I'm Gonna Die Soon (and I Feel Fantastic!)
Mar 27, 2016 3:06:02 GMT -5
6ix God and "Iron Heart" Ethan King like this
Post by Eddie "Shiro" Felt on Mar 27, 2016 3:06:02 GMT -5
The hunt for truth is not simple. It isn't easy. It never has been; it never will be. Sleepless nights, failed classes, a practically non-existent social life, all of those are just part of the job. Job; I act like this is something I don't want to do. Like someone, or something is forcing my hand; driving me down this path. Like I'm not in control.
I am in control.
I want this.
Still, that doesn't change the fact that every morning when I wake up, when I'm in that sluggish, groggy state between asleep and awake, I forget. Everything I learned, all the time and effort I've put into uncovering something, anything at all, is gone. Like it never existed in the first place, and in those moments I'm at peace. I feel like a normal human being.
Then it all comes flooding back.
Then I look over my shoulder. Then I wonder if I said too much to the wrong person or, if yet again, I'm giving way too much credit to both the people I interact with and the pertinence of the information I may or may not have spilled.
I remember that the water's rising. Up to my neck. I remember that no matter how much I want to give up, to just rest, stop for a moment to catch my breath… I can't.
Best case scenario; I've wasted my life chasing ghosts.
Worst case scenario; I'm right. About everything.
I don't know which scares me more.
"I am awake."
His words came out as gurgles; bubbles rising quickly to the top only to /pop/ at the surface. He opened his eyes and saw the bottom of the sink's bowl, his nose pressed down against the porcelain. Closing his mouth and gripping the side of the bowl as tight as his trembling fingers could manage, he whipped his head backwards, drops of water splashing about the room. His breathing was ragged as he looked down at his still trembling hands clutching desperately to the sink. With a sigh, he loosened his grasp on the bowl and reached into the pool of stagnant water, watching the ripples on the surface.
"I am alert."
Eddie splashed a handful of warm water in his face and inspected himself in the dirty bathroom mirror. Face dripping wet, beads of water careening down his cheeks and splashing silently on the floor below. Eyes wide; eyelids drooping. Weak, plastic smile bolted loosely onto his face.
He'd escaped his first Slam as a WCF employee mostly unscathed. Psycho Dragon had landed a shot that dropped him hard earlier in the night; he was sure he'd be feeling that in the morning. Though, he couldn't keep his mind off the events that transpired later in the night, well after their victory.
What was it Joey had said?
"Pride comes before a fall."
He felt sick to his stomach.
"They're gonna fuckin' kill us," Eddie muttered to himself, shaking his head. "No way they let that slide."
He slapped himself in the face and leaned in closer, staring a hole through his own reflection. His knuckles were white as a sheet, fingers once again wrapped around the bowl of the sink. His knees were weak, buckling with each breath.
"I'm going to be fine."
He wanted to laugh at himself. This whole situation was fifty shades of ridiculous. Here he was, losing his mind in the middle of a shitty hotel bathroom in Colorado Springs. Trying to convince himself he could go up against #BeachKrew, a gang of all-stars who ate rookies like him for breakfast. Like him was even an overstatement; the rookies #BeachKrew had already rolled over were much better.
He gritted his teeth. "I'm going to be fine."
No matter how many times he repeated those five words, he couldn't shake what he saw every time he closed his eyes.
He saw Johnny Rabid skipping rope with his entrails.
Wade Moor punching his head right off his shoulders.
Dustin Beaver squeezing him so hard his eyes pop out of their sockets before nailing a picture-perfect Beaver-to-Belly.
And those were just the three The Pride attacked.
This was gonna suck.
"Get it together," he growled at his reflection. "You let them know you're afraid, and you've already lost."
"You've already lost." The words were like a broken record repeating in his head ad infinitum. He couldn't let them be true; this was bigger than him.
He thought about Ethan and Gabriel; the real driving force behind this choice of career. They were the real fans, not him. Yet, here he was; pacing back in forth in a cheap motel bathroom, further east than he ever had been before, trying to reason with himself that if he just lays on the false bravado on thick enough, he'll eventually start to believe it. He'll be able to stand up to #BeachKrew and win.
He shook his head. He had to stop referring to only himself when he thought about the #BeachKrew situation.
It was bigger than wrestling. Than prestige, popularity, credibility. More than any of that.
They kicked the hornet's nest. Poked the bear. Crossed the group of petty narcissists who have no qualms about physically breaking anyone who gets in their way.
It was way bigger than wrestling; they were fighting for the ability to even regret this decision.
Pride comes before a fall?
He sure hoped not.
"Humans aren't gonna behave as we think they always should."
Time for some more Pride autofellatio to set the mood.
I'm sure there are more than a few people on the WCF roster who are just sick and tired of hearing how much The Pride has done in just a span of weeks. Really, I get it. It has to be annoying hearing all about our exploits; how we fucked around and scared the current International Champion so badly he's taken to acting like we don't exist to hold onto the last frayed ends of sanity he has left in that DID-addled mind of his, or how we gained the support of World Champion Joey Flash to the point where he's more than willing to call himself The Pride's unofficial leader when he doesn't even claim to be in the same stable as the guys he's currently Trios Champs with.
Then we debuted. We debuted and the hype train didn't stop. We took the slapdash group of Warbird, Bad News Benson, and Psycho Dragon Padre Super down like everyone knew we would but that wasn't the end of our night. No, we then went and did what no one else had the balls to do: we beat #BeachKrew at their own game. Hit 'em with that uber-quick laser guided karma. They take DeMarcus Jordan out at the top of the show?
The Pride targeted the same trio responsible for that heinous attack and took them down a few pegs. Put a dent in the armor. And in the process, we threw ourselves firmly in the crosshairs of everyone's favorite assholes.
You know the stable wars? That shit was cold until we came along. Just a bunch of groups circle jerking and pussyfooting around; exchanging barbs but not taking action while #BeachKrew walks over them all.
Then we stepped to them.
We fired the first shot in the stable wars.
Us, the debuting group of ambitious rookies. Not The Family; they're too busy coasting by with Adam "Dag Riddik" Cooper as their hype man. Not Rebellution; they're down a guy and are too busy dealing with Scathe (who?). Not The Sentinels; they're too busy not even really being a stable. Not #BeachKrew; they can't even pull Rebellution's attention away from Scathe (again, who?) when they heinously attacked and injured their boy.
Not even Dragon Clan could do it and they're literal dragons or something.
It was The Pride. We were the guys who lit the fire under the collective asses of WCF's stables. Now, the heat's on. Now, it's step up or step aside time. And we here in The Pride are stepping right the fuck up.
We wear Jimophy Thuggin's "Termination Order" like a badge of honor.
We see Jared Holmes telling his boys to stop responding to us on twitter, and we provoke them into going against that "order".
See, all it took was one attack, one #lizardmaskmuder, to get under their skin so deeply. They can smack around a Dag Riddik here, injure a DeMarcus Jordan there, but The Pride? We stand up to them, give them a taste of their own medicine and it's fucking war.
The gloves are off.
They aren't gonna stop until we're in the ground or they are. Thing is, I don't plan on dying today. This week. This year. Not on the schedule.
What is in the schedule though? Explosion.
The Pride vs. #BeachKrew, part one of to be determined.
Number one contendership status for the tag belts on the line.
Let's talk about Andre Aquarius.
How does it feel knowing how full of shit you are? On that acting shit, puffing out your chest like you're a winner. A champion. An uncrowned king. Any and all kinds of shameless posturing, reaching desperately for something to hold onto to keep you afloat because while you may be in #BeachKrew, you weren't built for the water. No, and every time one of your compatriots snags one of those items you so desperately need to keep up, it forces you down further.
Jared Holmes wins the TV title?
One wave crashes down atop of you, forcing down under the water for a second.
Rabid and Kemp win the Tag titles?
There goes another. This time you're down longer.
Wade Moor wins the World title?
Oh shit, you're fuckin' drowning.
Maybe you can jet off again. Fade out to a resounding chorus of "who was that guy anyway?". Then maybe you can come back in 2017, full of piss and vinegar and proclaim that you're back and better than ever; that you're going to kick everyone's ass and reach the top of the mountain; that you're more on point than ever before.
For the third time.
I mean, you wouldn't exactly be wrong about that last one. Nowhere to go but up, am I right? Sure, you haven't captured any of those elusive brass rings you want so desperately but look at the bright side: since your debut, you've picked up as many wins as… The Pride.
Yeah, newsflash; in the little over seven months since your debut in the WSeaF (I'll humor you), you've racked up the same number of wins as we have in three weeks. You're the winner, though. Totally, my dude. For real. You're the man.
The man who plays bodyguard while other #BeachKrew members make the pin.
The #OGBK sitting on the sidelines as people who haven't been down with the #fuccboigenocide for nearly as long shoot to the top of the #Krew's food chain while you steady stay the fucking worm. The flower.
The hungry, hungry caterpillar.
We're shooting the moon; you're struggling to hit the side of a barn.
But we gotta remember, he's gonna rubberband real quick. He's ready to take our heads off and fulfill Thuggin's Termination Order. He and Beaver are gonna make us eat our words, drown us in our hype, laugh in our faces as they take this opportunity from us. Andre's gonna kill it; he's focused. He's ready. He's on point.
On point. Motherfucker, I could come down to the ring with a bullseye painted on my forehead and I'm sure you'd find some way to miss the mark.
Where's the winner mentality, Andre?
WHERE'S ANYTHING THAT CAN JUSTIFY THAT BULLSHIT?
Oh, right.
Fuckin' non-existent.
#AndreAquarius2017 #thehypewillberealeventually
#hopefully
#wealreadymadetshirts
Poor Andre; he went from an aspiring fuccboi fragger to just another fuccboi, fragged.
Advantage: Pride.
The interior of the cafe was a drab mess shooting for sleek modern architecture; like it had been designed by a thirteen year old who could draw well but struggled in subjects of actual importance after visiting a Starbucks.
Lola Livingstone sipped her lukewarm coffee, her sharklike eyes seemingly staring right through Eddie. She pushed the hair out of her face and sighed.
"You're a fucking idiot; you know that right?"
She was always the charmer. Blunt as a ball peen hammer and harder-headed. Ethan and Gabriel were his boys. His brothers. The guys he trusted with his life. The pasty girl seated across from him, sinking into her baggy clothes while her eyes darted across the room, studying every face in the building for the fifth time however, was his partner in crime. Another dedicated truth-seeker whose obsession likely dwarfed his, seeing as it led to her quitting school entirely.
"I mean, using whistleblowerfelt as your Twitter handle? Amateur hour. Now everyone knows who you are."
Eddie shook his head and chuckled. "Pretty sure that's the least of my worries."
"Don't look now," Eddie began before immediately disregarding his own advice, "but a dude in a black jacket in the corner keeps looking over at us."
"Saw him already, you're slipping."
She sipped her coffee with a smirk on her face; the same self-satisfied look she had any time she proved herself someone's superior at anything. Eddie gestured aimlessly with his hand as he reached for his own cup. He hated coffee; the taste, the smell, everything about it. However, he'd pulled enough sleepless nights to understand and even respect its power to replace the often inefficient act entirely, so long as you drank enough of it. He brought the cup to his lips and choked down a tepid mouthful of bittersweet black liquid.
"I think he's NSA. Makes sense, considering they took down truthboards."
"The NSA didn't take down--" he tried to cut himself off, but it was too late. Lola lurched forward, hands hitting the table, almost knocking her cup to the ground.
"Do you know who did?"
His eyes widened and he stammered before finally spitting out "No."
She eyed him, her dark, expressionless eyes scanning every part of his face before that fucking smirk crossed her face.
"You're lying."
Eddie opened his mouth to retort, to spit something out to dodge the accusation before his phone vibrated in his pocket. He raised one finger in the air and slid his other hand into his pocket, retrieving the phone; a prepaid flip phone. He flipped the phone open and saw the message sent:
“Hey dude, are you back at the room yet?”
Without thinking, his finger danced across the phone's keypad, firing back a reply before he even processed the question:
"Just got back, what's up?"
"Come on, tell me."
"I, uh, gotta go. Ethan needs me."
She rolled her eyes and stood up, turning towards the door. "Whatever. Sea you later."
Eddie did a double take. "Wait, what?"
She turned back around and eyed him quizzically.
"See you later. Fuckin' spaz."
Without a word more, she made her way out the door and into the warm embrace of Los Angeles in the mid-morning; recoiling at the sight of the sun.
Eddie sighed and rubbed his temples. He eyed the man in black in the corner of the cafe. The man lost a lot of confidence once Eddie's gaze met his; returning to the laptop computer and typing furiously.
"Nothing, just wondering. I'll be back soon."
"Aight my dude, catch u in a bit."
"I am awake. I am alert."
My mind feels a million miles away as I step out of the green room and make my way to the stage. My hands are trembling, my heart pounding. I don't even remember how this came to be; how I ended up alone, a guest on some late nate talk show I'd never heard of. The Strawberry Rhubarb Show. I turn and look behind me again; hoping that by some miracle Ethan or Gabriel, really anyone with better at this public speaking thing, would be there. Ready to tackle the tough questions but nay, they're nowhere to be found. My legs feel like stone as I trudge through the narrow, labyrinthine hallway, almost able to feel my pores clogging as the thought of being on camera comes closer and closer to REALity.
As I approach the set, I can hear the esteemed host introduce me.
"Our next guest might need some explaining. One of the newest acquisitions by the WCF - yeah people still watch wrestling - Eddie Felt!"
Oh, shit. Now it's real.
I hear the sound of customary applause as I walk out onto the set, smiling and waving like a stupid cardboard robot. Insert warm gesture here. Expose your slightly yellow teeth there. I'm shaking. I take a deep breath to calm myself but all that does is get my heart beating some more. I take a seat and cross my legs in the shape of a four and really stare into the crowd. That's when I see there isn't a single soul in the audience.
The host is a charming looking lightskinned African-American man dressed in an ill-fitting suit and sporting a bowtie. He has the confidence to pull it off, though. Why can't that be me?
"Now, Eddie, I'm a big fan of you and The Pride. I really am. But I gotta ask, don't you think you guys bit off a little more than you can chew targeting Beach Krew like that?"
"F-f-first of all," I begin with a nervous chuckle. "For some reason I think you're vaguely pronouncing the name wrong."
"What? I said Beach Crew."
"I think it's pronounced #BeachKrew."
"You're right, that does sound better! Guess you never catch it til you hear it right."
This is going better than expected. So far. I twiddle my thumbs in my lap as the titular Strawberry Rhubarb settles in his seat, kicking his feet up on the desk.
"You didn't answer my question, though."
"Riiiiiiiiight."
YES WE'RE FUCKING FUCKED MAN WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?
"No, I d-d-d-don't think we bit off more than we can chew. I know that it's easy to look at us and th-th-think that we're just a group of dweebs who are just hype. But we're more than that. Much more. I think everyone will be seeing that really soon."
He cocks his head and raises his eyebrow.
Oh fuck me he isn't buying it.
"Eddie, you don't have to lie to me."
I explode out of my chair and slam my fists on his desk.
"Yes I fucking do! You d-d-don't get it, if I slip up, make people believe for one second that I'm not completely and utterly full of shit, I'm fucked!"
"Wow, Eddie. You're shit at this."
In the blink of an eye, Strawberry Rhubarb's gone and in his place is Lola. I rub my eyes, mouth agape as she stands up, instructing me to take my seat, which I reluctantly do; all the while checking my face. I'm too pale for TV. I have shitty facial hair. I'm off in every single way. I'm not marketable. I'll never be a star.
Hell, I'm not gonna survive long enough to make it far enough to where any of that shit will matter.
Lola approaches me and smacks me across the face, hard.
"Come the fuck on. You can stare down the government all day, but #BeachKrew has you shook?"
"They're real," I mutter, voice weak. Cracking. Fuck. Don't cry. Don't be a fucking pussy.
"And the other shit you're fighting isn't?"
"Not in the same way--"
She slaps me again. My cheeks sting and I'm starting to feel tears run down my face. Fuck fuck fuck. Why now?
"You're right. That shit's worse!"
"That shit's vague! That shit's on the horizon. Always on the fucking horizon, lurking, ready to strike? #BeachKrew? They're here. They're now. They're gonna be the fucking death of me."
"And what? You're gonna just lay down and let those assholes walk all over you? Who the fuck are you because this little fuck is not the Eddie Felt I know."
My heart is racing at a million miles per hour. I wipe the tears from my eyes and flare my nostrils.
"Then who is the Eddie Felt you know?"
"The Eddie Felt I know wouldn't need me to give him fucking affirmation. Oh boo-hoo, #BeachKrew's gonna roll over you. Get a grip. The Eddie Felt I know wouldn't give a shit if the whole world was bearing down on him. He'd stand up, probably make a dumb comment about it, then he'd go down fighting. Even if there wasn't a chance in hell that he'd win, you could guarantee he wouldn't lay down like you."
I'm being realistic.
"You're not being realistic; you're being a coward."
Eddie's eyes shot open and he found himself in a pitch-black room. The sound of his heartbeat was the only sound in the room, pounding like a bass drum. His breathing was heavy, his body drenched in sweat. Sighing, he ripped the blanket off his body and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, before hopping down and stumbling through the dark to the bathroom.
The bathroom light stung his eyes. He approached the sink and turned the handle marked "Cold".
Lola's words still echoed in his head as he looked himself in the mirror.
"You're not being realistic; you're being a coward."
"I'm not a coward," he whispered. He wasn't sure if he quite believed it; but he knew he had to have faith.
He splashed a handful of cold water into his face and grimaced, running his fingers across his cheeks.
"I am awake," he said.
"I am alert."
Hey, Dustin. Don't for a second think I forgot about you, man. Nah, but I had to leave you stewing for a little bit. After all, you're all about getting that attention, aren't ya man? Fuckin' fame whore, what was your last gig before this? Pop-star imitator? Shit man that goes and sums up everything about you.
You want the fame, but you don't have anything worth being famous for.
So you latch onto others and ride them to the top. Which of course is fucking hysterical considering #BeachKrew loves throwing around that we're biting their shtick to get some of that trickle down hype. But you, nah man that's what you're all about right? That trickle down hype.
I know it's easy to look at The Pride like we're a bunch of fuckin' idiots who have no idea what we're doing, but you gotta see shit rationally, man. Here we are, three weeks into our careers and already, we're facing off with the biggest stable in the whole WCF for a shot at the tag team titles. We're gotta be doing something right, or else you and Andre are doing something very, very wrong. And of course as we all know, you're never wrong as long as you beavleave hard enough.
Beavleave… great catch phrase, dude.
Shit oughtta win the Max Headroom award for "Catchphrases slapped onto shit that's doomed to fail".
Ride that wave, bro.
Ride it all the way to the bitter end.
It's okay, Dustin. I'm here to validate you. See, you're one of the people I mentioned before, when I was talking about Andre. The type that came in later than him, but still ended up with a taste of that gold before him. You won that TV Championship, and in the process you were one of the waves forcing poor Andre down under the water.
Look at the bright side, after this you can go back to your real calling of looking like a popstar because man, you're a spitting image. You don't even have to have that painfully obvious, cringeworthy name. We all get it.
You look like Justin Bieber.
That's the joke.
That's the whole fucking joke.
It's like one of those late night talk shows. The guest has just made a joke and now the sign above the set is lit up. It reads "APPLAUSE".
The crowd does.
The guest tells the same joke.
The sign lights up again.
Some fans (the mindless ones who enjoy repetition or were otherwise awoken by the first round of applause) clap for the same joke.
So the guest says it again.
The sign lights up again but this time no one fucking cares anymore.
Remember what I said earlier, Dustin? About how this was step up or step aside time? See, that applies to you too. You can either step up and do something to move past your failure to put Slane away, or keep on dwelling on that and step the fuck aside because The Pride's coming through and there isn't a thing that's gonna stop us on our rise to the top.
Shit, we're already taking over aren't we?
Before we were even booked one of us got a title shot. Not only that but the boy Griffin was so fuckin' relentless that Z-Mac couldn't finish the job. He had to get himself disqualified just to hold onto the belt. He had to go and scramble our friend's brains because he knew that if he didn't; The Pride would be going into this match as a stable with a championship already.
Z-Mac can claim he dusted Griffin, that he ended his career but that shit didn't come from a place of strength. It came from a place of fear. Cowardice.
That's what they don't get. Andre, Dustin, any of them. They're the fucking fat cats, gobbling up all the hype the #BeachKrew generates on that lifelong republican mental image of socialism "everyone gets some" shit. They're so fucking deluded that think they know hunger when they've been well-fed on that shit for so long.
No matter how much lip service you pay to that thought, you guys aren't hungry. You don't have the drive to go out and conquer. To fire the second shot in the stable wars by beating us. No, you're all talk. Hot air. Raging against the dying of the light. Because that's really what #BeachKrew is, isn't it?
It's a fucking black hole.
Sucks you guys in and you don't have to worry about it spitting you back out. It's literally incapable of cutting loose any deadweight, even when it's starting to sink the ship. They just can't throw anyone overboard. Too many cooks already spoiled this broth; now they're shilling tepid, tasteless soup.
Bring them your weak, your attention-starved, your floundering.
And they'll make sure they're in good company.
You two are stunted. Stuck at the level you were the second you joined the Krew.
This is what you are.
This is what you will be.
Come on, prove me wrong.
Break the fucking mold. Give us your all.
Show a single, solitary spark. Anything that proves there's something going on in those heads of yours. Bring it to us. Break us, Andre. Make us Beavleave, Dustin.
Show us what you can be, instead of what you are.
But, wait. You won't do that. You aren't going to bring your fuckin' A game to a match that could throw your careers on the right path because you're up against The Pride. Fuccboi city right there, am I right? Keep on keeping on, in that case.
Watch as we roll right over you.
Advantage: Pride.
As if there was a fuckin' doubt.
"They're the enemy," spoke the television set tuned to a pair of smiling puppets shilling war on the populace once more. "They're hardly human."
Cue the stock footage of explosions, atrocities, mothers and children gunned down in the streets. Angry rhetoric shouted in a language no one understands, with helpful little subtitles on the bottom of the screen so we can all know the exact kind of hate they're spewing.
"They threaten everything we stand for," shouts the television. Begging, pleading, hoping and praying for brave men and women to take up arms against the Evil Empire, or the radicals, the extremists. The terrorists.
"They're terrorists," beckons the television. The television screams into the abyss while feeding propaganda to justify atrocities of their own.
Explosions.
"They're evil."
Human Rights Violations.
"They deserve worse!"
Mothers and children gunned down in the streets.
"The actions of one rogue soldier."
Soldier. The television calls for the able bodied to serve their country. Be a part of something bigger than themselves. To fight and die for a cause that is not their own, but dressed up to be so.
The television sells lies.
The television is the Devil.
"Buy Claridryl," says the television during brief moments of levity right before REALity sets in again and it recants that statement; shouting, screaming once again: "In other news, allergy medication Claridryl has been recalled."
Recalled. Products pushed out before they're finished or tested or hell, they can even be aware of the awful shit these things can do but they'll push them out anyway. This is America, we can't have pesky things like quality control slow down the production. People need this, they just don't know it.
The television says "beach_krew_faggotry"
The television assures us that "Pride comes before a fall."
The Pride declares war on #BeachKrew is the headline for today.
General Flash rallied up his troops…
...and sent them into the fire.
It was about them.
Always about them.
The television cares about all of its viewers. After all, it needs them. The television can't survive if there's no one around to witness it; to be fed its constant stream of bullshit. If there's no one left, there isn't a need for the television and that's what it fears the most: what it'll do when there's no one left to con.
When no one listens any more.
The television wants to be immortal; but everything dies.
Ashes to ashes.
Dust to dust.
There will come soft rains. Flowers on a gravesite.
I am in control.
I want this.
Still, that doesn't change the fact that every morning when I wake up, when I'm in that sluggish, groggy state between asleep and awake, I forget. Everything I learned, all the time and effort I've put into uncovering something, anything at all, is gone. Like it never existed in the first place, and in those moments I'm at peace. I feel like a normal human being.
Then it all comes flooding back.
Then I look over my shoulder. Then I wonder if I said too much to the wrong person or, if yet again, I'm giving way too much credit to both the people I interact with and the pertinence of the information I may or may not have spilled.
I remember that the water's rising. Up to my neck. I remember that no matter how much I want to give up, to just rest, stop for a moment to catch my breath… I can't.
Best case scenario; I've wasted my life chasing ghosts.
Worst case scenario; I'm right. About everything.
I don't know which scares me more.
"Murder lives forever and so does war."
"I am awake."
His words came out as gurgles; bubbles rising quickly to the top only to /pop/ at the surface. He opened his eyes and saw the bottom of the sink's bowl, his nose pressed down against the porcelain. Closing his mouth and gripping the side of the bowl as tight as his trembling fingers could manage, he whipped his head backwards, drops of water splashing about the room. His breathing was ragged as he looked down at his still trembling hands clutching desperately to the sink. With a sigh, he loosened his grasp on the bowl and reached into the pool of stagnant water, watching the ripples on the surface.
"I am alert."
Eddie splashed a handful of warm water in his face and inspected himself in the dirty bathroom mirror. Face dripping wet, beads of water careening down his cheeks and splashing silently on the floor below. Eyes wide; eyelids drooping. Weak, plastic smile bolted loosely onto his face.
He'd escaped his first Slam as a WCF employee mostly unscathed. Psycho Dragon had landed a shot that dropped him hard earlier in the night; he was sure he'd be feeling that in the morning. Though, he couldn't keep his mind off the events that transpired later in the night, well after their victory.
What was it Joey had said?
"Pride comes before a fall."
He felt sick to his stomach.
"They're gonna fuckin' kill us," Eddie muttered to himself, shaking his head. "No way they let that slide."
He slapped himself in the face and leaned in closer, staring a hole through his own reflection. His knuckles were white as a sheet, fingers once again wrapped around the bowl of the sink. His knees were weak, buckling with each breath.
"I'm going to be fine."
He wanted to laugh at himself. This whole situation was fifty shades of ridiculous. Here he was, losing his mind in the middle of a shitty hotel bathroom in Colorado Springs. Trying to convince himself he could go up against #BeachKrew, a gang of all-stars who ate rookies like him for breakfast. Like him was even an overstatement; the rookies #BeachKrew had already rolled over were much better.
He gritted his teeth. "I'm going to be fine."
No matter how many times he repeated those five words, he couldn't shake what he saw every time he closed his eyes.
He saw Johnny Rabid skipping rope with his entrails.
Wade Moor punching his head right off his shoulders.
Dustin Beaver squeezing him so hard his eyes pop out of their sockets before nailing a picture-perfect Beaver-to-Belly.
And those were just the three The Pride attacked.
This was gonna suck.
"Get it together," he growled at his reflection. "You let them know you're afraid, and you've already lost."
"You've already lost." The words were like a broken record repeating in his head ad infinitum. He couldn't let them be true; this was bigger than him.
He thought about Ethan and Gabriel; the real driving force behind this choice of career. They were the real fans, not him. Yet, here he was; pacing back in forth in a cheap motel bathroom, further east than he ever had been before, trying to reason with himself that if he just lays on the false bravado on thick enough, he'll eventually start to believe it. He'll be able to stand up to #BeachKrew and win.
He shook his head. He had to stop referring to only himself when he thought about the #BeachKrew situation.
It was bigger than wrestling. Than prestige, popularity, credibility. More than any of that.
They kicked the hornet's nest. Poked the bear. Crossed the group of petty narcissists who have no qualms about physically breaking anyone who gets in their way.
It was way bigger than wrestling; they were fighting for the ability to even regret this decision.
Pride comes before a fall?
He sure hoped not.
"Humans aren't gonna behave as we think they always should."
Time for some more Pride autofellatio to set the mood.
I'm sure there are more than a few people on the WCF roster who are just sick and tired of hearing how much The Pride has done in just a span of weeks. Really, I get it. It has to be annoying hearing all about our exploits; how we fucked around and scared the current International Champion so badly he's taken to acting like we don't exist to hold onto the last frayed ends of sanity he has left in that DID-addled mind of his, or how we gained the support of World Champion Joey Flash to the point where he's more than willing to call himself The Pride's unofficial leader when he doesn't even claim to be in the same stable as the guys he's currently Trios Champs with.
Then we debuted. We debuted and the hype train didn't stop. We took the slapdash group of Warbird, Bad News Benson, and Psycho Dragon Padre Super down like everyone knew we would but that wasn't the end of our night. No, we then went and did what no one else had the balls to do: we beat #BeachKrew at their own game. Hit 'em with that uber-quick laser guided karma. They take DeMarcus Jordan out at the top of the show?
The Pride targeted the same trio responsible for that heinous attack and took them down a few pegs. Put a dent in the armor. And in the process, we threw ourselves firmly in the crosshairs of everyone's favorite assholes.
You know the stable wars? That shit was cold until we came along. Just a bunch of groups circle jerking and pussyfooting around; exchanging barbs but not taking action while #BeachKrew walks over them all.
Then we stepped to them.
We fired the first shot in the stable wars.
Us, the debuting group of ambitious rookies. Not The Family; they're too busy coasting by with Adam "Dag Riddik" Cooper as their hype man. Not Rebellution; they're down a guy and are too busy dealing with Scathe (who?). Not The Sentinels; they're too busy not even really being a stable. Not #BeachKrew; they can't even pull Rebellution's attention away from Scathe (again, who?) when they heinously attacked and injured their boy.
Not even Dragon Clan could do it and they're literal dragons or something.
It was The Pride. We were the guys who lit the fire under the collective asses of WCF's stables. Now, the heat's on. Now, it's step up or step aside time. And we here in The Pride are stepping right the fuck up.
We wear Jimophy Thuggin's "Termination Order" like a badge of honor.
We see Jared Holmes telling his boys to stop responding to us on twitter, and we provoke them into going against that "order".
See, all it took was one attack, one #lizardmaskmuder, to get under their skin so deeply. They can smack around a Dag Riddik here, injure a DeMarcus Jordan there, but The Pride? We stand up to them, give them a taste of their own medicine and it's fucking war.
The gloves are off.
They aren't gonna stop until we're in the ground or they are. Thing is, I don't plan on dying today. This week. This year. Not on the schedule.
What is in the schedule though? Explosion.
The Pride vs. #BeachKrew, part one of to be determined.
Number one contendership status for the tag belts on the line.
Let's talk about Andre Aquarius.
How does it feel knowing how full of shit you are? On that acting shit, puffing out your chest like you're a winner. A champion. An uncrowned king. Any and all kinds of shameless posturing, reaching desperately for something to hold onto to keep you afloat because while you may be in #BeachKrew, you weren't built for the water. No, and every time one of your compatriots snags one of those items you so desperately need to keep up, it forces you down further.
Jared Holmes wins the TV title?
One wave crashes down atop of you, forcing down under the water for a second.
Rabid and Kemp win the Tag titles?
There goes another. This time you're down longer.
Wade Moor wins the World title?
Oh shit, you're fuckin' drowning.
Maybe you can jet off again. Fade out to a resounding chorus of "who was that guy anyway?". Then maybe you can come back in 2017, full of piss and vinegar and proclaim that you're back and better than ever; that you're going to kick everyone's ass and reach the top of the mountain; that you're more on point than ever before.
For the third time.
I mean, you wouldn't exactly be wrong about that last one. Nowhere to go but up, am I right? Sure, you haven't captured any of those elusive brass rings you want so desperately but look at the bright side: since your debut, you've picked up as many wins as… The Pride.
Yeah, newsflash; in the little over seven months since your debut in the WSeaF (I'll humor you), you've racked up the same number of wins as we have in three weeks. You're the winner, though. Totally, my dude. For real. You're the man.
The man who plays bodyguard while other #BeachKrew members make the pin.
The #OGBK sitting on the sidelines as people who haven't been down with the #fuccboigenocide for nearly as long shoot to the top of the #Krew's food chain while you steady stay the fucking worm. The flower.
The hungry, hungry caterpillar.
We're shooting the moon; you're struggling to hit the side of a barn.
But we gotta remember, he's gonna rubberband real quick. He's ready to take our heads off and fulfill Thuggin's Termination Order. He and Beaver are gonna make us eat our words, drown us in our hype, laugh in our faces as they take this opportunity from us. Andre's gonna kill it; he's focused. He's ready. He's on point.
On point. Motherfucker, I could come down to the ring with a bullseye painted on my forehead and I'm sure you'd find some way to miss the mark.
Where's the winner mentality, Andre?
WHERE'S ANYTHING THAT CAN JUSTIFY THAT BULLSHIT?
Oh, right.
Fuckin' non-existent.
#AndreAquarius2017 #thehypewillberealeventually
#hopefully
#wealreadymadetshirts
Poor Andre; he went from an aspiring fuccboi fragger to just another fuccboi, fragged.
Advantage: Pride.
"One man can build a bomb, another run a race."
The interior of the cafe was a drab mess shooting for sleek modern architecture; like it had been designed by a thirteen year old who could draw well but struggled in subjects of actual importance after visiting a Starbucks.
Lola Livingstone sipped her lukewarm coffee, her sharklike eyes seemingly staring right through Eddie. She pushed the hair out of her face and sighed.
"You're a fucking idiot; you know that right?"
She was always the charmer. Blunt as a ball peen hammer and harder-headed. Ethan and Gabriel were his boys. His brothers. The guys he trusted with his life. The pasty girl seated across from him, sinking into her baggy clothes while her eyes darted across the room, studying every face in the building for the fifth time however, was his partner in crime. Another dedicated truth-seeker whose obsession likely dwarfed his, seeing as it led to her quitting school entirely.
"I mean, using whistleblowerfelt as your Twitter handle? Amateur hour. Now everyone knows who you are."
Eddie shook his head and chuckled. "Pretty sure that's the least of my worries."
"Don't look now," Eddie began before immediately disregarding his own advice, "but a dude in a black jacket in the corner keeps looking over at us."
"Saw him already, you're slipping."
She sipped her coffee with a smirk on her face; the same self-satisfied look she had any time she proved herself someone's superior at anything. Eddie gestured aimlessly with his hand as he reached for his own cup. He hated coffee; the taste, the smell, everything about it. However, he'd pulled enough sleepless nights to understand and even respect its power to replace the often inefficient act entirely, so long as you drank enough of it. He brought the cup to his lips and choked down a tepid mouthful of bittersweet black liquid.
"I think he's NSA. Makes sense, considering they took down truthboards."
"The NSA didn't take down--" he tried to cut himself off, but it was too late. Lola lurched forward, hands hitting the table, almost knocking her cup to the ground.
"Do you know who did?"
His eyes widened and he stammered before finally spitting out "No."
She eyed him, her dark, expressionless eyes scanning every part of his face before that fucking smirk crossed her face.
"You're lying."
Eddie opened his mouth to retort, to spit something out to dodge the accusation before his phone vibrated in his pocket. He raised one finger in the air and slid his other hand into his pocket, retrieving the phone; a prepaid flip phone. He flipped the phone open and saw the message sent:
“Hey dude, are you back at the room yet?”
Without thinking, his finger danced across the phone's keypad, firing back a reply before he even processed the question:
"Just got back, what's up?"
"Come on, tell me."
"I, uh, gotta go. Ethan needs me."
She rolled her eyes and stood up, turning towards the door. "Whatever. Sea you later."
Eddie did a double take. "Wait, what?"
She turned back around and eyed him quizzically.
"See you later. Fuckin' spaz."
Without a word more, she made her way out the door and into the warm embrace of Los Angeles in the mid-morning; recoiling at the sight of the sun.
Eddie sighed and rubbed his temples. He eyed the man in black in the corner of the cafe. The man lost a lot of confidence once Eddie's gaze met his; returning to the laptop computer and typing furiously.
"Nothing, just wondering. I'll be back soon."
"Aight my dude, catch u in a bit."
"Truth is in us all, cradle to the grave."
"I am awake. I am alert."
My mind feels a million miles away as I step out of the green room and make my way to the stage. My hands are trembling, my heart pounding. I don't even remember how this came to be; how I ended up alone, a guest on some late nate talk show I'd never heard of. The Strawberry Rhubarb Show. I turn and look behind me again; hoping that by some miracle Ethan or Gabriel, really anyone with better at this public speaking thing, would be there. Ready to tackle the tough questions but nay, they're nowhere to be found. My legs feel like stone as I trudge through the narrow, labyrinthine hallway, almost able to feel my pores clogging as the thought of being on camera comes closer and closer to REALity.
As I approach the set, I can hear the esteemed host introduce me.
"Our next guest might need some explaining. One of the newest acquisitions by the WCF - yeah people still watch wrestling - Eddie Felt!"
Oh, shit. Now it's real.
I hear the sound of customary applause as I walk out onto the set, smiling and waving like a stupid cardboard robot. Insert warm gesture here. Expose your slightly yellow teeth there. I'm shaking. I take a deep breath to calm myself but all that does is get my heart beating some more. I take a seat and cross my legs in the shape of a four and really stare into the crowd. That's when I see there isn't a single soul in the audience.
The host is a charming looking lightskinned African-American man dressed in an ill-fitting suit and sporting a bowtie. He has the confidence to pull it off, though. Why can't that be me?
"Now, Eddie, I'm a big fan of you and The Pride. I really am. But I gotta ask, don't you think you guys bit off a little more than you can chew targeting Beach Krew like that?"
"F-f-first of all," I begin with a nervous chuckle. "For some reason I think you're vaguely pronouncing the name wrong."
"What? I said Beach Crew."
"I think it's pronounced #BeachKrew."
"You're right, that does sound better! Guess you never catch it til you hear it right."
This is going better than expected. So far. I twiddle my thumbs in my lap as the titular Strawberry Rhubarb settles in his seat, kicking his feet up on the desk.
"You didn't answer my question, though."
"Riiiiiiiiight."
YES WE'RE FUCKING FUCKED MAN WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?
"No, I d-d-d-don't think we bit off more than we can chew. I know that it's easy to look at us and th-th-think that we're just a group of dweebs who are just hype. But we're more than that. Much more. I think everyone will be seeing that really soon."
He cocks his head and raises his eyebrow.
Oh fuck me he isn't buying it.
"Eddie, you don't have to lie to me."
I explode out of my chair and slam my fists on his desk.
"Yes I fucking do! You d-d-don't get it, if I slip up, make people believe for one second that I'm not completely and utterly full of shit, I'm fucked!"
"Wow, Eddie. You're shit at this."
In the blink of an eye, Strawberry Rhubarb's gone and in his place is Lola. I rub my eyes, mouth agape as she stands up, instructing me to take my seat, which I reluctantly do; all the while checking my face. I'm too pale for TV. I have shitty facial hair. I'm off in every single way. I'm not marketable. I'll never be a star.
Hell, I'm not gonna survive long enough to make it far enough to where any of that shit will matter.
Lola approaches me and smacks me across the face, hard.
"Come the fuck on. You can stare down the government all day, but #BeachKrew has you shook?"
"They're real," I mutter, voice weak. Cracking. Fuck. Don't cry. Don't be a fucking pussy.
"And the other shit you're fighting isn't?"
"Not in the same way--"
She slaps me again. My cheeks sting and I'm starting to feel tears run down my face. Fuck fuck fuck. Why now?
"You're right. That shit's worse!"
"That shit's vague! That shit's on the horizon. Always on the fucking horizon, lurking, ready to strike? #BeachKrew? They're here. They're now. They're gonna be the fucking death of me."
"And what? You're gonna just lay down and let those assholes walk all over you? Who the fuck are you because this little fuck is not the Eddie Felt I know."
My heart is racing at a million miles per hour. I wipe the tears from my eyes and flare my nostrils.
"Then who is the Eddie Felt you know?"
"The Eddie Felt I know wouldn't need me to give him fucking affirmation. Oh boo-hoo, #BeachKrew's gonna roll over you. Get a grip. The Eddie Felt I know wouldn't give a shit if the whole world was bearing down on him. He'd stand up, probably make a dumb comment about it, then he'd go down fighting. Even if there wasn't a chance in hell that he'd win, you could guarantee he wouldn't lay down like you."
I'm being realistic.
"You're not being realistic; you're being a coward."
Eddie's eyes shot open and he found himself in a pitch-black room. The sound of his heartbeat was the only sound in the room, pounding like a bass drum. His breathing was heavy, his body drenched in sweat. Sighing, he ripped the blanket off his body and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, before hopping down and stumbling through the dark to the bathroom.
The bathroom light stung his eyes. He approached the sink and turned the handle marked "Cold".
Lola's words still echoed in his head as he looked himself in the mirror.
"You're not being realistic; you're being a coward."
"I'm not a coward," he whispered. He wasn't sure if he quite believed it; but he knew he had to have faith.
He splashed a handful of cold water into his face and grimaced, running his fingers across his cheeks.
"I am awake," he said.
"I am alert."
"We can be bad, as we can be good."
Hey, Dustin. Don't for a second think I forgot about you, man. Nah, but I had to leave you stewing for a little bit. After all, you're all about getting that attention, aren't ya man? Fuckin' fame whore, what was your last gig before this? Pop-star imitator? Shit man that goes and sums up everything about you.
You want the fame, but you don't have anything worth being famous for.
So you latch onto others and ride them to the top. Which of course is fucking hysterical considering #BeachKrew loves throwing around that we're biting their shtick to get some of that trickle down hype. But you, nah man that's what you're all about right? That trickle down hype.
I know it's easy to look at The Pride like we're a bunch of fuckin' idiots who have no idea what we're doing, but you gotta see shit rationally, man. Here we are, three weeks into our careers and already, we're facing off with the biggest stable in the whole WCF for a shot at the tag team titles. We're gotta be doing something right, or else you and Andre are doing something very, very wrong. And of course as we all know, you're never wrong as long as you beavleave hard enough.
Beavleave… great catch phrase, dude.
Shit oughtta win the Max Headroom award for "Catchphrases slapped onto shit that's doomed to fail".
Ride that wave, bro.
Ride it all the way to the bitter end.
It's okay, Dustin. I'm here to validate you. See, you're one of the people I mentioned before, when I was talking about Andre. The type that came in later than him, but still ended up with a taste of that gold before him. You won that TV Championship, and in the process you were one of the waves forcing poor Andre down under the water.
Look at the bright side, after this you can go back to your real calling of looking like a popstar because man, you're a spitting image. You don't even have to have that painfully obvious, cringeworthy name. We all get it.
You look like Justin Bieber.
That's the joke.
That's the whole fucking joke.
It's like one of those late night talk shows. The guest has just made a joke and now the sign above the set is lit up. It reads "APPLAUSE".
The crowd does.
The guest tells the same joke.
The sign lights up again.
Some fans (the mindless ones who enjoy repetition or were otherwise awoken by the first round of applause) clap for the same joke.
So the guest says it again.
The sign lights up again but this time no one fucking cares anymore.
Remember what I said earlier, Dustin? About how this was step up or step aside time? See, that applies to you too. You can either step up and do something to move past your failure to put Slane away, or keep on dwelling on that and step the fuck aside because The Pride's coming through and there isn't a thing that's gonna stop us on our rise to the top.
Shit, we're already taking over aren't we?
Before we were even booked one of us got a title shot. Not only that but the boy Griffin was so fuckin' relentless that Z-Mac couldn't finish the job. He had to get himself disqualified just to hold onto the belt. He had to go and scramble our friend's brains because he knew that if he didn't; The Pride would be going into this match as a stable with a championship already.
Z-Mac can claim he dusted Griffin, that he ended his career but that shit didn't come from a place of strength. It came from a place of fear. Cowardice.
That's what they don't get. Andre, Dustin, any of them. They're the fucking fat cats, gobbling up all the hype the #BeachKrew generates on that lifelong republican mental image of socialism "everyone gets some" shit. They're so fucking deluded that think they know hunger when they've been well-fed on that shit for so long.
No matter how much lip service you pay to that thought, you guys aren't hungry. You don't have the drive to go out and conquer. To fire the second shot in the stable wars by beating us. No, you're all talk. Hot air. Raging against the dying of the light. Because that's really what #BeachKrew is, isn't it?
It's a fucking black hole.
Sucks you guys in and you don't have to worry about it spitting you back out. It's literally incapable of cutting loose any deadweight, even when it's starting to sink the ship. They just can't throw anyone overboard. Too many cooks already spoiled this broth; now they're shilling tepid, tasteless soup.
Bring them your weak, your attention-starved, your floundering.
And they'll make sure they're in good company.
You two are stunted. Stuck at the level you were the second you joined the Krew.
This is what you are.
This is what you will be.
Come on, prove me wrong.
Break the fucking mold. Give us your all.
Show a single, solitary spark. Anything that proves there's something going on in those heads of yours. Bring it to us. Break us, Andre. Make us Beavleave, Dustin.
Show us what you can be, instead of what you are.
But, wait. You won't do that. You aren't going to bring your fuckin' A game to a match that could throw your careers on the right path because you're up against The Pride. Fuccboi city right there, am I right? Keep on keeping on, in that case.
Watch as we roll right over you.
Advantage: Pride.
As if there was a fuckin' doubt.
"Are you killing for yourself or killing for your savoir?"
"They're the enemy," spoke the television set tuned to a pair of smiling puppets shilling war on the populace once more. "They're hardly human."
Cue the stock footage of explosions, atrocities, mothers and children gunned down in the streets. Angry rhetoric shouted in a language no one understands, with helpful little subtitles on the bottom of the screen so we can all know the exact kind of hate they're spewing.
"They threaten everything we stand for," shouts the television. Begging, pleading, hoping and praying for brave men and women to take up arms against the Evil Empire, or the radicals, the extremists. The terrorists.
"They're terrorists," beckons the television. The television screams into the abyss while feeding propaganda to justify atrocities of their own.
Explosions.
"They're evil."
Human Rights Violations.
"They deserve worse!"
Mothers and children gunned down in the streets.
"The actions of one rogue soldier."
Soldier. The television calls for the able bodied to serve their country. Be a part of something bigger than themselves. To fight and die for a cause that is not their own, but dressed up to be so.
The television sells lies.
The television is the Devil.
"Buy Claridryl," says the television during brief moments of levity right before REALity sets in again and it recants that statement; shouting, screaming once again: "In other news, allergy medication Claridryl has been recalled."
Recalled. Products pushed out before they're finished or tested or hell, they can even be aware of the awful shit these things can do but they'll push them out anyway. This is America, we can't have pesky things like quality control slow down the production. People need this, they just don't know it.
The television says "beach_krew_faggotry"
The television assures us that "Pride comes before a fall."
The Pride declares war on #BeachKrew is the headline for today.
General Flash rallied up his troops…
...and sent them into the fire.
It was about them.
Always about them.
The television cares about all of its viewers. After all, it needs them. The television can't survive if there's no one around to witness it; to be fed its constant stream of bullshit. If there's no one left, there isn't a need for the television and that's what it fears the most: what it'll do when there's no one left to con.
When no one listens any more.
The television wants to be immortal; but everything dies.
Ashes to ashes.
Dust to dust.
There will come soft rains. Flowers on a gravesite.
