we took a shower while I fucked her again. This is my day-to-day morning routine.
Out of the shower, I dried myself and put on new clothes as Thursday loitered in the bathroom, applying thick eyeliner (like I like it) and ruby red lipstick (which I also like). Her voice rang out, angelic and musical – she wanted something.
Thursday: Hey Jarebear?
“What?”
Thursday: You said you’d take me out shopping this week.
“I can’t, I’m busy.”
Thursday: But you promised! There’s this great new floral print dress from the Dolce & Gabbana summer collection, and I was gonna get some more of those lacey see-through thongs you like and always tear off.
Inside, I groaned. I could hear her stupid puppy dog eyes and pouty lips in her tone. I snatched the envelope of last night’s fight purse off the bedside table and tossed it into the bathroom.
“All yours. Have fun.”
She squealed in delight as I resumed ignoring her. As I fumbled for my sunglasses, the usual buzz of my phone went off. A message was on the screen:
“Jim
GOOD MORNING FAVORITE EARTH CHILD AND HARBINGER JARED. THE PRESS HAS ARRIVED DOWNSTAIRS. LIMOUSINE IS READY OUT FRONT WITH EARTH CHILD KYLE. I SHALL AWAIT YOU OUTSIDE YOUR HOTEL ROOM DOOR SO AS TO ESCORT YOU SHOULD ANY OF THE JOURNALISTS BE AGGRESSIVE.”
I placed my phone in my pocket and stepped into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Thursday hadn’t gotten dressed yet, so I dropped her towel and fucked her once on the sink for good luck. When we had finally gotten ready, I opened the door to my hotel room and stepped out with Jim on my left and Thursday on my right. The lobby was a veritable feeding frenzy – it was just as I liked it.
Reporters shoved and clawed one another to get close to me, maybe even hoping to touch a god amongst them, as I made my way through the crowd. With Gable and Andre having awaited me at the elevator, the two of them were able to handily part any scrawny hipster-shit journalists who I didn’t want to be bothered with, not that they couldn’t yell my way.
Reporter: Mister Holmes! Many feel that Benjamin Atreyu is your last true obstacle to winning the Trilogy Cup; should you defeat Mister Atreyu, win the Trilogy Cup, and go on to face Joey Flash or Wade Moor, what will your game plan be?
“First, I think your shirt is garish and cheap. Second, I fucking hate that you’d imply Benjamin Atreyu is anything close to a challenge. He isn’t. He’s the scum under my balls I wash away every morning with a shower. He’s the scrubbiest member in House of Ophelia, a faction consisting of K.L. Henson, Nobunaga, and a dead guy. Fuck him – I’m going to shit on his chest on national television. As for Wade or Flash, bring either of them on. My game plan: shove my dick in them and watch those faggots start cumming like Old Faithful.”
“Wade is my best friend, and Joey Flash is the best competitor in this business. No matter who I face, I’ll go into the match with my eye on the prize. I’m stronger, faster, tougher, and smarter than I was before my injury, and that was when I survived Hellimination and broke the WAR record. My accomplishments speak for themselves; I just go be me and win.”
Reporter: “Mr. Holmes, your stablemate Kyle Kemp could very well be your opponent in the finals of the Trilogy Cup. If this is the case, what does this mean for #BeachKrew?”
“It means fuck-all. Newsflash: I am #BeachKrew. When I found Kyle Kemp, he was a two-bit #fuccboi jobbing to Spencer Adams. I tuned that bitch like an old guitar and made him sing again. I fucking made Kyle Kemp, and I’ll break him if I want. Kyle’s got two options here: 1) lay down like the good little bitch he is or 2) fucking die.”
“Kyle is one of my dearest friends, and it’s gonna be an honor facing him. He’ll fold Chance von Crank like an old wallet.”
The reporters were getting louder and more frantic as I pushed through – it was all according to plan. I once heard a story about British tourists throwing five pence coins off a bus going through India and laughing as the children watching beat each other senseless to get the spare change. There was very little difference between this and what I was doing now. From somewhere in the crowd, I heard the breaking of glasses frames and the crunch of a nose as someone ate an elbow to the face.
Reporter: “There are reports you’ve been spending time getting … um … “intimate” with Katherine Phoenix lately. Do you have any comment?”
“Decent head, solid tits. I made her shower first and washed her asshole personally.”
“Katherine Phoenix is an abused woman in a horrible relationship with racist pervert Andre Holmes. Even still, I would never violate the sanctity of marriage and am happily committed. It’s an insult to all parties involved, especially my girlfriend, to propagate this rumor.”
Reporter: “What do you know of Benjamin Atreyu? Give us a breakdown of the fight.”
“Benjamin Atreyu is the same as every other limp-wristed #fuccboi I’ve faced so far in the WSeaF: fucking garbage. He’s the ‘Also Ran’. The fucking Dan Marino. You know why Dan Marino is never in any ‘Greatest of All Time’ discussions? He couldn’t seal the deal. He shit the bed in the play-offs and never won a Superbowl. Benjamin Atreyu is no different in this sense than his odds in this match. Atreyu is going to choke again. I’m going to bend him over and plow him prison-style like I did Twilight. Fuck, Twilight’s going to call me crying and saying she ‘thought she was the only one’ – that’s how bad I’m going to fuck Atreyu. I only hope they’ll let me smuggle cheesecloth into the ring so I can dab up his faggy little tears after I beat him and mix them in my martinis Hannibal style.
You hearing this, Atreyu? Do the world a favor and quit like Twilight – save yourself the embarrassment. You’re already the least interesting member of an anemic stable, and you’ve already shit the bed on the one big shot you had. How about you go back down a peg and give your old buddy Vengeance the good reach around; you can beat him, right? Or is that when you choke because it’s a match with consequence? What the fuck are you doing in this tournament? What were you doing in Final Destination? Easy answer: filling space. Fodder for the winner.”
“Benjamin Atreyu has been a solid opponent in this federation for years and will make this competitive. I’m confident my superior speed and intelligence will give me the edge in this fight. Place your bets now: Six God over the Mad God.”
Reporter: “There are reports that you’ve rigged the tournament to benefit you, can you comment?”
“Yeah, you Torey fuck: Cry More. Without me, this tournament would be absolute swill. Do you people actually want to see Tiffany “Fan Service” White slug it out with John “I Can’t Win A Single Match” Mullins Jr.? Do you think that if I didn’t rig literally every match in round one besides my own, this would be a good tournament? Get the fuck out of here with this shit already, no one wants another fucking ‘Dune Show.’
And let me point out how I did all the heavy lifting on my own match? You wanna talk about me siccing Rabid on Dune or attacking Tiffany White, how about we talk about how I gave it to Sarah up the poop shoot? All these #fuccbois left in the tournament ought to be suckin’ my dick for getting them this far. This tournament has been in #BeachKrew’s bag since day one, and it’s all my doing. And I’m gonna screw Chance this round too as I beat Atreyu like a faggot in Wyoming, just to prove this was always mine.”
“I earned my victory in Round One through hard work, something I can’t say for my opponents. I promise that so long as I am in this tournament, I will continue winning through hard work without taking any personal shortcuts.”
As I approached the limo, Jim stepped before me to open the door, the figure of Kyle Kemp lurking just inside. Thank god for sunglasses – the flashing of bulbs had reached a fever pitch as I approached my escape, the maelstrom of thirsty bloggers and alcoholic journalists reaching a fever pitch. But all things considered, I’d accomplished all I needed: kept my impulses in check, given the smile, given the wink, given the token answer, and given them the image of me they wanted or expected. Until a final voice rang out through the crowd.
Reporter: Hey, so what if you lose, considering your other singles losses?
I’m not sure what happened or why it bothered me so much. Normally, I’d have called the guy a virgin and given him the finger. As my body tensed, turned, and began shoving through the crowd, I couldn’t quite understand my own reaction as much as anyone. I have no idea why I suddenly decided to see red and take that perfectly curated façade of control and cordiality to smash across this faggot’s face. Needless to say, by the time I had the scrawny little peasant by the collar, he’d dropped his camera and began cowering in fear.
He was miserable: 5’6” at most and probably topping in at 145 lbs (maybe more if his jacket concealed a beer gut – I’d drink too if I looked like that). With a flick of my fingers, I could’ve knocked his glasses to the ground, though considering they were Oxygen brand, he wouldn’t be losing too much money. He was another wannabe contrarian blogger: he didn’t have the clothes or the swagger to be a salaried writer or even a freelancer. In fact, as I cocked my fist back to hit him, I almost pitied him – a weekend warrior who spouted off at the wrong guy, thinking he was safe. What did Iron Mike once say? Something about “I’ll fuck you until you love me?”
Either way, Gable and Andre’s hands were on me, restraining me and leading me back to the car before I could catch an assault charge. The flash of lightbulbs intensified as onlookers gave out gasps of horror. I heard myself still screaming, all pretenses removed.
“YOU PIMPLY LITTLE FAGGOT, YOU DON’T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT MY RECORD! I BROKE THE WAR RECORD! I CAME IN THIRD AFTER WRESTLING TWICE THAT FUCKING NIGHT? DID GEMINI-FUCKING-BATTLE WRESTLE TWICE?! WHAT ABOUT OMEGA OR WADE, HUH?! DID PRECIOUS LITTLE TEDDY BLAZE DO HALF AS WELL AS ME? I’LL FUCK YOUR GIRLFRIEND, YOU WEASLY LITTLE PUSSY! I BEAT SARAH TWILIGHT! I MADE THAT BITCH SING! YOU CAN NEVER DO WHAT I DO! TEO CAN’T DO WHAT I DO! BENJAMIN FUCKING ATREYU WILL NEVER DO WHAT I DO!”
With a hard shove, I tumbled back into the limousine and came face-to-face with a slammed door. As the limousine peels away, Kyle laughs at me.
Kyle Kemp: Shit, someone didn’t wake up on the good side of the bed.
I was tempted to tell him that my morning was ruined by waking up to finding out I hadn’t actually been sodomizing Ke$ha and destroying my hotel room. I didn’t think he’d understand.
“Hangover.”
Reaching to his right, Kyle clasped the slick handle of a large glass pitcher, raising it and tilting it in my direction.
Kyle Kemp: Breakfast is served, bro.
In a moment, a Bloody Mary was in my hand, and I was totally placated. We sat in silence for a moment, both staring at one another behind our sunglasses. I wondered what he was thinking – had similar thoughts run through his head as they’d just ran through mine? Did he know that the finals of the Trilogy Cup Tournament would likely be Jared Holmes vs. Kyle Kemp, and was he planning his way of screwing me? I have to hand it to Kyle, as much as some would discount him as the weak link in #BeachKrew, he’s the ultimate performer in the clutch. I didn’t worry about Benjamin Atreyu; he’d be dealt with. Kyle Kemp, on the other hand, could do anything. Or maybe he wouldn’t; maybe he’d lay down.
He broke the silence.
Kyle Kemp: You ready to shove that gray-haired fruit cup’s face in?
A smile crossed my lips; no tension this round.
“That’s a question?”
Kyle Kemp: Never hurt to ask.
“In Atreyu’s case, asking ‘Can I go to the Trilogy Cup Finals again?’ is exactly what’s going to hurt. No, ‘Benjy’, you’re not going to the Finals again. It’s time we spare you the abject humiliation of having your hopes and dreams crushed on the big stage. Skyler Striker? Like, fuck me, who even is that? I did some research, and here’s what Skyler Striker is known for (besides having a stupid alliterative name):
Seriously, this guy’s big crowning achievement is pretending to be Biohazard to get a shot at some other nobody called Jack of Blades. Then he bums around the nothing divisions like Hardcore before disappearing, reappearing to get the TV Title and actually lose it in a tag match, then beats you. Think about that for a moment, ole Benjy ole pal: this guy ate the pin in a tag match and lost the Television Title.”
Kyle Kemp: Wait, seriously? People actually lose the belt in those sort of matches?
“Right?! That’s what I’m saying; that’s a staggering level of bad. That’s embarrassing. Your old buddy John Gable was even the one to do it. Then what happens? He beats you and Ana Valentine before being thrust into a three-way match with Sarah Twilight and Odin Balfore, which he loses.
And the funny part? He didn’t even lose the match, Odin did. In fact, he lost a match to Odin which allowed Odin in the match. That’s a level of incompetence out of a comedy movie. And that walking failure of a washed-up wrestler was what killed your little run, Atreyu. No chance at redemption, no comeback. You toiled away slinking around the SPAC and riding the coattails of Waylon Cash and John Gable until you prove you’re the weak link when you shit the bed against Remus for the US Title. Then you have the chance to get back into the Trilogy Cup again and … you eat the pin. Good job, sport; in a match full of people no one remembers, you’re the one who ate the pin.
The only thing ‘mad’ and ‘god’ about you is ‘Goddamnit, it’s maddening how little Atreyu deserves anything he’s received since he came back to the WCF.’ Apparently, a ‘God’ is the kind of guy who gets briefly retired by a woman. Apparently, a ‘God’ is the guy who everyone hypes and maybe even gives slivers of hope before falling back into the same patterns of maddening inconsistency. You’re not a ‘Mad God’; you’re chaos. You’re hot and cold, here today and gone tomorrow. That’s not ‘God Given Greatness’, it’s mediocrity.
Kyle raised an eyebrow.
Kyle Kemp: Who the fuck is that?
“Exactly. Who the fuck is Smirkin’ Jack Coston? Coston was some scrub who also came from St. Paul – it’s like the state produces chronically bad wrestlers. Coston is known for one thing: almost beating Kaz Mazy for the United States Title before Ultimate Showdown last year. Razor-thin match, and Kaz retained by disqualification. So what happens? This nobody’s stock shoots through the roof, and everyone expects him to win the Wild Card Battle Royal the next week. Then what happens?”
Kyle Kemp: This is a rhetorical question, right? Like, this is why I don’t remember this guy?
“Yep: he shits the bed, and Tommy Bates wins the match. Where does Coston go from there? The dumpster. He was a one-trick pony who got cold feet and buckled under the expectations under him. Good kid in a m.A.A.d. city who couldn’t take the heat. You, Atreyu? You’re only a three-count away on Sunday from following in his footsteps.
No, Benjamin, I don’t have faith in you to give me a good challenge. I don’t even have mild expectations of a close match. I see this going one way: I win. Ding-ding-ding, the winner is Jared Holmes. This match has been mine from the start; the moment I gave Sarah Twilight an absolute thrashing and ended her career, the writing was on the wall. When it comes to you? Well, I don’t take much from someone who beat Occulo. I don’t expect you to talk, Benjy, I expect you to die. I expect you to choke like George W. Bush on a pretzel, but there won’t be any Secret Service agents to give you the Heimlich.
And thus will conclude another sad chapter of Benjamin Atreyu trying to trip his way into success. It must be a monotonous song and dance for you at this point, huh? How many times can a man embarrass himself or win by losing before everyone knows he’s full of shit, after all? Can I set a record straight here? You didn’t “get to the finals” in the Trilogy Cup, Benjy.”
Kyle tilted his head, his brown firming in curiosity.
Kyle Kemp: Wait, what?
“Yeah, go check the record. Double count-out between Atreyu and Ana Valentine.”
Kemp’s mouth dropped open.
Kyle Kemp: You’re fuckin’ with me.
“Nope. That’s what’s so funny about this: Benjamin Atreyu isn’t a ‘veteran’ of the Trilogy Cup Finals – he’s an intruder. A squatter. An outside posing as an insider. You didn’t earn your way into the Finals in 2013, Benjy – you tripped into them because someone had to win. And when we think about it, it makes perfect sense why you then proceeded to fuck it all up when the heat was on. This wasn’t your scene – you didn’t belong here. Just like Smirkin’ Jack Coston, you had a little luck fall in your favor. Now we’ve come to the point where this is all being put to the test.
Don’t worry, I’m sure it won’t slow your credibility at all. It’s not like being a fuck-doll in the Final Destination match prevented you from getting this shot. Can we also talk about how you didn’t belong in that at all? If you traded all these failed opportunities in for strictly Television Title shots, you’d be looking like Bonnie Blue, another major loser in the loser pantheon of shitty, overrated loser talent who work for nothing and lose it all anyway.
You get this much applause: you won the battle royal to get in this year. Congratulations, you did the minimum requirement. In round one, you get thrown against a man who lost that same fucking battle royal, which makes me question what the point of it was in the first place. The result? A smooth sailing first round bye. A man you’d beaten the work before and put up the most anemic of efforts this side of the French military. Let me spell out exactly what that means for your overall credibility: d-i-c-k-s-h-i-t. And when you lose this match, you’ll probably advance a few rounds in the Trios Cup tournament, carried by KL Henson, before you choke up and fail, only to get a Television Title shot and maybe win that because Tiffany White is garbage. I won’t undersell you there: you can beat her. But that’s still like watching two retards slap-fighting on the playground: the fat one is the safe bet.
None of this matters because you’ll always find someone to leach off of as a lifeline. It was SPAC before: riding the tails of John Gable to success. Now? It’s KL Henson. It’s a noticeable pattern for anyone who bothers to follow your career, which I’ve been doing while trying to help my insomnia. Tag along little brother Benjamin Atreyu, the idiot monster rolled out to scare children. The dancing bear. Some people look at you and see a God. Me?
It doesn’t matter whether or not it’s John Gable or KL Henson, you can’t function without a second. We all saw it first-hand this year: you can pick off stray sheep like Vengeance, but you can’t take on the big dogs. You’re a pack animal, Atreyu, and not in the way I am. Not like us at #BeachKrew. We’re a collective which is greater than the sum of its parts, which is staggering because those parts are all firing on all cylinders. But as much as we’re greater than the sum of our parts, you will never be greater than the group you’re in. That’s what sort of pack animal you are: a beta. You’re the follower who needs a shepherd to lead him, someone to give him direction and purpose. On your own, you’re as boring as the city you’re from, so what do you do? You latch on to a shark. Benjamin Atreyu, the remora.
The shadow. You’re half a man. A little brother who stands in the shadows of those next to him. Some people take that analysis as something to drive towards. Maybe you fancy yourself a Howard Black, a talented wrestler with a respectable singles career standing side-by-side with a man much taller than him. You think you’re lost. You think you just need your moment to step out and live in the sun as your own person. But when you have that chance – when the spotlight hits and the lights come up – you freeze. Let me remind you how the story of Howard Black ended: he choked. And when he came back, he understood who he was: a prop at Occulo’s side. You’re a twin. A twin to Gable. A twin to Henson. A twin to whomever you’ve chosen to partner up with and further your career. But you never are “the group”. When one thinks of SPAC, they think of Waylon Cash. When one thinks of House of Ophelia, they think of KL Henson. So where are you, Benjy? You’re the contented second fiddle. The lesser twin. The midget. You want answers to why your career isn’t shit? There it is: you don’t act like it.
Do you even realize who you’re dealing with? You can spout off about being the “Mad God” or “God Given Greatness”, but you’ll never hold a candle close to the “Six God”. Here’s what a God really is: I clap my fucking hands and people jump. When I come back from the dead, my entrance is greeted with rose petals being thrown at my feet. I rub elbows with Joey Flash and get everyone on the fed putting my name on their tongue. With a snap of my fingers, Katherine Phoenix will spread her legs. With a fucking tweet, I send Dag or Andre Holmes into a frothing rage. I have ZMac giving me props on Twitter and the World Champion admitting I’m the most dangerous man in the federation. When they want to take me out, they send Dune to fucking do it.
That, Benjamin, is what the work of a god looks like.
The entrance of a god is not followed by ‘Who is that guy again?’
The answer that follows, of course, is ‘Uh, well I think he was Head of Talent Relations?’
‘I thought that was Katherine Phoenix?’
‘No, she was Assistant to Talent Relations.’
‘Oh, so she was Benjamin Atreyu’s assistant?’
‘Well, no, see he passed it onto this weird guy K.L. Henson.’
‘Oh, right! So, uh, what did he do then?’
‘I mean, he had this feud with Vengeance or something, then he got into the Final Destination match.’
‘He did? I remember Spencer Adams, Johnny Rabid, Steve Orbit, and Logan being in that.’
‘Right, well Benjamin Atreyu and Bonnie Blue were in it, too.’
‘Oh. Gotcha. So after that?’
‘Well he won this battle royal and now he’s in the semi-finals of the Trilogy Cup.’
‘Oh, well he must’ve beaten some big names.’
‘Kinda. Like, he beat Tiffany White before that and beat Occulo to advance, but between that he lost to Katherine Phoenix in a Triple Threat.’
‘I mean, can’t blame a man for losing a Triple Threat.’
‘Sure, but he took the pin.’
‘Oh… so he’s got no chance, huh?’
‘Basically.’
It’s sort of fun punctuating your flaccid record with that loss to Katherine Phoenix – you couldn’t even keep up with Teo del Sol. And trust me, that’s saying something: it took me being double booked to lose to that guy.”
Kyle’s hands rose, slowly clapping together. Only natural – I like to think everyone in our little clique is in awe of me when I’m at full power.
Kyle Kemp: Someone is ready to go.
“I’m not just ready to go, I’m practically drooling over it. I’ve spent too long cutting my teeth and calling the shots to let this faggot step between me and the World Title. You, Atreyu? This means nothing to you. You have the safety net of your little fun bunch who no one gives a fuck about. There must be an incredible sense of relief in not being important or talented; no one is jealous and trying to tear you down. No one wants to see you fail because no one cares if you win or not. You’re as ineffectual as the Nietzsche wannabes you’ve shacked up with; another card lost in the shuffle of every other #fuccboi group from Rebellution to the Family to the Pride who was formed because of #BeachKrew. For all the shit you people talk, #BeachKrew still continues to define this fed’s life and purpose.
Know what’s Godhood? That shit. Without even getting in the ring, I’ve changed this federation in more ways than you ever could. Me.”
Kyle Kemp: Us.
“Us. You’re not stepping into the ring with Los Tiburones; you’re stepping into the ring with Jared Holmes. The Architect. The Six God. The Harbinger of the #FuccboiGenocide. You think that just because this is the first time I’m stretching my legs as a singular force of domination that I’m not the biggest threat in this tournament? That I’m not the biggest threat in this company? Google that shit: I am. ‘Jared Holmes Most Dangerous WCF’ gets you one million hits. ‘Benjamin Atreyu Most Dangerous WCF’ gets you one thousand, and they all mention how you’re stepping in the ring with ‘the Most Dangerous Man in the WCF, Jared Holmes’.
Don’t pay attention to anyone telling you that this is your match; they’re lying. No one believes you’ll win this; they want you to win because they’re scared of what happens if I do. I don’t need to photoshop your head onto a My Little Pony to embarrass you; I’ll embarrass you just fine in the ring. Let me lay your corpse down next to Sarah Twilight’s on my climb to the top. You’ll form the foundation of my temple.
Kyle laughed, shaking his head slightly before tilting his Bloody Mary to his lips.
Kyle Kemp: Fuckin’ aye, Jared, I’d hate to be him.
“And I’d hate to be Chance. You ready for this?”
Kyle Kemp: Yeah, I got some plans.
“Need more?”
Kyle Kemp: I’ll let you know. So when’s this thing start, anyway?
“This thing” Kyle is referring to is the ribbon cutting ceremony for Holmes Park, here in Detroit. It’s my latest philanthropy project, a spanning outdoor utopia featuring a playground made of state-of-the-art corrosion-resistant metal, an incredibly diverse selection of flora chosen for its entertainment and educational value, a sculpture garden featuring the works of local artists (including a large mural to the Detroit hip-hop scene and its great artists), and three baseball fields. With a wave of my hand, I brought this park to life in a single week. Run by the Oblivion foundation, I’ve just created jobs for a struggling city.
My feelings of antipathy towards Atreyu placed aside, I can better soak in the familiar atmosphere of the limousine. Kemp and I are both dressed to our best, naturally: Giorgio Armani suits, Rolex watches, Gucci sunglasses, and Artioli leather shoes. The music is the new Yung Lean album, Warlord, which – while Kyle doesn’t care for any of it – is a significant lyrical upgrade from his previous album. On the first couple of listens, I don’t know if it has any of the emotional poignancy of Unknown Memory, but it has some surprisingly listenable tracks. Unlike former Yung Lean works which tend to get indulgent or just a bit too dirgy, this album is cover-to-cover full of bangers. But I’m sure you don’t care about that.
If there’s one thing I’d like to discuss with Atreyu, it’s Yung Lean; from what I’ve read about him and seen, I think he may actually have some sort of insight. Then again, I may be giving him too much credit; not even everyone in #BeachKrew understands why I listen to Yung Lean. It’s funny to me – without Yung Lean, I probably wouldn’t have developed a.k.a. borrowed the #BeachKrew aesthetic. When one listens to a Yung Lean record, they tend to find a drugged-out beat with some sixteen-year-old mumbling to himself. This is only half correct; it’s missing the point.
When one discusses Lil B ‘The Based God’, more important than any lyrical contribution is that he’s in fact negated lyrics as a necessity to Hip-Hop. After years of geriatrics saying “rap isn’t music”, it took the destruction of the lyricist as focus to create a legitimate artistic movement within Hip-Hop. What Yung Lean and Lil B offer is deconstructive music: rapper and producer have become seamless – lyric is merely another instrument in the music. “Cloud Rap”, the genre of Yung Lean and Lil B, has erased humanity from the music while simultaneously giving us the most authentic presentation of humanity in rap’s history – unpolished mediocrity. Just as Kanye once understood as he ended “Runaway” on a heavily vocoded bridge, we can evoke emotion more powerfully by attempting to erase and conceal it. It’s in the Artificial and the Minimal which we see honesty. All those faggots who say they miss “real music” should be round up and shot for how much they don’t get it.
When the limousine pulled up before the park, I was greeted by another flood of camera flashes and screaming reporters, this time contained behind red ropes. The door was opened by Andre Aquarius, who’d taken a separate vehicle to the scene, and as Kyle and I stepped out onto the red carpet, we were greeted with warm applause. We made the rounds, shaking hands and politely declining journalists before making our way to the staging area. I could feel excitement turning in my stomach; myFather was waiting.
He stood in the reception circle in his shitty tan Boss Hugo suit, drinking a dirty martini with Sean Penn. He only drinks dirty martinis, so I made sure the bar stocked Hendrick’s gin – it never goes well with olive juice. As I approached him, Kyle and Thursday at my side, he turned and did something odd – he smiled at me. His hand raised for a shake – for a moment I felt time halt – and in instinct, I clasped the hand before he pulled me in for a hug. He fucking reeked of Ralph Lauren Polo.
Father: I’ve got to hand it to you, Jared. I don’t get a lot of the things you do, but I think this was a good thing you did. And not a single controversial figure being honored.
He and Sean Penn laughed at his own stupid joke. Any good will I could’ve possibly acquired had been obliterated in moments. He’d never know as I chuckled softly to myself.
“Well, you know, Oblivion wasn’t actually a bad guy. Wrestling’s fake and all.”
Sean Penn: I heard that was a common misconception. Do you mean to tell me that all the warnings and curfews put in place when WCF came to town, specifically to protect people from Oblivion, was all a work?
“Absolutely. The sort of money Seth Lerch spends for these elaborate productions is incredible. In fact, why don’t you ask him?”
The gangly little owner of WSeaF had caught my attention in the crowd, leaned over the plastic mini-bar and ogling the tits of some chubby blonde server while Jason had been attempting to discuss something with him. I raised a finger to point his way, pleased at the look of mild disgust on the face of myFather and that greasy Mick, Penn. Them distracted, I moved on to reunite with Thursday and Kyle, the two of us helping him seal the deal with a redhead hardbody, before an unfortunate looking young woman in a polo and a headset approached me.
Fat Nancy: Mister Holmes, you’re due on stage for your speech in three minutes.
The crowd had begun to thin as people made their way to their seats; I waited with Thursday in the staging area before being given the signal. As his voice rang through the P.A., I threw up a bit in my mouth.
Father: And without further ado, I’d like to present the man behind this gracious project, someone who I am honored to call a son. Please welcome Jared Holmes to the stage.
As the two of us stepped before the crowd, a roar of adoration poured forth from the gathered crowd (later estimates would peg it at five thousand – that’s what I draw in Detroit on a Wednesday). I smiled sheepishly; that’s the sort of modesty you’re supposed to show in these times. Thursday had gone doe-eyed, and I’m pretty sure I could begin to smell her cunt moistening from the experience as we climbed the stage. We wave, turned and kissed for the cameras, then she sat down at the chair placed behind me. On stage, I shook hands with Penn, myFather, Jim Thuggin, Eminem, and Mayor Mike Duggan. Turning back to the podium, I placed my hands, cleared my throat, and began to speak.
“Thank you, everyone, for coming today. I know that in a city such as this, hard work is everything. Detroit was a city of labor – the sweat of man’s brow and back. If you’re here todayyou’re probably on welfare and unemployed you’ve taken time off from your job to attend this ceremony. Get a job, coons. I can only say ‘Thank you’, and ‘I’m honored.’
When I was attending college in Toulane, I remember very vividly a lesson in one of my history classes. The idea presented was the interstate’s contribution to the destruction of the ‘Great American City’. Interesting concept, really: when the interstate connects downtown to suburbia, people will leave the city. It’s, of course, more than ironic that the great automobile city would suffer most from this effect. The problem with Detroit, as we all know, is not suburbia or even downtown: it’s the land between. Everything from Six Mile to Thirteen Mile.
When industry left this city, it killed it; that’s a direct betrayal by this country. We send money overseas, but we can’t spend money to alleviate the suffering in our own backyard. We have money for war, but we can’t feed the poor. And while some people would let you die, would let you falter or drown, I’m not one of those people.”
Pause for applause. It’s an idiotic speech, written on a cocktail napkin while I was drunk last night. Incredible what a few words of encouragement will have people clapping for.
“We at #BeachKrew are known for playing villains on the television program, WSeaF, but while our entertainment personas may be villainous, it is our shared experience and desire to do help others which has brought us together in the months we’ve spent off camera. It is worth mentioning that one of our members, Mister Wade Moor, was raised in conditions of extreme poverty in rural Florida. The misery of being poor is not lost on members of this group, nor is the crime and economic difficulties of those in not only rural Florida but Los Angeles, Chicago, New Orleans, and the other cities we hold dear to our hearts and have raised us as people.
We have turned our vision to Detroit because we believe in this city. We know that the World Wars were won off the back of Detroit. That the blood and sweat of this city greased the wheels of industry. Detroit made us mobile; it kept us safe. It gave its all and asked for nothing in return. Nothing, that is, besides help.
The people of Detroit who still live in these lonesome neighborhoods are the epitome of the concept “up by the bootstaps”. They’ve lived; they’ve loved; they’ve laughed, cried, and toiled to save this city, from mowing its parks to policing its streets. I say to you: we are here to help. We applaud your dedication and hard work for this city; we admire your conviction. And that, my friends gathered, is why I have constructed Holmes Park.
This park will be the first of many installations we shall be undertaking here in Detroit, committed to enhancing the Oblivion Foundation’s goals of providing creative outlets for at-risk youth. In addition to giving the DTE Energy Foundation Detroit Youth Baseball League a permanent home, in collaboration with Detroit PAL, we are pleased to announce the Rico Rojas Memorial Sculpture Garden and Art Wall, a public venue for young and aspiring artists to express themselves rather than vandalize public property. Finally, the Holmes Park Security Team will be creating hundreds of new, good paying jobs for citizens to protect the sanctity of this park.”
Another pause for applause.
“Lastly, we shall be opening an office for #BeachKrew LLC and the Oblivion Foundation downtown, offering new venues of commerce and economic growth while providing community outreach programs to discourage youth involvement in gangs and crime. These ventures shall be entirely funded by myself, #BeachKrew, the Oblivion Foundation, and the many generous donations we’ve received this year without taking a single tax-payer dime; that money can go to public institutions where it is so desperately needed.”
A true God understands creation is as important as destruction. You, Atreyu? You understand nothing about Godhood. You’re a failure with suck-goggles on who can’t bear to look in the mirror so he’s inflated his own stocks mentally. I wave my hand, I give a dying city a breath of air. I wave my other hand, I break your neck. Creation and destruction, all in one man.
“I’d like to thank the many generous donors who have contributed to this project and those who have attended this impromptu ceremony today. Thank you to Mr. Sean Penn, Mrs. Melinda Gates, Mr. Jimophy Thuggin, Mr. Jeffery Sachs, and – of course – my father, Mister Edward Holmes.”
I choke back vomit. It would really kill the vibe if I gagged on stage after saying my old man’s name. Luckily, the time had come for the massive pair of novelty scissors to be handed to me. Thursday rose, coming to my side and following me down the steps as I approached the ribbon, opened the shears, and sent the biggest message I could to my enemies: I’d found them, I was staying, and I was invested in starting a war. As the crowd burst into applause, I turned to kiss Thursday then handed the scissors over to some lumpy volunteer so I could shake hands and kiss babies.
I saw him in the crowd, watching from the back, his phone in his hands. Our eyes locked – I smiled, and he did not. My phone buzzed in my pocket, and a message smiled up at me from the screen.
“Joseph Malignaggi
Alrite fgt im here the fucc u want?”
I sent back a message and turned back to the crowd, plucking a fat little nigglette from its mother’s arms to pose for a picture with. Somewhere in the crowd, Joseph Malignaggi’s phone would go off, and he’d see my reply
“Jared
Quicken Loans Building. Roof. Two hours.”
Ke$ha: Christ… I haven’t been fucked like that since my producer slipped me one.
The morbidity of the joke hardly phased me – I’ve never been one for pillow talk. Within seconds of shooting my wad into the maligned pop star, I was reaching for a joint. I sat up, the warm body obliging me the freedom of movement, and placed the twisted gold leaf tip of the blunt to my lips. With a flick of the Bic, the exotic and spiced aroma of Blue Velvet filled the room, perfectly complimenting the deep, sweet taste of the Remy Martin I used to chase the toke. As she took the joint from my hands, a single finger traced down my arm and to my chest, leaving a path of body glitter like a slug’s slime trail. This is about what I expect from a woman who gave me a rainbow party by herself an hour ago. She giggled and cooed as I brushed at it in vain, her delicate sparkling fingers raising the blunt to take a drag of her own.
Ke$ha: Goddamnit, Jared, you score the best shit.
Even pillow talk complimenting my drugs is still pillow talk – I rose out of bed and let the night air roll over my skin as I walked to the fragmented remains of the hotel window and gazed out at the Detroit evening. Far below on the street, the piecemeal remains of a shattered television set smiled up at me like an old friend – a reminder of a fleeting moment of fun over all too soon. Atreyu could learn from this television – it’s all flying and fancy until you hit the pavement. Joy replaced by terror replaced by nothing. You should’ve told him to jump, Benjamin; you damned that poor would-be jumper to a continued life. The John Oliver Show had been playing when the bitch and I hucked the box; do you think he felt the impact?
Still, I could hardly be bothered to empathize with an inanimate object when there was unbroken furniture and the artist of “Tik Tok” lying in my bed not completely gazed in my semen. As I turned back to the room, I took a moment to admire my handiwork: the inoffensive landscape paintings trashed with crude Sharpie drawings, the empty television cabinet covered in blow, the minifridge missing a door – quarter-full bottles shoved haphazardly into the cooler along with half-eaten pot brownies, and (of course) the shattered glass coffee table above a spot on the carpet soaked with urine (the dumb bitch went on about “House of O-pee-lia” or something. Mental Note: rave sluts half-crazy on ketamine peeing on your carpet before drunkenly careening through a glass coffee table is both lulzy and pretty hot).
I’d outdone myself. Still, no rest for the wicked.
I flopped back onto the bed just as she sat up; when she tried to snuggle down, I sat up and reached for my drink and blunt which was now smoldering undisturbed in the ashtray. Looking down at the sheets and bedspread, I noticed my chest and crotch were not the only victims of a body glitterbomb. An imagine floated through my mind of some underpaid maid openly weeping at the mess; with any luck, her tears would mirror those of good ole Benjy after the bell rang on Sunday. As Ke$ha rolled over and began playing with herself, I wondered what was arousing me most: her, the thought of the maid, or the thought of Benjamin Atreyu failing to make the finals of the Trilogy Cup for the first time in his life. Before settling on an answer, the scream of the alarm clock tore me to the land of the living – laying next to Thursday in my unblemished hotel suite.
At the sound of the buzzer, Thursday bolted upright as she always does. She smiled, and I was received with a good morning kiss before she bounced out of bed to start the coffee. My head throbbed from last night – the mixture of MDMA and Courvoisier XO I’d been consuming was ugly. Still, it hardly throbbed as hard as my other head, still more than excited from fantastic dreams of cum-hungry pop stars, crying maids, and a lifeless Benjamin Atreyu. Both were easily killed in one stone: Thursday knows I like my coffee spiked heavily with Bailey’s, and with a pinch of her ass, she was on me like a fly on shit. After getting my rocks off, I rolled out of bed and trundled to the shower, my arm draped over her shoulders for support. In the bathroom, I cracked another Budweiser as she got the water to temperature, then we took a shower while I fucked her again. This is my day-to-day morning routine.
Out of the shower, I dried myself and put on new clothes as Thursday loitered in the bathroom, applying thick eyeliner (like I like it) and ruby red lipstick (which I also like). Her voice rang out, angelic and musical – she wanted something.
Thursday: Hey Jarebear?
“What?”
Thursday: You said you’d take me out shopping this week.
“I can’t, I’m busy.”
Thursday: But you promised! There’s this great new floral print dress from the Dolce & Gabbana summer collection, and I was gonna get some more of those lacey see-through thongs you like and always tear off.
Inside, I groaned. I could hear her stupid puppy dog eyes and pouty lips in her tone. I snatched the envelope of last night’s fight purse off the bedside table and tossed it into the bathroom.
“All yours. Have fun.”
She squealed in delight as I resumed ignoring her. As I fumbled for my sunglasses, the usual buzz of my phone went off. A message was on the screen:
“Jim
GOOD MORNING FAVORITE EARTH CHILD AND HARBINGER JARED. THE PRESS HAS ARRIVED DOWNSTAIRS. LIMOUSINE IS READY OUT FRONT WITH EARTH CHILD KYLE. I SHALL AWAIT YOU OUTSIDE YOUR HOTEL ROOM DOOR SO AS TO ESCORT YOU SHOULD ANY OF THE JOURNALISTS BE AGGRESSIVE.”
I placed my phone in my pocket and stepped into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Thursday hadn’t gotten dressed yet, so I dropped her towel and fucked her once on the sink for good luck. When we had finally gotten ready, I opened the door to my hotel room and stepped out with Jim on my left and Thursday on my right. The lobby was a veritable feeding frenzy – it was just as I liked it.
Reporters shoved and clawed one another to get close to me, maybe even hoping to touch a god amongst them, as I made my way through the crowd. With Gable and Andre having awaited me at the elevator, the two of them were able to handily part any scrawny hipster-shit journalists who I didn’t want to be bothered with, not that they couldn’t yell my way.
Reporter: Mister Holmes! Many feel that Benjamin Atreyu is your last true obstacle to winning the Trilogy Cup; should you defeat Mister Atreyu, win the Trilogy Cup, and go on to face Joey Flash or Wade Moor, what will your game plan be?
“Wade is my best friend, and Joey Flash is the best competitor in this business. No matter who I face, I’ll go into the match with my eye on the prize. I’m stronger, faster, tougher, and smarter than I was before my injury, and that was when I survived Hellimination and broke the WAR record. My accomplishments speak for themselves; I just go be me and win.”
Reporter: “Mr. Holmes, your stablemate Kyle Kemp could very well be your opponent in the finals of the Trilogy Cup. If this is the case, what does this mean for #BeachKrew?”
“Kyle is one of my dearest friends, and it’s gonna be an honor facing him. He’ll fold Chance von Crank like an old wallet.”
The reporters were getting louder and more frantic as I pushed through – it was all according to plan. I once heard a story about British tourists throwing five pence coins off a bus going through India and laughing as the children watching beat each other senseless to get the spare change. There was very little difference between this and what I was doing now. From somewhere in the crowd, I heard the breaking of glasses frames and the crunch of a nose as someone ate an elbow to the face.
Reporter: “There are reports you’ve been spending time getting … um … “intimate” with Katherine Phoenix lately. Do you have any comment?”
“Katherine Phoenix is an abused woman in a horrible relationship with racist pervert Andre Holmes. Even still, I would never violate the sanctity of marriage and am happily committed. It’s an insult to all parties involved, especially my girlfriend, to propagate this rumor.”
Reporter: “What do you know of Benjamin Atreyu? Give us a breakdown of the fight.”
You hearing this, Atreyu? Do the world a favor and quit like Twilight – save yourself the embarrassment. You’re already the least interesting member of an anemic stable, and you’ve already shit the bed on the one big shot you had. How about you go back down a peg and give your old buddy Vengeance the good reach around; you can beat him, right? Or is that when you choke because it’s a match with consequence? What the fuck are you doing in this tournament? What were you doing in Final Destination? Easy answer: filling space. Fodder for the winner.”
“Benjamin Atreyu has been a solid opponent in this federation for years and will make this competitive. I’m confident my superior speed and intelligence will give me the edge in this fight. Place your bets now: Six God over the Mad God.”
Reporter: “There are reports that you’ve rigged the tournament to benefit you, can you comment?”
And let me point out how I did all the heavy lifting on my own match? You wanna talk about me siccing Rabid on Dune or attacking Tiffany White, how about we talk about how I gave it to Sarah up the poop shoot? All these #fuccbois left in the tournament ought to be suckin’ my dick for getting them this far. This tournament has been in #BeachKrew’s bag since day one, and it’s all my doing. And I’m gonna screw Chance this round too as I beat Atreyu like a faggot in Wyoming, just to prove this was always mine.”
“I earned my victory in Round One through hard work, something I can’t say for my opponents. I promise that so long as I am in this tournament, I will continue winning through hard work without taking any personal shortcuts.”
As I approached the limo, Jim stepped before me to open the door, the figure of Kyle Kemp lurking just inside. Thank god for sunglasses – the flashing of bulbs had reached a fever pitch as I approached my escape, the maelstrom of thirsty bloggers and alcoholic journalists reaching a fever pitch. But all things considered, I’d accomplished all I needed: kept my impulses in check, given the smile, given the wink, given the token answer, and given them the image of me they wanted or expected. Until a final voice rang out through the crowd.
Reporter: Hey, so what if you lose, considering your other singles losses?
I’m not sure what happened or why it bothered me so much. Normally, I’d have called the guy a virgin and given him the finger. As my body tensed, turned, and began shoving through the crowd, I couldn’t quite understand my own reaction as much as anyone. I have no idea why I suddenly decided to see red and take that perfectly curated façade of control and cordiality to smash across this faggot’s face. Needless to say, by the time I had the scrawny little peasant by the collar, he’d dropped his camera and began cowering in fear.
He was miserable: 5’6” at most and probably topping in at 145 lbs (maybe more if his jacket concealed a beer gut – I’d drink too if I looked like that). With a flick of my fingers, I could’ve knocked his glasses to the ground, though considering they were Oxygen brand, he wouldn’t be losing too much money. He was another wannabe contrarian blogger: he didn’t have the clothes or the swagger to be a salaried writer or even a freelancer. In fact, as I cocked my fist back to hit him, I almost pitied him – a weekend warrior who spouted off at the wrong guy, thinking he was safe. What did Iron Mike once say? Something about “I’ll fuck you until you love me?”
Either way, Gable and Andre’s hands were on me, restraining me and leading me back to the car before I could catch an assault charge. The flash of lightbulbs intensified as onlookers gave out gasps of horror. I heard myself still screaming, all pretenses removed.
“YOU PIMPLY LITTLE FAGGOT, YOU DON’T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT MY RECORD! I BROKE THE WAR RECORD! I CAME IN THIRD AFTER WRESTLING TWICE THAT FUCKING NIGHT? DID GEMINI-FUCKING-BATTLE WRESTLE TWICE?! WHAT ABOUT OMEGA OR WADE, HUH?! DID PRECIOUS LITTLE TEDDY BLAZE DO HALF AS WELL AS ME? I’LL FUCK YOUR GIRLFRIEND, YOU WEASLY LITTLE PUSSY! I BEAT SARAH TWILIGHT! I MADE THAT BITCH SING! YOU CAN NEVER DO WHAT I DO! TEO CAN’T DO WHAT I DO! BENJAMIN FUCKING ATREYU WILL NEVER DO WHAT I DO!”
With a hard shove, I tumbled back into the limousine and came face-to-face with a slammed door. As the limousine peels away, Kyle laughs at me.
Kyle Kemp: Shit, someone didn’t wake up on the good side of the bed.
I was tempted to tell him that my morning was ruined by waking up to finding out I hadn’t actually been sodomizing Ke$ha and destroying my hotel room. I didn’t think he’d understand.
“Hangover.”
Reaching to his right, Kyle clasped the slick handle of a large glass pitcher, raising it and tilting it in my direction.
Kyle Kemp: Breakfast is served, bro.
In a moment, a Bloody Mary was in my hand, and I was totally placated. We sat in silence for a moment, both staring at one another behind our sunglasses. I wondered what he was thinking – had similar thoughts run through his head as they’d just ran through mine? Did he know that the finals of the Trilogy Cup Tournament would likely be Jared Holmes vs. Kyle Kemp, and was he planning his way of screwing me? I have to hand it to Kyle, as much as some would discount him as the weak link in #BeachKrew, he’s the ultimate performer in the clutch. I didn’t worry about Benjamin Atreyu; he’d be dealt with. Kyle Kemp, on the other hand, could do anything. Or maybe he wouldn’t; maybe he’d lay down.
He broke the silence.
Kyle Kemp: You ready to shove that gray-haired fruit cup’s face in?
A smile crossed my lips; no tension this round.
“That’s a question?”
Kyle Kemp: Never hurt to ask.
“In Atreyu’s case, asking ‘Can I go to the Trilogy Cup Finals again?’ is exactly what’s going to hurt. No, ‘Benjy’, you’re not going to the Finals again. It’s time we spare you the abject humiliation of having your hopes and dreams crushed on the big stage. Skyler Striker? Like, fuck me, who even is that? I did some research, and here’s what Skyler Striker is known for (besides having a stupid alliterative name):
Losing like a bitch.
Seriously, this guy’s big crowning achievement is pretending to be Biohazard to get a shot at some other nobody called Jack of Blades. Then he bums around the nothing divisions like Hardcore before disappearing, reappearing to get the TV Title and actually lose it in a tag match, then beats you. Think about that for a moment, ole Benjy ole pal: this guy ate the pin in a tag match and lost the Television Title.”
Kyle Kemp: Wait, seriously? People actually lose the belt in those sort of matches?
“Right?! That’s what I’m saying; that’s a staggering level of bad. That’s embarrassing. Your old buddy John Gable was even the one to do it. Then what happens? He beats you and Ana Valentine before being thrust into a three-way match with Sarah Twilight and Odin Balfore, which he loses.
And the funny part? He didn’t even lose the match, Odin did. In fact, he lost a match to Odin which allowed Odin in the match. That’s a level of incompetence out of a comedy movie. And that walking failure of a washed-up wrestler was what killed your little run, Atreyu. No chance at redemption, no comeback. You toiled away slinking around the SPAC and riding the coattails of Waylon Cash and John Gable until you prove you’re the weak link when you shit the bed against Remus for the US Title. Then you have the chance to get back into the Trilogy Cup again and … you eat the pin. Good job, sport; in a match full of people no one remembers, you’re the one who ate the pin.
The only thing ‘mad’ and ‘god’ about you is ‘Goddamnit, it’s maddening how little Atreyu deserves anything he’s received since he came back to the WCF.’ Apparently, a ‘God’ is the kind of guy who gets briefly retired by a woman. Apparently, a ‘God’ is the guy who everyone hypes and maybe even gives slivers of hope before falling back into the same patterns of maddening inconsistency. You’re not a ‘Mad God’; you’re chaos. You’re hot and cold, here today and gone tomorrow. That’s not ‘God Given Greatness’, it’s mediocrity.
That shit is Smirkin’ Jack Coston.”
Kyle raised an eyebrow.
Kyle Kemp: Who the fuck is that?
“Exactly. Who the fuck is Smirkin’ Jack Coston? Coston was some scrub who also came from St. Paul – it’s like the state produces chronically bad wrestlers. Coston is known for one thing: almost beating Kaz Mazy for the United States Title before Ultimate Showdown last year. Razor-thin match, and Kaz retained by disqualification. So what happens? This nobody’s stock shoots through the roof, and everyone expects him to win the Wild Card Battle Royal the next week. Then what happens?”
Kyle Kemp: This is a rhetorical question, right? Like, this is why I don’t remember this guy?
“Yep: he shits the bed, and Tommy Bates wins the match. Where does Coston go from there? The dumpster. He was a one-trick pony who got cold feet and buckled under the expectations under him. Good kid in a m.A.A.d. city who couldn’t take the heat. You, Atreyu? You’re only a three-count away on Sunday from following in his footsteps.
No, Benjamin, I don’t have faith in you to give me a good challenge. I don’t even have mild expectations of a close match. I see this going one way: I win. Ding-ding-ding, the winner is Jared Holmes. This match has been mine from the start; the moment I gave Sarah Twilight an absolute thrashing and ended her career, the writing was on the wall. When it comes to you? Well, I don’t take much from someone who beat Occulo. I don’t expect you to talk, Benjy, I expect you to die. I expect you to choke like George W. Bush on a pretzel, but there won’t be any Secret Service agents to give you the Heimlich.
And thus will conclude another sad chapter of Benjamin Atreyu trying to trip his way into success. It must be a monotonous song and dance for you at this point, huh? How many times can a man embarrass himself or win by losing before everyone knows he’s full of shit, after all? Can I set a record straight here? You didn’t “get to the finals” in the Trilogy Cup, Benjy.”
Kyle tilted his head, his brown firming in curiosity.
Kyle Kemp: Wait, what?
“Yeah, go check the record. Double count-out between Atreyu and Ana Valentine.”
Kemp’s mouth dropped open.
Kyle Kemp: You’re fuckin’ with me.
“Nope. That’s what’s so funny about this: Benjamin Atreyu isn’t a ‘veteran’ of the Trilogy Cup Finals – he’s an intruder. A squatter. An outside posing as an insider. You didn’t earn your way into the Finals in 2013, Benjy – you tripped into them because someone had to win. And when we think about it, it makes perfect sense why you then proceeded to fuck it all up when the heat was on. This wasn’t your scene – you didn’t belong here. Just like Smirkin’ Jack Coston, you had a little luck fall in your favor. Now we’ve come to the point where this is all being put to the test.
Don’t worry, I’m sure it won’t slow your credibility at all. It’s not like being a fuck-doll in the Final Destination match prevented you from getting this shot. Can we also talk about how you didn’t belong in that at all? If you traded all these failed opportunities in for strictly Television Title shots, you’d be looking like Bonnie Blue, another major loser in the loser pantheon of shitty, overrated loser talent who work for nothing and lose it all anyway.
You get this much applause: you won the battle royal to get in this year. Congratulations, you did the minimum requirement. In round one, you get thrown against a man who lost that same fucking battle royal, which makes me question what the point of it was in the first place. The result? A smooth sailing first round bye. A man you’d beaten the work before and put up the most anemic of efforts this side of the French military. Let me spell out exactly what that means for your overall credibility: d-i-c-k-s-h-i-t. And when you lose this match, you’ll probably advance a few rounds in the Trios Cup tournament, carried by KL Henson, before you choke up and fail, only to get a Television Title shot and maybe win that because Tiffany White is garbage. I won’t undersell you there: you can beat her. But that’s still like watching two retards slap-fighting on the playground: the fat one is the safe bet.
None of this matters because you’ll always find someone to leach off of as a lifeline. It was SPAC before: riding the tails of John Gable to success. Now? It’s KL Henson. It’s a noticeable pattern for anyone who bothers to follow your career, which I’ve been doing while trying to help my insomnia. Tag along little brother Benjamin Atreyu, the idiot monster rolled out to scare children. The dancing bear. Some people look at you and see a God. Me?
I see a shadow.
It doesn’t matter whether or not it’s John Gable or KL Henson, you can’t function without a second. We all saw it first-hand this year: you can pick off stray sheep like Vengeance, but you can’t take on the big dogs. You’re a pack animal, Atreyu, and not in the way I am. Not like us at #BeachKrew. We’re a collective which is greater than the sum of its parts, which is staggering because those parts are all firing on all cylinders. But as much as we’re greater than the sum of our parts, you will never be greater than the group you’re in. That’s what sort of pack animal you are: a beta. You’re the follower who needs a shepherd to lead him, someone to give him direction and purpose. On your own, you’re as boring as the city you’re from, so what do you do? You latch on to a shark. Benjamin Atreyu, the remora.
The wake swimmer.
The shadow. You’re half a man. A little brother who stands in the shadows of those next to him. Some people take that analysis as something to drive towards. Maybe you fancy yourself a Howard Black, a talented wrestler with a respectable singles career standing side-by-side with a man much taller than him. You think you’re lost. You think you just need your moment to step out and live in the sun as your own person. But when you have that chance – when the spotlight hits and the lights come up – you freeze. Let me remind you how the story of Howard Black ended: he choked. And when he came back, he understood who he was: a prop at Occulo’s side. You’re a twin. A twin to Gable. A twin to Henson. A twin to whomever you’ve chosen to partner up with and further your career. But you never are “the group”. When one thinks of SPAC, they think of Waylon Cash. When one thinks of House of Ophelia, they think of KL Henson. So where are you, Benjy? You’re the contented second fiddle. The lesser twin. The midget. You want answers to why your career isn’t shit? There it is: you don’t act like it.
Do you even realize who you’re dealing with? You can spout off about being the “Mad God” or “God Given Greatness”, but you’ll never hold a candle close to the “Six God”. Here’s what a God really is: I clap my fucking hands and people jump. When I come back from the dead, my entrance is greeted with rose petals being thrown at my feet. I rub elbows with Joey Flash and get everyone on the fed putting my name on their tongue. With a snap of my fingers, Katherine Phoenix will spread her legs. With a fucking tweet, I send Dag or Andre Holmes into a frothing rage. I have ZMac giving me props on Twitter and the World Champion admitting I’m the most dangerous man in the federation. When they want to take me out, they send Dune to fucking do it.
That, Benjamin, is what the work of a god looks like.
The entrance of a god is not followed by ‘Who is that guy again?’
The answer that follows, of course, is ‘Uh, well I think he was Head of Talent Relations?’
‘I thought that was Katherine Phoenix?’
‘No, she was Assistant to Talent Relations.’
‘Oh, so she was Benjamin Atreyu’s assistant?’
‘Well, no, see he passed it onto this weird guy K.L. Henson.’
‘Oh, right! So, uh, what did he do then?’
‘I mean, he had this feud with Vengeance or something, then he got into the Final Destination match.’
‘He did? I remember Spencer Adams, Johnny Rabid, Steve Orbit, and Logan being in that.’
‘Right, well Benjamin Atreyu and Bonnie Blue were in it, too.’
‘Oh. Gotcha. So after that?’
‘Well he won this battle royal and now he’s in the semi-finals of the Trilogy Cup.’
‘Oh, well he must’ve beaten some big names.’
‘Kinda. Like, he beat Tiffany White before that and beat Occulo to advance, but between that he lost to Katherine Phoenix in a Triple Threat.’
‘I mean, can’t blame a man for losing a Triple Threat.’
‘Sure, but he took the pin.’
‘Oh… so he’s got no chance, huh?’
‘Basically.’
It’s sort of fun punctuating your flaccid record with that loss to Katherine Phoenix – you couldn’t even keep up with Teo del Sol. And trust me, that’s saying something: it took me being double booked to lose to that guy.”
Kyle’s hands rose, slowly clapping together. Only natural – I like to think everyone in our little clique is in awe of me when I’m at full power.
Kyle Kemp: Someone is ready to go.
“I’m not just ready to go, I’m practically drooling over it. I’ve spent too long cutting my teeth and calling the shots to let this faggot step between me and the World Title. You, Atreyu? This means nothing to you. You have the safety net of your little fun bunch who no one gives a fuck about. There must be an incredible sense of relief in not being important or talented; no one is jealous and trying to tear you down. No one wants to see you fail because no one cares if you win or not. You’re as ineffectual as the Nietzsche wannabes you’ve shacked up with; another card lost in the shuffle of every other #fuccboi group from Rebellution to the Family to the Pride who was formed because of #BeachKrew. For all the shit you people talk, #BeachKrew still continues to define this fed’s life and purpose.
Know what’s Godhood? That shit. Without even getting in the ring, I’ve changed this federation in more ways than you ever could. Me.”
Kyle Kemp: Us.
“Us. You’re not stepping into the ring with Los Tiburones; you’re stepping into the ring with Jared Holmes. The Architect. The Six God. The Harbinger of the #FuccboiGenocide. You think that just because this is the first time I’m stretching my legs as a singular force of domination that I’m not the biggest threat in this tournament? That I’m not the biggest threat in this company? Google that shit: I am. ‘Jared Holmes Most Dangerous WCF’ gets you one million hits. ‘Benjamin Atreyu Most Dangerous WCF’ gets you one thousand, and they all mention how you’re stepping in the ring with ‘the Most Dangerous Man in the WCF, Jared Holmes’.
Don’t pay attention to anyone telling you that this is your match; they’re lying. No one believes you’ll win this; they want you to win because they’re scared of what happens if I do. I don’t need to photoshop your head onto a My Little Pony to embarrass you; I’ll embarrass you just fine in the ring. Let me lay your corpse down next to Sarah Twilight’s on my climb to the top. You’ll form the foundation of my temple.
There’s no Mad God here, only the Six God.”
Kyle laughed, shaking his head slightly before tilting his Bloody Mary to his lips.
Kyle Kemp: Fuckin’ aye, Jared, I’d hate to be him.
“And I’d hate to be Chance. You ready for this?”
Kyle Kemp: Yeah, I got some plans.
“Need more?”
Kyle Kemp: I’ll let you know. So when’s this thing start, anyway?
“This thing” Kyle is referring to is the ribbon cutting ceremony for Holmes Park, here in Detroit. It’s my latest philanthropy project, a spanning outdoor utopia featuring a playground made of state-of-the-art corrosion-resistant metal, an incredibly diverse selection of flora chosen for its entertainment and educational value, a sculpture garden featuring the works of local artists (including a large mural to the Detroit hip-hop scene and its great artists), and three baseball fields. With a wave of my hand, I brought this park to life in a single week. Run by the Oblivion foundation, I’ve just created jobs for a struggling city.
Of course, there’s more to it than that.
My feelings of antipathy towards Atreyu placed aside, I can better soak in the familiar atmosphere of the limousine. Kemp and I are both dressed to our best, naturally: Giorgio Armani suits, Rolex watches, Gucci sunglasses, and Artioli leather shoes. The music is the new Yung Lean album, Warlord, which – while Kyle doesn’t care for any of it – is a significant lyrical upgrade from his previous album. On the first couple of listens, I don’t know if it has any of the emotional poignancy of Unknown Memory, but it has some surprisingly listenable tracks. Unlike former Yung Lean works which tend to get indulgent or just a bit too dirgy, this album is cover-to-cover full of bangers. But I’m sure you don’t care about that.
If there’s one thing I’d like to discuss with Atreyu, it’s Yung Lean; from what I’ve read about him and seen, I think he may actually have some sort of insight. Then again, I may be giving him too much credit; not even everyone in #BeachKrew understands why I listen to Yung Lean. It’s funny to me – without Yung Lean, I probably wouldn’t have developed a.k.a. borrowed the #BeachKrew aesthetic. When one listens to a Yung Lean record, they tend to find a drugged-out beat with some sixteen-year-old mumbling to himself. This is only half correct; it’s missing the point.
When one discusses Lil B ‘The Based God’, more important than any lyrical contribution is that he’s in fact negated lyrics as a necessity to Hip-Hop. After years of geriatrics saying “rap isn’t music”, it took the destruction of the lyricist as focus to create a legitimate artistic movement within Hip-Hop. What Yung Lean and Lil B offer is deconstructive music: rapper and producer have become seamless – lyric is merely another instrument in the music. “Cloud Rap”, the genre of Yung Lean and Lil B, has erased humanity from the music while simultaneously giving us the most authentic presentation of humanity in rap’s history – unpolished mediocrity. Just as Kanye once understood as he ended “Runaway” on a heavily vocoded bridge, we can evoke emotion more powerfully by attempting to erase and conceal it. It’s in the Artificial and the Minimal which we see honesty. All those faggots who say they miss “real music” should be round up and shot for how much they don’t get it.
I’m getting ahead of myself – the Ribbon Cutting Ceremony.
When the limousine pulled up before the park, I was greeted by another flood of camera flashes and screaming reporters, this time contained behind red ropes. The door was opened by Andre Aquarius, who’d taken a separate vehicle to the scene, and as Kyle and I stepped out onto the red carpet, we were greeted with warm applause. We made the rounds, shaking hands and politely declining journalists before making our way to the staging area. I could feel excitement turning in my stomach; my
He stood in the reception circle in his shitty tan Boss Hugo suit, drinking a dirty martini with Sean Penn. He only drinks dirty martinis, so I made sure the bar stocked Hendrick’s gin – it never goes well with olive juice. As I approached him, Kyle and Thursday at my side, he turned and did something odd – he smiled at me. His hand raised for a shake – for a moment I felt time halt – and in instinct, I clasped the hand before he pulled me in for a hug. He fucking reeked of Ralph Lauren Polo.
He and Sean Penn laughed at his own stupid joke. Any good will I could’ve possibly acquired had been obliterated in moments. He’d never know as I chuckled softly to myself.
“Well, you know, Oblivion wasn’t actually a bad guy. Wrestling’s fake and all.”
Sean Penn: I heard that was a common misconception. Do you mean to tell me that all the warnings and curfews put in place when WCF came to town, specifically to protect people from Oblivion, was all a work?
“Absolutely. The sort of money Seth Lerch spends for these elaborate productions is incredible. In fact, why don’t you ask him?”
The gangly little owner of WSeaF had caught my attention in the crowd, leaned over the plastic mini-bar and ogling the tits of some chubby blonde server while Jason had been attempting to discuss something with him. I raised a finger to point his way, pleased at the look of mild disgust on the face of my
Fat Nancy: Mister Holmes, you’re due on stage for your speech in three minutes.
The crowd had begun to thin as people made their way to their seats; I waited with Thursday in the staging area before being given the signal. As his voice rang through the P.A., I threw up a bit in my mouth.
As the two of us stepped before the crowd, a roar of adoration poured forth from the gathered crowd (later estimates would peg it at five thousand – that’s what I draw in Detroit on a Wednesday). I smiled sheepishly; that’s the sort of modesty you’re supposed to show in these times. Thursday had gone doe-eyed, and I’m pretty sure I could begin to smell her cunt moistening from the experience as we climbed the stage. We wave, turned and kissed for the cameras, then she sat down at the chair placed behind me. On stage, I shook hands with Penn, my
“Thank you, everyone, for coming today. I know that in a city such as this, hard work is everything. Detroit was a city of labor – the sweat of man’s brow and back. If you’re here today
When I was attending college in Toulane, I remember very vividly a lesson in one of my history classes. The idea presented was the interstate’s contribution to the destruction of the ‘Great American City’. Interesting concept, really: when the interstate connects downtown to suburbia, people will leave the city. It’s, of course, more than ironic that the great automobile city would suffer most from this effect. The problem with Detroit, as we all know, is not suburbia or even downtown: it’s the land between. Everything from Six Mile to Thirteen Mile.
When industry left this city, it killed it; that’s a direct betrayal by this country. We send money overseas, but we can’t spend money to alleviate the suffering in our own backyard. We have money for war, but we can’t feed the poor. And while some people would let you die, would let you falter or drown, I’m not one of those people.”
Pause for applause. It’s an idiotic speech, written on a cocktail napkin while I was drunk last night. Incredible what a few words of encouragement will have people clapping for.
“We at #BeachKrew are known for playing villains on the television program, WSeaF, but while our entertainment personas may be villainous, it is our shared experience and desire to do help others which has brought us together in the months we’ve spent off camera. It is worth mentioning that one of our members, Mister Wade Moor, was raised in conditions of extreme poverty in rural Florida. The misery of being poor is not lost on members of this group, nor is the crime and economic difficulties of those in not only rural Florida but Los Angeles, Chicago, New Orleans, and the other cities we hold dear to our hearts and have raised us as people.
We have turned our vision to Detroit because we believe in this city. We know that the World Wars were won off the back of Detroit. That the blood and sweat of this city greased the wheels of industry. Detroit made us mobile; it kept us safe. It gave its all and asked for nothing in return. Nothing, that is, besides help.
The people of Detroit who still live in these lonesome neighborhoods are the epitome of the concept “up by the bootstaps”. They’ve lived; they’ve loved; they’ve laughed, cried, and toiled to save this city, from mowing its parks to policing its streets. I say to you: we are here to help. We applaud your dedication and hard work for this city; we admire your conviction. And that, my friends gathered, is why I have constructed Holmes Park.
This park will be the first of many installations we shall be undertaking here in Detroit, committed to enhancing the Oblivion Foundation’s goals of providing creative outlets for at-risk youth. In addition to giving the DTE Energy Foundation Detroit Youth Baseball League a permanent home, in collaboration with Detroit PAL, we are pleased to announce the Rico Rojas Memorial Sculpture Garden and Art Wall, a public venue for young and aspiring artists to express themselves rather than vandalize public property. Finally, the Holmes Park Security Team will be creating hundreds of new, good paying jobs for citizens to protect the sanctity of this park.”
Another pause for applause.
“Lastly, we shall be opening an office for #BeachKrew LLC and the Oblivion Foundation downtown, offering new venues of commerce and economic growth while providing community outreach programs to discourage youth involvement in gangs and crime. These ventures shall be entirely funded by myself, #BeachKrew, the Oblivion Foundation, and the many generous donations we’ve received this year without taking a single tax-payer dime; that money can go to public institutions where it is so desperately needed.”
A true God understands creation is as important as destruction. You, Atreyu? You understand nothing about Godhood. You’re a failure with suck-goggles on who can’t bear to look in the mirror so he’s inflated his own stocks mentally. I wave my hand, I give a dying city a breath of air. I wave my other hand, I break your neck. Creation and destruction, all in one man.
“I’d like to thank the many generous donors who have contributed to this project and those who have attended this impromptu ceremony today. Thank you to Mr. Sean Penn, Mrs. Melinda Gates, Mr. Jimophy Thuggin, Mr. Jeffery Sachs, and – of course – my father, Mister Edward Holmes.”
I choke back vomit. It would really kill the vibe if I gagged on stage after saying my old man’s name. Luckily, the time had come for the massive pair of novelty scissors to be handed to me. Thursday rose, coming to my side and following me down the steps as I approached the ribbon, opened the shears, and sent the biggest message I could to my enemies: I’d found them, I was staying, and I was invested in starting a war. As the crowd burst into applause, I turned to kiss Thursday then handed the scissors over to some lumpy volunteer so I could shake hands and kiss babies.
I saw him in the crowd, watching from the back, his phone in his hands. Our eyes locked – I smiled, and he did not. My phone buzzed in my pocket, and a message smiled up at me from the screen.
“Joseph Malignaggi
Alrite fgt im here the fucc u want?”
I sent back a message and turned back to the crowd, plucking a fat little nigglette from its mother’s arms to pose for a picture with. Somewhere in the crowd, Joseph Malignaggi’s phone would go off, and he’d see my reply
“Jared
Quicken Loans Building. Roof. Two hours.”
