Post by 6ix God on Mar 27, 2016 13:26:33 GMT -5
“Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of man!
Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgement! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned governments!”
Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!”
-Allen Ginsberg, Howl “II”
Hunter woke up to darkness and the feel of cold stone on his face. Rubbing his eyes did little to alleviate the lack of light in the room, and even after a few passes before his face, he could not make out his hand in the room. Nothing but inky blackness, the feeling of stone, and the sound of his own breathing; for an instant, Hunter wondered whether or not he was dead.
Any questions or anxiety he may’ve faced about his fate was quickly ended as the sound of wood scraping upon stone accompanied a piecing beam of light. Hunter’s hands flew to his eyes; the familiar sensation painful and foreign after time spent in the stygian pit. As he pushed himself back against a wall, his arms raised and his body tense, a single finger ran along his jaw to the tip of his chin. A sweet sensation filled his nose: jasmine, sage, and lilac. As a thumb accompanied the finger to grip his jaw and tilt his head up, Hunter lowered his arms to face his captor.
The face staring back at him was a picture of beauty: jet black hair curtained a pale white face with full red lips. Her chin was small, but her cheeks were cut and handsome, sitting below sparking green eyes. Despite the baggy black robe she wore, her shoulders were broad and powerful – a woman of strength and athleticism. Her fingers were long and slender, her nails sharped to unpainted points. A simple study of Minerva’s physicality made it all too clear why she was the Mistress of the Owls: everything from the curve of her brow to the strength of her grip suggested perfection, dedication, and domination.
Her voice was soft and husky, a mocking whisper in the air.
Minerva: Did you sleep well, Party Train?
She was the woman from his cell: his liberator and his captor. Hunter’s head swam and ached; though he had no idea how long he’d been out for, he felt like he hadn’t slept in days. Minerva smiled hungrily.
Minerva: Poor thing. The after-effects are sort of like a hangover, aren’t they? I expected a man of your reputation to be more accustomed – apparently I was wrong.
She removed her hand from his jaw to drag a nail down his neck and to his chest, his eyes darting back and forth as her mind took in the details of her prisoner. Hunter’s gaze left the woman to examine the room; with the door open, he could make out the details of his prison. It was an empty stone and concrete room, the door fashioned out of thick wood inlaid with iron brackets to reinforce it. Beyond the doorway was a concrete hallway with several electric lamps illuminating its length, orange chord stretching between each one.
Minerva: Don’t worry; you won’t be here for long.
She leered down at him like a spider, a hand gripping his collar and forcibly dragging him to his feet. Two robed men entered the room, circling and restraining Hunter by his arms as they dragged him out of the cell. Before them, Minerva led the way.
Minerva: It’s time we show Mr. Updegraff his fate. We bring him to our Lord now.
Through the winding and crumbling hallways of the Packard Auto Plant, Hunter was dragged by the Owls. Rooms passed him: people flogging themselves to blood-shed, men and women chanting in tongues before statues of a vicious and grotesque ox-headed figure, rooms filled with pictures taped to the walls of Wade Moor, Jared Holmes, and a man he did not recognize with a blonde streak in his hair. Finally, the prisoner had found himself in a massive room, undoubtedly the main factory building of the plant. It was empty now; the machinery had been long since stripped and the wood and metal around him reeked of corrosion and abandonment. A new addition had been added to the room: at the far end Hunter looked upon a ghastly stained glass window of people falling into an awaiting beak. Below the window sat an elaborately carved redwood throne; upon it sat a cloaked and crowned figure.
Thrown before the base of the throne, Hunter looked up to see a familiar face staring back at him under the hood. In any of circumstance, the visage of Seth Lerch sitting at the helm of a situation so grim would’ve been hilarious to Hunter; the slitted yellow pupils which stared back at him resolved any humor. The figure that rose from the throne wore Seth’s skin, but Hunter knew that Seth Lerch was not the man facing him. A wide grin spread upon the lips of the Owl God as he bent over Hunter; his voice tore through the room like the scream of a dying infant.
Moloch: Mister Updegraff. Our guest.
Their eyes locked, Hunter found himself in the grips of a paralyzing fear – though the grin and eyes of the man above him almost certainly signaled malicious intent, feeling had left Hunter’s extremities. His legs were dead and his arms were weak, and he was barely able to bring himself to a sitting position. The Owl God’s breath was hot and smelled coppery.
Moloch: Minerva, bring me this morning’s paper.
In a moment, Hunter found himself staring at the front page of the Detroit Free Press, held in Minerva’s hand. A familiar face stared back at him from the front page; he knew the smirk and the unwavering stare well.
“HOLMES PARK OPENS. #BEACHKREW GIVE TO DETROIT”
Moloch leaned in closely to Hunter, his smile widening though his voice remaining calm and monotonous.
Moloch: Do you think they could hear you if you screamed right now?
The Devourer of Youth turned from Hunter, gazing up at the blasphemous window made in his honor. He clasped his hands behind his back.
Moloch: Perhaps you are wondering why I have you here. What I care for you or for your little band of friends.
Moloch turned, beckoning with a whip of his fingers. Hunter snapped to a standing position, his limps secured firmly to his sides.
Moloch: Tell me, Hunter, what you know about the man Jimophy Thuggin?
Hunter’s eyes widened as sweat pooled on his brow. Hunter had never been a smart boy, but he was certainly not stupid; it struck him as almost unsurprising that the name of the eccentric mentor would cross this demon’s lips.
Hunter Updegraff: J-Jim’s just some Polish guy, man. I don’t know what you’re –
With a snap of the demon’s fingers, Hunter’s jaw locked. Moloch’s grin faded to a soft smile.
Moloch: Stupid boy. Stupid, stupid boy.
He paused, looking Party Train over for a moment. Pain seared in Hunter’s mind – something had reached inside.
Moloch: The man you know as Hacksaw Jimophy Thuggin is no Pole, Hunter; he’s from somewhere much more distant. And before you say it, no, not Chechnya. I think if you consider it, we know what I’m implying; his secret is poorly maintained and aided only by denial and stupidity. This creature is on Earth with an explicit goal: the fulfillment of a Galactic Prophecy. Perhaps he’s mentioned it to you before; perhaps not. This prophecy concerns someone you may know: a Mister Jared Holmes.
Your little friend may just have the destiny of the human race in his hands; the Prophecy speaks of a Chosen One who shall rise from the sheep and become shepherd to his people, only to lead them into enslavement. That, of course, is what your group had been aiding: mental, cultural, and physical slavery to both the constructs of human desire and powers beyond its imagination.
Of course, prophecy is only implied; it can be stopped. It can be altered. Jimophy has already meddled in ways which may be potentially catastrophic for his ends. Still, I need insurance. This is, of course, where you come in.
Moloch circled Hunter like a buzzard, with each rotation coming closer to his prey. His left hand laid on Hunter’s shoulder, the other coming up to place a hand over his eyes. Visions flooded Hunter’s mind.
Moloch: Your friend climbs the mountain. After two more tests, he shall be prepared to summit.
Hunter saw Jared trekking a steep mountain; a wasteland of snow and wind. A woman of fire appears before him and Jared steps through her easily. A demon of shadows crawls from a crack in the wall, and Jared vanquishes him with a single blow. A warrior with a club faces him down; after a battle, Jared stands victorious.
Moloch: This week, he shall crush Benjamin Atreyu. The week after, he will strike down his own friend to continue his quest. And at the summit?
Lighting struck the top of the mountain. From the flash, a figure remained staring down.
Moloch: He will meet the Destroyer.
As Jared and the figure charge into combat, images flew through Hunter’s mind: the pain of Hiroshima, the screams of the Cambodian Killing Fields, the rattle of machine guns in Darfur, the cries of Bosnian women, the sobs of Jews being lead into Auschwitz.
Moloch: The World may very well end. At the very least, it will be altered irrevocably. We, of course, cannot allow this.
Moloch removed his hand from Hunter’s eyes, turning the young man to face him.
Moloch: And this is where you come in.
Moloch grinned once more.
Moloch: You recognize this body, yes? Seth Lerch has been an apt host, but he is compromised. He’s weak; drunk and psychotic which makes him susceptible to persuasion. He cannot be trusted to continue anchoring me, and when the Chosen One discovers my identity, he will surely seek to liberate Mister Lerch, perhaps violently.
But you?
A light went off in Hunter’s mind, followed by the blurring of his vision as fear washed over him. His body shook as much as possible within the invisible confines of Moloch’s clutch. The Owl God licked its lips.
Moloch: Don’t worry, Hunter. Your sacrifice may be the barrier between humanity’s salvation and its destruction.
The Owl placed a hand on Hunter’s forehead; white light tore through his vision as his head began to ring. From the piercing ringing in his ears and the white light in his eyes, a face like a Bull appeared in his mind. As it opened its jaws, Hunter fell in and was consumed.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
“Take your shot, but make it your best. ‘Cause I get up, I eat ya.”
-Jimmy “Whitey Bulger”
“Human beings in a mob,
What’s a mob to a king?
What’s a king to a god?
What’s a god to a non-believer?”
-My own fucking theme song
The stripe of coke running down Thursday’s abdominal line blended in so well with her milky white skin that you could hardly have seen it was there, had you not been as close as I was. With the c note rolled up and inserted into my nose, I gently inhaled to draw the drug into my body before removing the bill and running my tongue along her skin to catch any remaining residue. She cooed like a dumb turtle dove, her legs curling up as her body twist, her mind undoubtedly begging me to keep licking a few inches to the right – sometimes I think it’s our chemistry to fuck like Caligula which has brought her and I together.
The interior of this limo was Heaven. All white everything: leather seats, suit, woman, dress, drugs. Being a God isn’t just about the name or the action; it’s about the life and the image. Benjamin Atreyu doesn’t know this; he isn’t a God. God’s don’t writhe and drown in the lower crevices of the WSeaF, scrounging for easy kills like Tiffany White. Gods don’t hobble their way from one failure to the next, barking like Gonzo Murdock over a lack of respect. Low hanging fruit may have me call you the “Mad Dog”, Benjamin, but I have a better name: Smeagol.
Oh don’t worry, I’m not taking your Thomas Bait and responding to your responses; I don’t need that. That’s not what Gods do.
Indulging the 6ix Goddess, I licked the tip of my finger and dipped it in the pile of coke sitting on the white gold tray beside us. With a slow drag of my finger I salt her rim, causing her to gasp softly and squirm against me, her eyes closing as her head tilted back. It was real power; the ability to make a woman worship you as God and captivate her with a single touch. Benjamin Atreyu doesn’t know about this; he isn’t a God. You can throw up a smoke screen and posture yourself as something you’re not; Joey Flash pretended to be a good guy, Pantheon pretended to still be dominant, Grayson Pierce pretended to be a contender, and now Atreyu pretends to be a god. It’s a clever projection you have, Benjamin; you seem to tower over others, perhaps tower over me. You have the bombast and the rhetoric – perhaps you even have the stylings. But you don’t have the record. You don’t have the results.
Behold, Benjamin Atreyu, the Great and Powerful Oz Redux.
“Do Not Respond
Heyyyyy Jared I was wondering if we could get together again? <<<<3 I know you’ve got Atreyu this week, but I just felt such ENERGY between us last month. We can align our chakras if you want ; )”
Finally, I shoot a response:
“Jared
For the last goddamn time, Sarah, I metaphorically fucked you, not literally. I’d NEVER take Purse’s sloppy seconds, and I’m not interested in wrestling you either (clothed or otherwise). Stop messaging me or I’m going to the police.”
Of course, who doesn’t want to kneel at the altar of the 6ix God? Every woman in this federation wants to fuck me, and every guy in this federation wants to be me. You, Benjamin? You’re the latest incarnation of a #fuccboi swimming in my wake. From stealing my panache to ripping off my fake Bible quote gimmick from the Los Tiburones days:
Gods don’t follow the leader – they are the leader. I set the trends. I have the vision. I lead the army into battle. It doesn’t matter if I’m not the most prestigious or accomplished member of my collective; no one questions who the mastermind is. This tournament is a coronation ceremony – I’m Hilary Clinton. You, Atreyu? You’re not even Bernie Sanders; you’re Martin O’Malley. All you’re doing is warming me up for the big one against the World Heavyweight Champion.
That’s how a God does this, Atreyu. You’re not even the second most interesting member of your faction; that goes to Mr. Holden’s corpse. And thank your lucky stars that he’s dead; he’d keep slaying you in the relevance department if he wasn’t. The saddest part about you is that you’re so underwhelming and inconsequential in this federation, I bet half of the roster doesn’t even know you’re in House of Ophelia. A “god” is not the most irrelevant member of the most irrelevant faction; he’s the pinnacle of this industry. For half a year now, #BeachKrew has had a gun to this company’s head, and now we’re proceeding to phase two. No more façade; you don’t need to pick up a WSeaF comic book to figure out who the villain is.
That’s what a god looks like. Benjamin Atreyu is not a god.
Thursday’s been wiggling her bare ass and pussy in my face for the last few minutes; she’s literally begging me to hold her down and give it to her. That sense of control? That feeling of being craved and praised? That’s what a god has. Everyone wants my attention, from Dagvald to Andre Holmes to Katherine Phoenix. Maybe you’re stupid enough to think everyone wants at me because they think I’m weak. Is that how attention is interpreted these days? “Jared’s a punk, I bet I can fuck with him”? No, I don’t think so. Every knight wanting to slay the dragon didn’t mean the dragon was a #fuccboi; it meant that it mattered more than anything.
I’m the man in this industry. You know this; that’s why you’re itching to get into the ring with me. The shame of the thing? When I absolutely dismantle you, I gain absolutely nothing. No one wants a piece of Benjamin Atreyu. No hotline blings for you. Another knight is crushed, and the dragon returns to his gold; another is added to the body count and nothing more. Who we are? What we represent to this company? Staggeringly different levels. In a mere fraction of your career, I’ve scaled heights you’ve never seen. I’ve metaphorically fucked the woman you couldn’t even lick the boot of in the ring. Now I’m about to come in and ruin your Christmas in March; it’s gonna be a shitty rest of the year for you after this. This is what a God looks like, Atreyu: it’s complete domination.
You have absolutely nothing on me. You’re not better on a mic; you’re not better in the ring; you’re not in a better faction; you don’t have a more storied career. You tagged with John Gable? I made Gable my fucking bodyguard. My bitch. You never even stepped out of his shadow. What does that look like to you? A God.
You’re no God. I am no believer.
The limousine has pulled in front of the Quicken Loans building. As I zip my pants back up, I’ve added a white smear splattered across Thursday’s lower back; the limousine interior is still all white like a Klan rally. I step out from the back of the limousine, a God descending from Heaven on Holy Week, my eyes travel slowly up the old skyscraper to my destination. A very special guest is going to be meeting me; he waited to leave for Chicago just so he could have this meeting with me.
This is what a God looks like: if I want a meeting with the World Champion, I get it. I’m a man of my peers, Benjamin; a pillar of respect and power. The door to the building is held open to me, and an elevator whisks me to the top floor. I’ll be meeting the World Champion on the top of this building because I can; you could never secure that sort of meeting. When I do things, they’re on my terms. I pick the actors, I pick the setting, and I pick the outcome. That’s why I’ve had this Trilogy Cup completely under my manipulation from the beginning. That’s why I’ll crush you and smear whatever little faggot wants to face me in the finals.
That’s why I can call myself a God.
After a brief flight of stairs, I push open the door to the roof and find myself face to face with the only man in this company who matters: the Champion. He looks bored and irritated, leaning against one of the massive metal air-conditioning units which top the building. As he sees me, his look of displeasure increases, but nonetheless, he is here.
Joseph Malignaggi: The top of a building. Really? How stupid and melodramatic can you get?
I smiled, even if it was hollow confidence; I hoped he would get it.
“You can use a bridge, but I can’t use a building? Seems unfair.”
He sneered, his voice ripe with anger at the slight.
Joseph Malignaggi: I’ll make the #BeachKrew genocide literal, starting now, if you want to play those games.
I laughed, shaking my head and raising my hands defensively.
“Sorry, I couldn’t resist. No, I brought you here because it’s melodramatic. Life is boring; it would be far more interesting if life were more like television.”
Flash shook his head. He still didn’t get it.
Joseph Malignaggi: Cut to the chase. What do you want?
Oh well. I suppose if he wants to skip the foreplay, we can go right to it.
“I wanted to wish you good luck this Sunday.”
He raised an eyebrow, a slight look of confusion on his face. He didn’t get it; this time, I didn’t want him to.
Joseph Malignaggi: Come to beg me to spare Wade?
I shook my head, my smile still as bold as ever.
“On the contrary. I expect you to beat him.”
He peeled himself from the wall, now joining me as we circled one another. Two men locked I a cosmic dance, waiting for the other to blink.
Joseph Malignaggi: You do, huh? Your best friend has the chance of reclaiming what matters most to him, and you’re in the bleachers for the other team?
“Maybe you could say that.”
Joseph Malignaggi: You really are a horrible, selfish, rat-faced little creep.
A twinge of hate; my hand instinctively to my face. Most people find me quite beautiful, really. Still, my smile never wavered. In these situations, you can never be the first to blink.
“You’re right. Completely, one-hundred percent correct. I am Thomas Bates. No, better. I’m much, much more than him. But we know this.”
Joseph Malignaggi: We do. Bates had a shred of conviction; you’re even more delusional than he was.
I shake my head, a chuckle escaping my lips. We’ve drawn closer, though the circle hasn’t stopped.
“No, I’m just realistic. Truth be told, I’m hoping you win so I don’t have to face Wade for the title once I win the Trilogy Cup.”
He frowns, his brow creasing as he stares intently at me. His words drip with irony.
Joseph Malignaggi: I can’t decide if that makes you more or less of a scumbag.
I spread my arms.
“What am I supposed to do? You know I’m winning this tournament, don’t you?”
Joseph Malignaggi: Do faggots who get overwhelmed with ungodly promos get headaches?
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
A pause, a stare.
Joseph Malignaggi: So that’s it? You asked me to stay in this garbage city and meet you at the top of a building to wish me ‘Good luck’ and tell me you can’t wait to have a match?
I shook my head.
“No. That’s not all.”
Joseph Malignaggi: Then you’d better get to it; you’re wasting my time.
The next thing that came out of my mouth was no what he expected.
“I doesn’t have to be this way, you know.”
Joseph Malignaggi: What way?
“This way. Us fighting. The taunts and attacks and back and forth. It could be different.”
Joseph Malignaggi: You’re right. You could tell fat boy to lay down, then lay down yourself. Far less dentist bills to pay.
I laugh, shaking my head.
“That’s a good one. That signature wit of yours.”
I stop circling. I stare him straight in the eyes and drop the bomb.
“I mean we don’t have to be enemies. We could be on the same side.”
He stopped as well, turning away from me to stare out over the city.
Joseph Malignaggi: And now you’re selling out all of your little buddies. You really have no loyalties, do you?
I shook my head, approaching him so I could stand at his side and look out over Detroit.
“No, that’s not what I mean. But if we may, I think the writing’s on the wall, don’t you?”
Joseph Malignaggi: That the Rat Pack is scattering and you’re a bad leader? That you dismantled your ‘dominant’ faction out of pettiness?
I shook my head. It was probably time for the big unveiling.
“No, that’s still not it. I could send Andre after Katherine, Kyle after Tiffany, Wade and Beaver after Grayson and Not-Andre, and Rabid after Vengeance. We’d have the majority of the belts once again; just takes a little shuffling. The troops are scattered because – well – they’re too used to the older model. They’re stuck on faded glories and can’t see past the old visions of Wade and Rabid.
That’s where you come in.
You defeating Wade while I rise to challenge you is history correcting itself. It’s the validation I need to get my vision across; to remind them of the successes we had before Rabid. It was never them – not Wade or Rabid – it was me who got the ball rolling in the first place. That can’t see that; they take Wade winning the World Championship on the night of Rabid’s ascent as a testament to his work, rather than the result of work I’d put in place long before he came into power or before my injury. The slate needs to be wiped clean; it’s covered in too many drawings and scribbles and superfluous notes or bad annotations to see the original formula underneath. My formula.”
Joseph Malignaggi: I was right; you’re selling your friends out to benefit yourself.
“Just as you did with Imperium.”
I paused, letting the moment linger. With a wave of my hand, I dismissed the idea to the wind.
“But that’s still not what I’m talking about. I’m proposing a friendship. Maybe a partnership. We could help one another, you and I.”
Joseph Malignaggi: You have nothing that I could ever want.
“Yes, actually, I do.”
His looks is cynicism and skepticism. I’m hurt; I expected more from him.
“I can offer a lot. The Pride are limping out of the gates, and Rabid is going to destroy Dune.”
Joseph Malignaggi: If you think Rabid can beat Dune, you’re stupider than you seem.
“I think you’d be surprised at what Rabid is capable of. And when he does, what do you have? Occulo? Do you expect Occulo to keep you guarded? The whole fed is clamoring for a piece of you.”
Joseph Malignaggi: That includes you.
“But I can amuse myself in other ways. I don’t need a belt; I just want it.”
The moment fell to silence once more. I turn to face him, a sense of bubbling excitement washing through me.
“We could be partners, you and I. We’d crushing this federation; make it our bitch. We could do whatever we wanted if we put aside our differences.”
He stared back at me. His face was hardened.
Joseph Malignaggi: So this is why you brought me up here; to play Star Wars. I suppose next you’re going to tell me you’re my father, and you’re expecting me to accept or jump, right?
I shook my head.
“No. I’m not Darth Vader.”
Joseph Malignaggi: And you’re certainly not Luke, either.
He turned, walking towards the door. His voice was pure, cold contempt.
Joseph Malignaggi: My answer is no. Unless you have something incredible for me, never contact me again.
As the door swung closed behind him, I lingered on the roof. “Something incredible”. Joey wouldn’t have to worry; I’d be seeing him really soon.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Hours later, I was aboard my private jet to Chicago, continuing my celebration of Holy Week the way only a God could do: more cocaine and less clothes. There’d be no WINObago for now; no cars or business class seats. This was my moment – the coronation of the King in Yellow.
The interior of my jet was all Burl Ives: silver and gold. Thursday lay spread on the bed in the middle of the room, wrapped in a polar bear skin rug. It was an incredible piece to have acquired; Elko, Nevada’s Commercial Casino was known for housing the world’s largest taxidermy polar bear, dubbed the White King. It was a major point of pride; the casino even put a massive plaster replica of the thing on the exterior of the building. Of course, everything has a price. A couple million and a convincing replica was enough for the switch. I have no use for a stuffed bear, but I could always use a new rug – a few snips solved the problem.
Thursday lay before me like a present to be unwrapped. Of course, with any of the finer things in life, they ought to be savored rather than rushed. We began with champagne – 1907 Diamant Bleu cuvee (a cool $4k bottle) – before moving on to the cocaine. My life is kingly luxury; I have such tastes, I could make a blumpkin classy.
This is how Gods live; not in some shithole tundra city. But of course, we can be real with ourselves, can’t we Benjamin: you hardly care about St. Paul. You’ve got a little income; where do you go? Europe, L.A., the Florida Keys? All places I own houses, of course; I can hardly fault a man for not wanting to spend his days freezing in an icebox like Minnesota. The difference between us is how you cling to this false veneer of authenticity; you still rep Minnesota when you live miles away.
Another tick in the column of “inauthentic”. How do you expect any of us to believe your claims of Godhood?
You write in pomp and circumstance, but you have none of the trappings of legitimate greatness. You’re a chronic underachiever and a world-class choke artist when things matter most. Why does Benjamin Atreyu posit himself as a man of St. Paul? Because it’s easy. There’s no contender for your title to “City’s Best”. There’s nothing which can eclipse you as a show of force or power. Your state is known for lakes and Prince. It’s easy to look like a giant when you walk amongst Lilliputians.
It’s another of the many stark contrasts between us; the reason why we’re on such staggeringly different levels and will continue to be for the remainder of our careers. Call me what you like Benjamin; a frat boy, a psycho, a fraud. I hail from one of the biggest cities in the world; Sarah Twilight and Katherine Phoenix hail from it, amongst some. You have no competition; I’ve buried any competition I could have. You’re a giant in the world of midgets; I’m a giant in Brobdingnag. A colossus who eclipses the greatest city in the world.
I remove my Brooks Brothers Fitzgerald Fit Saxxon Summer Plaid Sports Coat ($998) and begin to unbutton the cuffs and front of my Ermenegildo Zenga White Sports Shirt ($375). I dress well, even on an hour long plane ride from Detroit to Chicago because I make myself look good. Benjamin Atreyu makes others look good. Unless they’re Tiffany White. But then again, her entire existence is predicated on failure.
In the coming weeks, I will be returning to Detroit regularly to keep tabs on the activities of my enemies. With any luck, I’ll have spilled enough champagne on the carpets of this plane to make it smell like a winery before its cleaned. If wineries allowed fucking, that is. It’s a careful balance between business and pleasure; the real genius can fuse them together. Of course, that’s been my M.O. since my beginning in WSeaF; since the beginning of #BeachKrew. When work is play, then work comes naturally. I never take things too seriously; it makes no difference.
This is where Benjamin Atreyu and I differ most wildly; display of passion. Some may call me dispassionate or perhaps distracted. Maybe they think I’m too busy snorting coke and fucking models or scheming over some mad-cap Galactic Prophecy to be a wrestler. This is, of course, wrong. No, I care quite a bit about my career and standing within the WSeaF; it’s the ultimate means to my ends. Commitment is what has brought me to now; to the tied WAR record, to the survivor of Hellimination, to the semi-finals of the Trilogy Cup. I display my commitment by doing what I do best: succeeding.
It’s no accident that I am where I am today; I always deserved it. Even when I wore a shark mask and called myself some spic name, I excelled. This wasn’t in my blood; this is what I chose. This is what Godhood looks like: it looks like domination. When I want something, it’s mine; I take it. I’m the best in this ring, and I have been since the moment I stepped through this door. Rabid? Wade? Good; very good. All of them handed the opportunities needed to succeed. Me? I’ve taken the path of greatest resistance and left bodies in my wake.
By contrast, Benjamin Atreyu cares too much. It shows in how he carries himself in and out of the ring; he’s a seething ball of rage demanding respect. When someone mocks him with a photoshopped picture, he loses his mind. Benjamin Atreyu can’t look at himself in the mirror; he can’t laugh at himself. It’s all relevant and indicative of a greater issue: Benjamin Atreyu knows he’s a failure. His drive and his passion are the ultimate cherry on top of his shit-sundae: he’s a failure at what he loves.
Why will I beat Benjamin Atreyu? Because I won’t lose my head, but he’ll lose his. He knows his time is winding up – you can only swing and miss so many times before you have to hang up the cleats. You can also only care about something so much and come short so many times before it breaks your spirit. The idea must haunt him; perhaps it even keeps him up at night. The thought of burning out in the Trilogy Cup again has to be the ultimate horror; a revelation that he’s done. And this time, when he burns out? He won’t even make it as far as he did. Benjamin Atreyu: outclassed. The world is moving on.
I’m relishing the thought of getting into the ring with him – I can almost taste his misery after the bell rings. I can see it: I rise from the ground, the referee holding my arm as he weeps at my feet, the commentators offering weak sympathies. A week later, he calls a press conference: Benjamin Atreyu has announced his retirement from professional wrestling. Between choked sobs and tears, he’ll confess that coming back to the ring was a mistake, and he’s going to continue to pursue the corporate job he’d excelled in. He’ll thank Gein, K.L. Henson, John Gable, and Waylon Cash for making him relevant and being supportive while thanking me for being the opponent he needed to have this epiphany. The crowd claps politely, he gets a cubicle, three years later he dies of a drug overdose in a Nevada brothel room.
Another dead #fuccboi and the whole world celebrates. After destroying Atreyu, I’ll be rigging Kemp and Chance so Kemp advances. In the Finals, I’ll finally have the rest I need by telling Kemp to lay down. On the 6eventh Day God rested, right? I deserve a break.
I approach Thursday, lying beside her on the bed. My nostril hovers over the thin white trail which begins at her nipple and traces up to her jaw. With a deep inhale, I find myself at her neck, her fingers tilting my chin up so we can lock lips. Her tongue wraps with mine, passing the pill between us, which I chew and swallow before continuing to explore the body of this creature. Atreyu doesn’t seem to spend much time with women; he’s probably a faggot.
The thought of ending another career has me fully engorged; we make love until the plane lands at O’Hare. When the door opens, I’ll walk down the stairs to meet a mass of screaming reporters, once more begging me for thoughts on my match and any special comments. It’s become a certainty now; people know I’m a rising star at the cusp of greatness. Likewise, Atreyu will maybe be bothered by one pimpled fan while waiting at the luggage carousel. After shaking hands with reporters, a limousine will pick Thursday and I up, Jim will be waiting inside, and I’ll be briefed on the progress of our operations in Detroit as well as any Owl activity in Chicago. I’ll check into a nice hotel room, call up the boys, and will spend these last few days in the midst of absolute bacchanalia. On Sunday, I’ll get in the ring and destroy Benjamin Atreyu.
This is what the life of a God is like: it’s anything you want. The most beautiful woman? The most expensive clothes? The shot at the top belt? The leadership positions? All I could ever desire at the tips of my fingers. Nothing has changed. Nothing will be different on Sunday.
Good bye, Benjamin. Some will say this was the defining match of the Trilogy Cup this year, but we both know that’s bullshit. This was in my bag since the moment the card was released; Seth decided to pull the band-aid off on your failing career by ensuring you’d get no further than this.
Where the Mad God dies, the Six God rises.
