Post by Benjamin Atreyu on Mar 26, 2016 21:27:10 GMT -5
-March 24th, 2016- -7:30-ishpm-
Amygdala:
1) This almond-shaped structure located in the Limbic section of the brain plays a role in producing and processing emotions such as fear, anger and pleasure. It also helps out with memory, determining which memories are stored in the brain and where.
2) It is the she-bitch of human existence.
3) It is the inner assailant responsible for the constantly remorphing nebulous of bastardize emotions that the brain inflicts upon itself.
4) It is the patron saint of personal satisfaction, bleeding us of our intellect to pray for the false god of animalistic/apathetic behavior.
5) Developed long before the Frontal Lobe of the Cerebral Cortex (the reasoning/impulse control center), the evolutionary process forces us to rely on the aforementioned structure of fat, meat, and electrical signals to make our decisions, leading to a life of instantaneous gratification and personal ruin, creating mistakes we can never undo.
-Before we reason, we must feed.
-Before we solve problems, we must create more.
-Before we understand, we must indulge.
-Before we create, we must consume.
6) By the time the human body can develop its problem solving abilities, the addiction to the emotional center of the brain is too great. Our control, the weaker brother to the mob of Steppenwolf-esque indulgences, must submit. It is the temptation that forces the general populous into fits of fatty binges, lost drug weekends, drunken stupors of willfully ignorant abandon, and the long term addiction of temporary fixes we refuse to purge ourselves of, because then, in the attempt to make ourselves better, the miserable beast that is our disillusionment would greet us at the door, a monster of several heads; self-loathing, disappointment, panic, fear, distrust, doubt...
7) Thrust upon a roller coaster of experience (memories also under the department of this bastard-son of human thought), we, as plain humans, are a mess, destined by a shit existence to act out of spite to keep reproducing the same suffering for others that robbed us of well-adjusted lives.
8) This lethal combination of impulse before control has bled into culture, structuring life to favor the crutch we are born with, assuring the vicious cycle will feed into itself and give birth to such pathetic stains of human existence as-
-The general faceless mob that is the mass public (mouth breathers, mindless sycophants, unconscious utterers of inane opinions, rage spewing snake tongued internet warriors, hipsters).
-The corrupt leadership which pushes agendas with no clearer point than to elevate personal interests (vote Vengeance: Making America Better Than Ever)
-The Relentless (more like reckless) Andre Holmes (responsible for the death of our beloved Mr Holden due to his lack of self-control which he mistakes as a heroic trait).
-Reality show developing cash grabbers who bombard television sets with constant brain numbing stimuli to encourage trends of unthinking generations who's only refuge is the "A E S T H E T I C" fueled culture of catharsis. Leading to whole sects of people digging into these skin-deep attempts at expression for some hopeless want of satisfaction. your living room is my aesthetic - that cereal box is my aesthetic - your hitler portrait is my aesthetic - the paint drying on a wall in a office somewhere in the state of New Mexico while a Thanksgiving day parade passes by unnoticed by a tired old man with thick glasses working endlessly in a cubical to help fund his retirement that been put off by rising costs of living, forcing him into a existential crisis about the wasted years of his life he could of used to perfect a craft that would be deemed valuable by society, that is my aesthetic - feed me distraction mama bird, occupy me, widdle my attention span to nothing, assure the annihilation of true culture and understanding for the sake of nostalgic reflections of sensory-memory - give me what i want, what i crave, never what i need - let me create justifications and excuses that allow me to never grow up and explore the majesty that is the grander universe, because i am too busy recapturing feint echoes of dead media, eating the corpses of childhood...
-The ever unloved Hashtag Beach Crew (you brave men, blazing an unwashed trail as an example of how not to engage in life, but instead, to keep it at an arm's length. Continue to chop away at those vines in the hopes of finding your nirvana, that world of thick glass and plastic, where everything is safely out of reach and displayed for amusement, never to be felt, only taken-in in passing).
-And, of course, Benjamin Atreyu himself.
Living as a slave to the Amygdala in want of reason, Atreyu despises his heart the most. Racked by the erratic nature of his world, drifting to-and-fro from one motivation to the other, Atreyu is often tempted to crumble from his upright position and succumb to the dirt which covers his ungodly existence.
He can feel life's grubby mud-caked fingers as they move along his skin, working their way into his eye sockets and throats, but despite his need to scream, to push away the horrid hoodlum that probes his soul, he lets the world touch him; molest his being; become close; become real. Even as the heat rises under his palm and every nerve ending in his body is screaming at him,
"GET AWAY!
GET AWAY!
GET AWAY!"
he holds his position, bracing himself against the impact of the most violent crash, hoping his vigilance will be rewarded with the godhood he so desperately climbs for. Oh please, what ever runs this celestial machine of cog stars and gear planets, rid me of my dependence on this almond shaped bomb lodged deep in my cranium. Let break free of it. Break free of it. Break free of it.
But there is no reply, and until the day there is, he will continue to sway as the music plays, lazily dancing into a haze of diluted perception, distorted choices blurred as they pass by at unchecked speeds, stretching lines into fractured images that one must guess at or risk being hit.
So, who are we getting this time? Angry Atreyu? Drunk Atreyu? Nihilist Atreyu? Sad Atreyu? Determined Atreyu? Businessman Atreyu? Into which door do we step this week?
Empty Atreyu.
There is no mistaking the cold emotional debt that is traveling through my veins. It is a hollow abrasion tearing through the fabric of my being, keeping motivation, distress, and catharsis away. Worse than the whims of joy or depression, it is the harpy which brings the reality of my addiction to life, makes it feel frighteningly strong, almost unbreakable. Without satisfaction, without the heart-shocking pull of success, I am worthless. Nothing feels real, nothing feels worth doing. I must do this, it is everything. I need this win, Pa rum pum pum pum.
The wind whips around me as I look over the edge. It is a long ways down. A very long ways down. Being that the window was shattered outwards, people are stopping and looking up to see what the commotion is about. I'll eat your sin, Pa rum pum pum pum.
Good.
I turn away from the window and move from the ledge. Looking into the office space, its bareness only brings attention to how people might have, at one time, occupied it for innocuous tasks; trading paper, pens, ink, and around-the-water-cooler jokes as if they were important, as if it was somehow affecting the world. In the open space sits ghosts of busybodies, cubicles, and unrealistic deadlines. In the ethereal photo of the past that is projected by the mind's eye, everything moved as it ever did, plain and simple, giving off the facade that everything was alright.
Now, however, nothing is alright.
This office is empty for a reason, cleared out to fit another purpose, and as I look around the room, that purpose becomes real once more, catching my eye and forcing a sigh.
Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh...
Michael Easton - a gag over his mouth, rope around his throat, and banner stapled to his chest - sits with his hands behind his back, staring at me, driving his gaze into me like a drill. I stare back, my eyes examining him, comparing the before and after of his appearance (before I had him kidnapped and brutalized on several occasions. Fun times, amirite?) What a pretty face, such a shame a scowl and severe bruising has to ruin it.
We could have been friends, Easton.
We could have worked together.
There was no need for what you did.
We understood each other.
But now you're here.
Fucking idiot.
Mumbles something under the gag. Was I thinking aloud? Unfortunately, I lack the curiosity to find out what he wishes to communicate. His utterances have become nothing more than an annoyance lately.
I remember when we first started conversing, he spoke of society as if he were examining it under a magnifying glass, attempting to use the rare power of observation to make sense of it all. It was enlightening and fresh to see someone who saw life as a puzzle with spaces waiting to be filled. It is often taken for granted that everything just is, overlooking the smallest relevant details because they have always been there (laugh not, dear reader, because it is a reminder that we are granted laughter due to the fact we have yet to see how one's Mickey Mouse cap might inadvertently cause the nuclear holocaust which threatens us all on a constant basis).
Though disconnected and often unorganized, his musings were at least insightful, making his abrasive demeanor all the more bearable. After a while, though, he seemed less interested in continuing such discussions, and after the blackmailing (the collapse, the mistake, the corpse in the forest, the shake in the legs at the start of everyday onward), they disappeared altogether. That's when he used his mind to agitate me. It was not enough to blackmail me, he picked at my being in an effort to antagonize. No longer was he examining with that magnifying glass, he was simply burning what was unlucky enough to walk under it; me.
"I really got you, didn't I, Benjyboy?"
"I bet you really wanna knock my teeth in, don't you, buddy?"
"Look at that, God Given Greatness under my foot. I guess that makes me the man who can take away God's gift."
"Oh, better watch it, wouldn't want me to call my connection at the station and have your face on the evening news, would you?"
"C'mon, you piece of shit, untie my hands. Let's go fist to fist. You fucking big-dumb-gorilla of a shit-person. I bet I can still take you even if my left eye is swollen shut!"
"You think beating me senseless...is gonna make you happy...heh...fuck you...I hope a passing mutt pisses on your grave...and a bastard of a bastard...shits in the milk of your legacy."
Memory triggered, impulse received, POW, my fist collides with Easton's jaw for the millionth time. There is nothing pleasant about it, it feels like nothing, anything I use to get from this has been worn to nothing due to repetition. He falls back from his knees onto his side, a groan escapes him.
I want to smile.
I want to enjoy this.
I have that right.
But I feel nothing.
To feel an inkling of anything, I have to remind myself how it got this far (ring ring, message for Mister Atreyu), what this man did to me (I wonder if that corpse is still hanging in the forest), but even then its in-genuine, and whatever twinge of hate I feel is gone. He is another man, one of many. I can barely focus on him as I stand in the room. My mind keeps gravitating towards Jared Holmes COCK SUCKER, and Hashtag Beach Crew FILTHY FAKES. I think about how I want to make everyone of them (including that sonovabitch John 'gobble gobble' Gable) swallow each other's teeth.
I pace back and forth, the world around me melts away and I forget about Easton. I think about the match, the tournament as a whole. I project myself into the future. A future where I have fist-fucked Jared's pretty mouth, going on to win the finals ("...a perennial choke artist in Benjamin Atreyu"), another achievement in my dusty shelf of old glories. Finally getting my shot at the world title, I would be riding an incomparable high.
Two months would pass and the heavens would put down a single light to watch as 'future legend and hall-of-famer' Benjamin Atreyu walked to the ring. Blow traded for blow, the matches monolithic hype would be met tenfold. Benjamin Atreyu is really putting it all on the line tonight. No one would leave thinking that I was some sort of lesser-competitor. HE HITS A SERAPHIM'S CALL! Atreyu nearly threw the man onto the top of his head! I would earn a place in the eye of the on-watching audience, working my way into their memory. He has done it! After years of chasing it, Atreyu has become WCF's World Heavyweight Champion! No longer "hey, its that guy", people would remember "The Mad God", they would remember how I had to win a "fuckin' Battle Royal", "a goddayum tourney", and then "beat da muddafukkin' world champ" to be able to call myself the top guy in the "whole dam comp'ny". Such a golden feeling...
Until I turn and see Easton out the corner of my eye, trying to get himself upright again. Reality comes back. The fantasy crashes inward, and the euphoria of picturing myself as the face of the company drains away to leave the original hollow. None of it happened, stop getting a head of yourself, numb-nuts. I curse myself for getting wrapped up in my own mental delusion. I shake it off and make my way back over to Easton, squatting down to look him in the eye.
That bruising, those bloodstains, the staples in his chest, the swelling, its all difficult to look at, but his stare has never been harder. Could crack stone. I want to flinch, to back up and just lay another kick to his temple, but there would be little point to it, so I keep staring.
"Well, aren't you a fucking mess," I smirk. He mumbles something, but again I refuse to pull out the gag that suppresses his ability to speak.
-MG-
-March 22nd, 2016- -5pm-
"What makes a God, Jared?" I ask, looking into the machine that gave the world '24 truths per second' (as coined by Jean-Luc Goddard [Gable isn't the only fucker who knows things about film, you shit-sippers]),
The wheel spins, the ball bounces along its edges. Angry Atreyu? Happy Atreyu? Contemplative Atreyu? Trashy Atreyu?
Focused Atreyu. Intellectual Atreyu. The socio-conscious dissector of being Atreyu. "Too Good for Typical Shit Talk" Atreyu. The "Kill you with thought bullets" Atreyu. Get on your knees and pray to The Mad God that you're bright enough to keep up.
"Is it his friends? His environment? The amount of times his parents beat him until his fingers curl just so over the piano keys so he can properly play the classical compositions of the greats? Perhaps it is the way the light from the moon illuminates his aura to unlock the 'hidden chakras' allowing him to utilize his true potential in order to conquer this world. Maybe its his walk, his training schedule, his ability to master any given craft, or the way his bone structure and muscle tone make both men and women swoon as he walks by. Could. It. Be. The. Shoes?!"
I smile, "See, what keeps anyone from calling themselves a god? Being that neither you nor I can rip the sun out of the sky, boil the sea, split the Earth, or collapse all of existence into a dense singularity, I think the term needs a reevaluation of sorts, wouldn't you agree?
"Since there is no conclusive proof of a god, in a classical sense of the term at least, there is no objective way to determine if someone is one. We base our views and standards largely on archaic belief-systems who depended on a millennium of purple prose (that unforgivable sin) to construct impossible figures. Said impossible figures made from the weakest edges of man's imagination to inspire a sense of awe, even if untrue, so that man can believe their is truly something grander in the scheme sitting beyond him. OH JOY ON HIGH! PRAISE BE TO WHATEVER REMOVES MY WORLD OF INSIGNIFICANCE!"
Another realm where the Amygdala goes to work; the beast of harsh reality lurks ever-so-close, and when the truth behind our empty lives carries a far too stressful burden, it becomes easy to smile at the sky and think the paint brush of a being too immaculate to imagine in all its forms made it. Logic tastes the rusty blade, and life down below becomes simpler, less harsh, easier to swallow and digest.
On would be surprised to learn what the mind is willing to believe to escape the reality of the situation. Like I'm the 6ix God, or my team of drug-addled ten year olds isn't holding me back, or I can beat Atreyu, I know I can, its like Dustin says, I just gotta BEAVLIEVE! All forms of delusion are accepted in order to replace true unflinching fear.
"Remove those ancient texts," I continued, "and nothing remains aside from expectation. Thus any plumber, electrician, musician, or scientist can refer to themselves as one, and rightfully so. Why can't anyone be a God? Why ISN'T everyone a God, Jared?
"I think you know perfectly well why not. Its not about what IT means, its what WE mean. We say God, not because it is something to measure ourselves with, not because we hold any respect for the figure, but because deep in that forest of the mind, with thick branches where no light can pierce and thoughts run freely, it invokes power. We say God, because words infect the mind like a code; God.exe. < / InspireAwe >. Humans have so little control of their being, its quite funny to watch.
"You still following me, Jared? Oh, I know you are. Despite what your many antics in WCF suggest, a man of complex thought sits under that exterior of cocaine dust and empty sex. You understand exactly what I mean, even if you have no clue where I'm going, but that'll all be covered in time, my sweet baby bird.
"Language, to different tiers of humanity, plays different roles. To the dumb, words are simply what they are, hence why honesty and bluntness is so common among states with lower education averages, such as anything below the Mason Dixon. To the marginally above average mind, words are a tool to communicate and express (the complexity of multiple meanings is explored); it creates poetry, literature, and many other forms of prose. Beautiful, isn't it?
"That is where most stop, but not us, eh, Jared? We have so much farther to go. Its the intellectual elite that understands all words, ideas, concepts, and meanings are a matter of psychology, chemistry, evolutionary development, and that its vast number of parts.
"We see that, you and I, and we use it to our advantage. We play the fiddle and let the others dance. We speak and let them listen, placing the right words in the right spots to send them down the paths we wish. Like a magnificent game of Madlibs. Our pen strikes hearts and fills blank spaces (or faces) with expectations.
"Which brings me to my point. Being a seasoned member of such a realm of thought, I know all too well when one is bullshitting the world. I know the gestures, the wording, the twitches and tells that appear in the face at every repressed word or thought. As a former man of business, I have smiled in front of investors, hiding the words 'this ship is sinking' behind my clenched teeth as I explain to them that everything will correct itself eventually. I know what the game looks like.
"So, I'm glad that, after some time, you decided to drop that bitch boy persona of Los Tiburones. I mean, I would have been quite miffed if you brought that piss-beer version of yourself to the ring against me, because if there is one thing I can't stand, its someone who thinks they can get away with giving me some paper-thin version of themselves.
"But I guess that then begs the question...
"Do you think I'm fucking stupid? Why on earth would someone who dares wear the name 'God', especially one who I know for a fact is smart enough to do his research, be so ignorant as to underestimate the intelligence of his opponent? ESPECIALLY when I've shown, CONSISTENTLY, that I am one of the smartest and attuned minds in this whole fucking organization! When you look at the press and say shit about how 'Benjamin Atreyu is a solid competitor' or whatever it was you vomited forth towards that mob of reporters, how can I not call you on it? It doesn't take a genius to know you and your Not-So-Goodie Mob doesn't think much at all of me. So why do you look at me,
"BENJAMIN
"FUCKING
"ATREYU
"and think I wouldn't catch you on it? Fuck you! Fuck you and your bullshit, because in your attempt to appear open, in your attempt to pull your mask off, you only reveal how processed and digitized the flesh underneath is. Maybe to no one else, maybe everyone else buys it, but you've broken my heart, and I don't know what sits underneath all that plastic, but I will not tolerate a hazy photocopy of the real thing. For them, that's fine, but you are far from being in the green with me. In your want to feel like the smartest guy in the room, you've dropped your pants in front of the one guy who can match you and even EXCEED you.
"How can you be a God, Jared? Tell me, you bug ravaged dog with the heart of a whore. How can you be a God when you can barely master yourself? Everything about you is under a case, like a boy in a bubble who refuses to put authentic flesh to stone. Like a germ-o-phobe who wants everyone to believe he has been cured, yet can't help but sanitize yourself every time the world comes in contact with you.
"Everything from your words to your walk screams to me 'Pour intoxication down my throat and clear me of their disease! I want no more of it today. It came in too close, and I could smell it. I need to be distant, to be so far away that the lights, color, and sounds fade, dripping down into a racing stream that'll carry it off as I coax my brain into going silent against the roar of the constant white noise that is existence.'
"Is that a god, Mirror Ball Messiah? Is that your view of such a title, an indulger of empty pleasures? Is a God so infallible that he can openly consume his vices like an unwatched child, and it'll inspire grandiose visions in the head of his captivated audience? That is a King at best, a man sitting among men, and you disappoint me if that is all you aim to be. Let unambitious men like Gable have their Kingdoms, people like you and I are supposed to be more. GIVE ME THAT FUCKING GOD YOU CLAIM TO BE! Throw away the distant attitude of every hack internet troll. Stop immersing yourself into an ocean distractions, because if that is how you define a God then what is there to reach for?
"Know what? Let me be the Apollo to your Dionysus. If you think a God refuses to engage, then let me engage for you. If you think a God knows only himself and keeps others at bay, then let me embrace the flood, understand it all as it tears at me, and then walk away with the experience, because I'm not scared of the claws that grow from the Earth, you beggar, you dirty vagrant with a cock like a pig's tail! Let me be everything this digital age of half-assed sarcasm and pixelated isolation has taught you not to be. I remember a time when men weren't so pliable to their environment. How can YOU be a god, when culture's signal blasts into your ears and deafens you?
"I saw how alcohol made me weak, so I spat it out. I saw how my walls kept me nodding at my own echo chambers, so I destroyed the room that trapped me in. Unlike you, I attack myself, breaking bones so they can heal stronger. Your whole crew, the one you claim so much pride in, is the biggest symbol of how you refuse to evolve.
"Being God Given Greatness was never a matter of being instantly amazing. Let that be your glass ceiling, to hit your peak early. My moniker was about having the ability to take anything and improve. You all walk around, only thinking of how awesome you all are, while I can't help seeing the faults in my structure, ripping them out and replacing them. When was the last time an ego saved anyone from their downfall? I will best you as you continue to sit, believing the way you've built yourself is 'enough'.
"Heh. Since when should a god ever utter the words 'enough'?
"I often wonder..."
-MG-
-March 24th, 2016- -6pm-
Gein has yelled at me about my prolonged stay in Texas, about how little I've done lately. Going as far as to accuse me of being a dead leg of the team, taking resources and doing nothing for the collective.
Not that he would understand. His world is so far gone from mine that it'd be a miracle if we ever saw eye to eye on anything. However, that isn't important now. I'm staying in Texas for a reason...
Agitated Atreyu. On edge Atreyu. Gnashing his teeth Atreyu. Standing on a tight-rope Atreyu. Clenched fist Atreyu. Wants-to-bite-Jared's-Face-off Atreyu.
...but for the life of me I couldn't keep myself focused on that reason. It pissed me off. Easton had done more to ruin me, but all I wanted to do is tear into Jared. Any time I wasn't being reminded of Easton, his face was replaced with that of that inane pretty boy Beach Crew hack job.
Easton no longer interested me.
I had already beaten Easton.
And beaten him.
And beaten him.
And beaten him.
Its wasn't fair, it shouldn't have felt like the game was over. He needed to break under my foot. After all he has done to me, he didn't deserve to have me move on to someone else.
But that bastard Jared...
The truth is I felt anxiety heaped upon my shoulders. People said a great deal of things about Jared, but rarely was it ever a jab at his abilities in the ring, where it seemed my skills were in open season.
I couldn't sit still. I wandered the halls aimlessly as a mob of Gein's men comically followed behind me, awaiting orders. My blood feels like its boiling under my skin. I thought to myself as I punched a wall out of frustration. The Trilogy Cup is one of the few things I have left, if he takes this away from me, the fuck am I supposed to do? He could go anywhere and carve out a fresh legacy for himself, but the Trilogy Cup is the one thing I hold. 'When Atreyu is signed up for the Trilogy Cup, we're not sure if anything can stop him from getting to the finals'. People should be worried when facing me in this tournament, but if he takes that away, where will I go? Damn him. Damn Hashtag Beach Crew. Damn Seth's booking. Curse them all and let them swallow nails in their sleep.
I could feel my brow automatically furrowed, contorting my face into an ugly grimace. Damn him to hell. I'm The Mad God. What the fuck does he think he can do? I'll find away to shut him up hard.
What about Easton?
Shut up.
He's still there.
Fuck off.
He's a quick drive, how did you forget about it.
I said fuck off.
Jared. Jared. Jared. That vaporwave loving, nostalgiaphiliac mutant child need only wait a few more days. Then he is out of my head forever. For. Fucking. Ever. I kept walking, having given up on keeping track of where I was, I disappeared into my own head. I drifted from spot to spot. There was no reason to fear a room, as long as I occupied The Master and Margarita, I controlled it, and I moved as I saw fit, asserting my dominance as I moved. None of Armand's men dared to stop me as Gein's men stepped alongside me.
The tournament is mine.
That World title is mine.
I will bury this goddamn company in my backyard to get it.
See if a single one of those mother fuckers will find their way out after I light this field on fucking fire.
I walk into a room. On initial inspection, it might have been a break room at one point, but now is a dilapidated pigsty decaying due to a lack of care. This was the sad state of affairs, but as I entered, I wasn't thinking about the broken coffee machine or collapsed table pushed over to one side of the room...
"Jared's got this one in the bag, Atreyu is going to fold under pressure like he always does and disappear like a little bitch. After that, this place will-" spoke one of Armand's unsatisfied lackies. He didn't get to finish because that was when I knocked him in the head with the first thing I grabbed (maybe the former leg to a broken chair?). He went reeling backwards and I followed it up by charging him and taking him down to the ground. Like a seasoned fighter, I was quick to mount and begin my ferocious assault upon his person.
I have no clue whether or not his fellow men were willing to stand up and defend him. I was far to lost in the act, and it mattered little, because if any of the other men dared lift a finger against me, Gein's men would intervene. I was safe to destroy.
Vicious Atreyu. Unforgiving Atreyu. Hateful Atreyu. Snapped Atreyu. The Mad God.
I didn't let up. This was his punishment, and he was to pay it out in full.
You're not better than me, Jared. I'm the fucking Mad God, you giant garbage fire of a human being. This world is a landfill and I'm going to cleanse it. Not for purity, but for my image of utopia. I hope you watch from a hospital bed as I wipe everything you love off of the surface and leave you with the cold hollow reality you deserve. If I could make it possible, I'd rip every indulgence away from you and leave you with nothing. You're not better than me! You're not better than me! You're not better than me!
Before I realized it, I began thinking out loud, screaming at the top of my lungs, "You're not better than me!
"YOU'RE NOT BETTER THAN ME!
"YOU'RE NOT BETTER THAN ME!
"YOU'RE NOT BETTER THAN ME!"
At one point the body under me stopped squirming, no longer trying to grasp at me in an attempt to fight me off, but I didn't stop. Blood caked on my knuckles, I kept hammering on his face until all I could hear was wet thuds. No one dared pull me off. It wasn't until my breath was haggard and my arms hung limp from my sides that they pulled the body out from under me, and there I remained, staring at the floor, wishing I could've gotten a few more hits in.
I looked up at the watching eyes. there was a part of me that wanted to start lashing out, to rip out veins and leave nothing unmaimed.
The Amygdala is an almond-shaped structure located in the Limbic section of the...
I peered back down at the red stain in the carpet, a daze settling in as I took deep uneven breaths.
Developed long before the Frontal Lobe of the Cerebral Cortex...
Realizing my fists were still clenched, I slowly relaxed them, letting the blood circulate through my fingers once more, little droplets of blood from where my nails dug into my palm were almost indistinguishable from the stains left by the man who couldn't keep his mouth shut. Same color and everything. I guess that poem was right, no man is an island.
By the time the human body can develop its problem solving abilities, the addiction to the emotional center of the brain is...
"I'M NOBODY'S GODDAMN JOKE!" I cried out, a universal flinch went through the room, "Everyone got that?" A feint nod.
This lethal combination of impulse before control has bled into culture...
"You," I point at one of Gein's faceless types.
"...Yes?" He hesitantly responds.
"Grab the car and go grab Easton," I rose to my feet, wiping dust and grim off of my shirt and pants, "we're finishing this tonight. I'm done sitting in this shit hole of a state."
Fed-up Atreyu. Finalizing Atreyu. Blunt Atreyu. No-more-beating-around-the-bush Atreyu.
-MG-
-March 22nd, 2016- -5pm-
"You know its kind of funny," I continued, "when I came up with the name 'A Seraphim's Call', it just seemed like a good name to strap to something that was meant to point a guy out cold. See, that was back when I still carried the moniker 'God Given Greatness', so at the time I felt it would come off as more appropriate to associate myself with the highest class of angel, as if to say I was one of the gifted view.
"Now, though, as I stand before you as 'The Mad God', its dawned on me that the name for my finisher has become that much more appropriate, don't you think? See, I'm not sure how familiar you are with Christian Mythology, but as I mentioned before, the Seraphim (or Seraph, or Sārāf, or Seraphus) is the highest class of angel, described as six winged beings flying around the throne of God.
"But what is the call of the Seraphim? None other than 'Holy, holy, holy', over and over again, tirelessly, from the beginning of creation, to the day the eternal clock stops ticking.. Isn't it fitting, Jared? Nothing could make more sense. These flying celestial creatures chanting the praises of yours truly?...
"But I doubt you appreciate references of such a classic nature. I can't blame you, time only move forwards, and with that, there is more and more past to uncover every year. At one point it becomes a chore to try and learn all of it, to try and understand its significance. Leave that to those like me, right?
"No, I'm not trying to downplay your intelligence, but there is something to be said about the differences in our presentations. You're world is very 'here', very 'now', taking a head first dive into the current (the present, and the stream, I figure you, of all people, would appreciate a water joke) and get lost in its eclectic design. You sit on pillars of swirling reforming data, looking down and biting your thumb at me.
"Me? Well, my world isn't entirely devoid of the many turns of modern society, but I like finding my base in what has lasted, what shows endurance, the consistency in life. Can you say this culture you spear head will do any of that? Can it stand up on its own two feet and resist erosion long enough for others to look back and see the relevance it had in their modern world? Or is the base so weak that it'll all crumble in a few years? Its all so in the moment that eventually the moment will change and everything will slip out from under those who picked wrong. So, take a step, test the ground under you. How much can you trust your SeaLyfe ways? How much can you trust your hashtag Beach Crew aesthetic? How sure are you that YOU yourself aren't one of the many things that merely lasts in the strength of a whim, and when the time comes, you won't disappear with the rest of it?
"What kind of God would let that happen to him, King in Yellow? Surely not one who boasts of his own endurance and ability on a weekly basis."
I laugh, a nice hearty laugh.
"Kid, its been a long time since I've had this much to say to someone, a very long time. It feels kind of nice, I won't lie. There are so many times where I've had to dig for material to just fill time while facing six of seven people, but here, I don't find myself having that problem, and there is something glorious in that, my friend. It feels real, but in the most aggressive of ways. Its because there is so much about you that just absolutely disgusts me, but don't take that as an insult.
"You disgust me, because there is so much about you that I like, in case you couldn't tell this far in. You scream potential to me, and by all means you've acted upon a good chunk of it, but goddamn do I see so much waste come out of your exhaust-pipe. You're like a book or movie or musician that I liked, but failed in so many wrong places. If you had just sucked, it would have been fine. Over and done, then I might have been done by now, there would have been no investment, but that wasn't the case. I watched you, there was a part of me that started putting weight behind your actions, and you just took a giant ole' shit on it, didn't you? Don't you just hate that? So take solace in the fact that my disgust for you isn't simply a clear and cut case of me hating your every action.
"Its nice to feel this way again. To feel something beside indifference. There is a part of me that wants to watch you choke on your own blood! HAHA! Isn't that just fucked? But isn't that one of the things that makes some of the greatest matches? What truly carves something out from just being average better than passion and true animosity?
"Its going to feel so good tearing you down and taking your shot at the title away from you, and I'm sure you're thinking the same thing, at least to some degree. I'm sure you wanna take my mug and just splatter it across the high way before we even make it into the ring, right? I wouldn't blame you if you did, and I'd be disappointed if you didn't try, because what else is this kind of hate good for if you can't use it to encourage you to get that win.
"But, despite all this talk, it all boils down to one absolute truth. Only one can walk out a TRUE God. The other is just walking out with a name and a bit more shame to carry along the road. We both know it, and that's what makes this match all that much more exciting, isn't it? Heh. Maybe you don't care. Maybe you'll never see this. I guess its not important. It won't change a thing. Nothing YOU do will change this simple fact...
"There is no 6ix God, only The Mad God."
-MG-
-March 24th, 2016- -7:30-ishpm-
"Just a goddamn mess," I repeat as I grab his face and hold it still, "I'm still deciding if I should bother giving you a chance to have any last words. No one's going to hear them besides me, and I'm not about to share them with the world." I let go of his face and walk away to a separate part of the room. I looked back at Easton and read the long banner that was draped down the front of his body (staples firmly locked it place), I smile with a sense of satisfaction, knowing how great the words were about to look down the side of the building. I have no love to bring pa rum pum pum pum.
Ready Atreyu. Willing Atreyu. Able Atreyu.
"Mike, if you think about it. This all started because you decided to call me, remember? You left me that message and set a whole chain of events in motion that led to this. I'm not at fault for what is about to happen here. You only have yourself to blame." That heals slit wrists of kings pa rum pum pum pum.
Disappointed Atreyu. Blameless Atreyu. Fair and just Atreyu.
"I gave you all of my patience, and in return, you tried to ruin me. What did you think was going to happen? You forced my hand. If I didn't know any better, I would swear this is what you wanted to happen."
I hear him mumble. Its clear he is trying to yell. So badly he wants to speak. Its amusing to watch him squirm, but I figure 'why not'. I move over to him and grab one end of the gag over his mouth.
"I'm going to be merciful, because I think any god should be as such, and I'm going to give you the chance to speak your mind once more, but just so you're aware, you aren't talking your way out of this one. No matter what you have to say, everything is going to play out as planned. So, please, pick your words carefully and avoid wasting my time, because if you think I have much more patience to give, you might find yourself getting cut off pretty quickly."
I tug on the gag and it comes undone, giving Easton the ability to speak once more.
"All I ever wanted was one thing, you sack of shit. I wanted to fight you, but all you've done is hide, waiting until I'm left unarmed and tied up before you start beating the piss out of me." I can feel my muscles contorting to form a snarl on my face.
"Figures, doesn't it?" he continues, "You've never been one for doing things on your own, have ya, Benjyboy? Always needed someone or something. Blake Updegraff IV, Gein, Gable, Waylon, Savage, and now Henson and an army of goons. Why so pitiful, Benjyboy?" He smiles, that son of a bitch is smiling at me. Staples in his chest, half his face swollen to shit, massive blood loss and countless broken bones and this mother fucker has the gull to smile at me.
Displeased Atreyu. Agitated Atreyu. Indignant Atreyu.
"Fuck Gable! Fuck Waylon! Fuck Updegraff! And even Fuck Henson and Gein! Primadonnas, every single fucking one of them. I'm Benjamin Fucking Atreyu! I'll stand out on the balcony of where my legacy will be fixed, piss off the edge, and hit every one of them on the way down."
Easton put one foot under him to rise to his feet, "You're full of piss and vinegar, but all you can do is spit. Your lips can sputter all day, but when I'm dead, I'll at least be dead, you'll still be the same quivering piece of shit you were when I first met you. Face it, Benjyboy, you've been lucky to get anything at all. How much longer could that luck have lasted? Just wake up and join the rest of the world, you're nothing more than a child. A worthless air hog who lives on the backs of better men. Gable is smarter than you. Waylon was tougher than you. Gein is a better fighter than you. Henson is more ruthless than you. Jared Holmes is all of that and more. If I gotta go out, then at least come with me and be honest for once in your life. I know for a fa-"
My hand presses against his chest, forcing him to stumble backwards. For once I see fear in his eyes as his heel clicks against what's left of the window. Both feet fly out into the air and he goes air born.
As he falls out of view, I feel a stabbing of disappointment as its not Easton's face I'm picturing, but Jared's. In my mind, its his neck in the rope. After all this time, my opponent in a single match manages to over take an entire revenge story and make it about himself without even trying.
Before I can react, I hear it. SNAP! That's it, it's over. On the radar of life, his light just went out. I look at the rope, tension pulling it taught. My eyes lead back to where its tied to a support beam, looking steady enough to hold the body.
At this point I'm sure the people outside can read the banner as it flaps in the wind...
BOW BEFORE THE MAD GOD! 15 feet of banner hanging from a corpse, and here I sit on my ass staring at a wall, giving off the heaviest sigh I can recall in recent memory.
Siiiiiiiiiiiigh...
"I remember when wrestling use to be fun," I say to no one, "I remember when all I had to do was come out, act smug, and win matches. It use to be so simple. The crowds would boo, I'd wrestle, get paid, and go home. It was as it was, and you never had to focus on anything besides performing." I sigh again.
And as I watched the world rise around me, the last image I beheld was that of him standing at the edge, looking down upon me. The Mad God in a mad world. Then all went black. -The Book of Easton 5:13, 14, 15
Am I a God yet?
Pa rum pum pum pum,
Rum pum pum pum,
Rum pum pum pum.
