Post by 6ix God on Apr 24, 2016 14:02:34 GMT -5
A Reading from the Book of Blow Job
In the beginning, Six God stepped onto the scene. The scene was a vast waste, fuccbois covered its surface, and the spirit of Six God hovered over the dance floor. Six God said, ‘Let there be #BeachKrew’ and there was #BeachKrew; and Six God saw #BeachKrew was legit, and he separated #BeachKrew from the fuccbois. He called #BeachKrew his bros, and the fuccbois gay. So #BeachKrew came, and fuccbois went. This was the first #FuccboiGenocide.
The sun pierced the windows, diving like a hawk for the eyelids of the sleeping Six God. The sting of morning’s break shot a surge of familiar pain through his body, causing him to turn and groan in place. The hangover was as common as ever, crawling from the burning pain in his skull down his spine and coursing through his body like a thick black sludge. Another groan escaped his lips, now prompting the woman beside him to turn and slowly open her eyes. As Jared moved the pillow over his head, Thursday smiled at him, leaning forward to kiss his forehead. Her voice was low and gentle.
Thursday: Good morning, my perfect man.
Jared’s body instinctively curled into her awaiting arms – not from any sense of affectionate reciprocation but the ugly writhing of his condition. He giggled and kissed him on the top of his head, her fingers slowly dragging through his hair.
Thursday: You had a lot to drink last night.
Jared could only muster a groan, his face burying into her bare breasts as if hoping that he could find comfort and sanctuary from the sun. She laughed again, turning slightly to reach a single slender hand for the pill bottle on the bedside table. Shaking a few pills into her hand, she turned back to the vulnerable form of Jared Holmes, stroking the side of his head with her free hand.
Thursday: Open up!
Jared’s head lolled back, his eyes squeezed tightly as his mouth opened expectantly. The pills entered his mouth before Thursday turned to retrieve one of the half-finished bottles of Fat Tire, pouring just enough for him to wash the Aspirin down. Chapped lips parted as a soft, hoarse noise came from Jared’s throat.
Jared Holmes: Sunglasses.
At the drop of a hat, Thursday rose from the bed, the covers falling from the curves of her bodyline and her form displayed to him in its glory. She strode across the room, careful to step over any discarded bottles or knocked over furniture, before she plucked the discarded Ray Bans from the dresser. Turning back, she returned to him, placing the sunglasses on his face for him before curling back against him, her groin gently caressing his upper calf as her stomach slid against his. It was an easy hint to get; Jared promptly rolled on top of her. After a quick tryst, he rose from the bed for breakfast while she remained in bed smiling happily in the afterglow of their orgasms.
In the living room of the hotel room, Jared proceeded to the mini-fridge for a small bottle of Dom Perignon and his box of Captain Crunch. Thuggin always made sureJared#BeachKrew had the comforts they needed while traveling; the champagne cereal ritual had been an old one. The hotel room was quiet and empty, a far call from the scenes of destruction and chaos which had followed #BeachKrew’s shared hotel rooms of early days. Perhaps one could get nostalgic or even melancholy over the silence, but Jared had never quite understood sentimentality – he ate his breakfast alone.
The night before had been Jared’s Coronation Party, a crazed celebration of his upcoming victory in the Trilogy Cup. A grunted snore alerted Jared to the presence of Andre Aquarius, curled up in a ball in the corner of the room. Undoubtedly, Gable was passed out in the bathroom. Were there more guests still lingering, unconscious in closets or bathtubs? Maybe. Probably. Despite being completely nude and now aware of the others’ presence, he continued to eat. After a moment, Thursday entered the living room with his bathrobe. Andre stirred shortly after, pushing himself up without a word to make his way towards the bathroom door. A beat, then a knock.
Andre Aquarius: Ay, open up bruh! I gotta shit like a muthafucka!
After a second of silence, Andre rapped on the door again.
Andre Aquarius: Seriously, bruh! I’mma fuckin’ pee my shit! Open up!
After still no response, Andre walked back into the living room.
Andre Aquarius: Yo, it cool if I break this shit down?
Jared nodded idly, his mind far more concerned with shoving Captain Crunch into his mouth. Andre left the room once more before two loud bangs preceded the splintering of wood. Yes, the Coronation Party had been everything Jared had expected: raw bacchanalia intended to reward his loyal followers and play just the sort of mind game he needed with Kemp. Of course, everyone had been invited – sort of. Beaver’s invitation was probably lost in the mail; he was a bit too close to the wrong pole for Jared’s liking. Kemp, of course, didn’t show up, nor had Rabid. What matters is they all saw it and knew what Jared was getting at.
Heralded by a loud flush, Andre stepped out of the bathroom and proceeded to the couch, falling back into a deep sleep. Jared smiled at his protégé before rising from the table to use the restroom himself. The Party, of course, had been about more than just his impending Trilogy Cup win; there was his upcoming machinations to consider. Andre, of course, had been instrumental to him lately, far outgrowing his purpose as #BeachKrew Storm Trooper or even bodyguard. The Six God rewarded his subjects, and the upcoming month would be testament to his faith in Andre. Jared considered Andre his finest work: a wrestler who’d gone from no-name flag carrier to tag team force in a few months. It was almost like Jared could replicate any success Johnny Rabid, Kyle Kemp, or Wade Moor could’ve had simply by force of will.
Stepping through the broken portal and kicking aside discarded streamers, Jared’s eyes quickly assessed the situation before him. John Gable passed out in the tub? Check. Two women draped over him like a comforter? Check. Indelible stench of coke and cognac shits? Big check. Jared pulled the shower curtain aside to partition himself from the sleeping guests as he did his business.
Back in the main room, Jared found Thursday sitting at the table enjoying her own bowl of Captain Crunch. He sat next to her, leaned forward to kiss her, and reached for the cup of coffee she’d left out for him, taking a long sip before resting his chin on his hands.
Thursday: You look like death froze over.
Jared smiled slightly and gave a low, single chuckle, his eyes cast down towards the table.
Jared Holmes: I went hard as shit. Looks like everyone did.
Thursday: I’ve always admired how you can make a small party seem so big. I mean, it was only – what – twenty people here last night?
Jared shrugged.
Jared Holmes: I didn’t count.
Her hand reached over to scratch the back of his head.
Thursday: It’s what makes you so special – you are the party.
Jared smiled to himself; her words have reverberations far beyond her intentions. Or maybe she was saying exactly what he was thinking.
Jared Holmes: And soon I’ll be the Number One Contender.
Thursday: You’re goddamn right you will be.
They turned their heads towards each other, their eyes meeting. A wicked grin spread across Thursday’s lips as she rose, slowly stalking behind him to wrap her arms around his neck and rest her chin on his shoulder. Her voice was low and husky, alluring and hypnotic. Jared tilted his head back and closed his eyes, savoring the feeling of her breath on his neck and in his ear – his Queen of Blades.
Thursday: My Six God, my Six God. Everything you’ve done has brought you here. Everything has gone exactly how you planned it, and now you’re on the cusp of getting everything you needed. Do you understand just how elaborate the web you wove was? From convincing a silly little socialite like me to stay by your side to your creation of the greatest faction in WSeaF history to playing everyone like a fiddle.
She paused to kiss his neck, his lips parting so as to allow her teeth to lightly scrape his flesh, followed by the gentle drag of her tongue. When she parted from contact, the faint residue of her saliva remained. She returned to his ear.
Thursday: And even Joey doesn’t get it. He still can’t see what you’re doing. But I can. I see everything Jared because you taught me how to see. And when I close my eyes, I dream of the world beneath the waves where you rule.
She giggled, her lips parting to allow the edge of his earlobe into her mouth to nibble playfully.
Thursday: They call to me every night; the watchers of Carcosa. That’s why that old man wants you to fail; he knows you’ll succeed. And that starts on Sunday, Harbinger. The beginning of the 6ixth Era.
Jared’s hand came up to snake around her neck, the two lovers closing their eyes as they caressed the skin of one another. The sensation was electric – wild and hot like a burning bush. Images flooded through Jared’s mind: a little girl, a teenager, a neglectful father, a world on fire, and a savior in a shining mask. He didn’t understand what was going on – was he seeing into her and could she see into him? They were merging, King and Queen in ecstatic pulse to the ugly beatings of the blasphemous drums of Jalaxaritkatusa. And then, a groan interrupted it all as their eyes opened and they drew apart. Gable trundled into the room.
John Gable: C-coffee. Need coffee.
Thursday strode from the table to fetch the coffee pot; Jared closed his eyes. Something that felt like love surged through him – if that was what love felt like. Or maybe it wasn’t even that. Either way, he knew that his fate and hers was intertwined in some way cosmic and prophetic.
This is the story of #BeachKrew after its creation.
When the Six God made the #BeachKrew, it was all his old college bros because the Six God is DFL. The Six God formed Kyle Kemp from the dust of a failed singles career and breathed into his nostrils the gift of relevance, so that he could win a match. The Six God threw a party in the Tag and People’s Division, and in it he put the wrestler he had formed. The Six God made titles grow up from the ground, every kind of success pleasing to the eye and good for getting laid; and in the middle of this success he set the Hellimination run.
I feel bad for you, Kyle. Legitimately. No, really, I’m serious. It must be hard being this delusional and attempting to keep that whole façade of bravado and machismo up when the match is so lop-sided and the outcome so likely. How long have you been pacing in your hotel room? Have you been kept up at night, perhaps even waking up screaming from a dream where I batted better than you? When your ego hangs so delicately on the gimmick of being “better than others”, I can only imagine how you’ll be after losing this match. Just remember, buddy, that we’re all here for you in your times of trouble, and if you’re thinking about offing yourself like a big pussy, give me a call. I care <3
On the other hand, I don’t think that should be a problem if we consider history. Can we do that for a moment, buddy? Friend? Guy? C’mon, we’re pals; we don’t need to bullshit. Let’s lay out the elephant in the room about your gimmick: you haven’t been “better than” anyone since Andre Jenson. I want you to really sit and stew on that for a moment – or, actually, don’t. It’ll make you drink, and I want to kick your ass while you’re sober.
Andre fucking Jenson, Kempo. I mean, Jesus Christ, that’s low hanging fruit. I suppose this is where I’m supposed to point out how this is actually unsurprising – there is a dedicated pattern to your career and a clear progression path. Let’s start from the beginning, shall we?
Kyle Kemp makes his debut, taking a bat to the head of Spencer Adams. So far, so good. This was almost a year ago, wasn’t it? Hell, I think it’s been almost a whole year since you joined this company, before I was around. Good job. This bat to the dome, however, would be the high point of your entire feud with Spencer Adams: here you went shooting your load in your underwear on Day One. I mean, seriously, we’ll get back to how Spencer spent the next several months clowning you like a bitch, but let’s at least give credit where it’s due: you actually had pretty good form. You must’ve sucked at playing field if you couldn’t cut it in baseball. Then again, even Bill Buckner could get a job in the MLB. The worst outfielder of all time was better than you.
For your esteemed battery on the Antidote, you were thrown into your first real shot: Alex Richards. I don’t care what anyone says about his record or how he’s nigh undefeatable holding onto that belt – you had a chance, and you shit the bed. You shit the bed in several title shots that you received against him, in fact. You shit the bed in several non-title matches, too. For all the swagger and bravado, you found yourself on the receiving end of the Archduke of Confusion. In Jay Omega’s Soviet Canada, Richards rapes YOU! (Jay Omega doesn’t rape anyone because he is impotent. And dead.)
Alex-fucking-Richards. You know who was a perpetual thorn in his side, Kyle? Me. Wade and I bent Richards and Crow over on our fucking debut; we made those bitches beg like they wanted more. Hell, I’m almost entirely convinced that I’m the reason why Alex Richards left the fed: I bullied him for months on end for no reason other than lulz. Richards had your number: he had you by the balls. By kicking your ass, Richards could feel better about his shitty career and standings – it was like Seth was giving him comfort wins. You want to know why people even know Richards was molested as a kid? Because he stupidly talked about it while getting ready to face me. Richards tried using getting over being sodomized as an ankle-biter as a metaphor for how he’d overcome me. Facing me was as horrible and frightening as being raped as a child; that’s how tall I stand.
I have stood heads and shoulders above you from the time I walked into this federation. In half the time it’s taken you to get near the main event, it has taken me a quarter. Why do you think I dealt with Spencer Adams more easily than you? Yeah, let’s get back to that one, buddy boy: Spencer fucking Adams. Remember how I said that the high point of your feud with him was taking a bat to his head? Can we talk about your shitty little “Devil’s Den” match where you lost? Seriously, stew on that for a moment Kyle: you spend several months clowning this guy. You clowned him so hard, he got fed to Howard Black at Asesinato de Mayo. You clowned him so bad he became a regular meme in a Celeste promo. And then when you have the chance to put your stamp on him? You blew it. Failed. Got put through a table and pinned for three. Spencer Adams moved up… and got fed to David Sanchez. That’s it. That’s your legacy: you made the guy who would get fed to someone who skipped town faster than Howard Black. The Kurt Cobain of the WSeaF. You were enhancement talent for enhancement talent. In the match with everything to prove and all the momentum, you choked.
Know who fucked Spencer up? Me. After his little gin-rummy flippy shit spot at WAR, costing me my match, I had my eye on the motherfucker. He was the itch needing a good scratch. What did I do? I ran through Hellimination with you and Wade then put Spencer down like the good little bitch he was. And then when I came back? I put him out for good. For all the bombastic talk about how you’ve been rivals to these big names, you’ve never been more than a distraction. An inconvenience. The People’s Choice were practically formed out of a mutual fear and hatred of me; if Vic Venable wasn’t off on some spirit quest, I’m sure he’d tell you. Fuck it, ask your little butt-pal Teo (we’ll get to him) about who flustered him more, and he won’t hesitate. For every “great feud” you’ve had, I’ve done it bigger and better. I’ve had better results and bigger upsets. You were Spencer Adams’s bitch to the point he just dubbed you that in his promos. I am the reason Spencer Adams isn’t still on TV, killing our ratings.
When I formed #BeachKrew, I became captain of this ship. This whole group? This design and aesthetic? It’s all me. I’m the beauty behind the madness; the fucking architect. I’ve always been an artsy guy; I like projects. So here I am, perusing the WSeaF roster, looking to increase my power and influence, and I get this idea:
Short list of candidates gave me you, the perfect blend of machismo and idiocy who would dance and sing at a moment’s notice like a capuchin monkey. And what were the results? Exactly as I said they would be: I made your career rise from the ashes like a swagged-out phoenix. How dare you run up on me in our locker room? How dare you think you’re bigger and better than #BeachKrew. Without me, you’d be the same rudderless boat meandering from loss to loss with the occasional crashing of a kid’s kickball game to compensate for your small stature. Your successes started the moment you signed the contract with me. You willingly gave me your soul for everything you could desire. And I gave that to you. Don’t think for a second that any of your accolades are of your own volition – I gave you direction and purpose, a Hellimination win, and a tag partner to go for the gold with. All of you belongs to #BeachKrew, and I am #BeachKrew.
You’d get your People’s Title win over Spencer in what may be the only significant win in your pitiful little career. You’d end up squandering it by losing on a consistent basis to Teo del Sol. Teo had just come off embarrassingly losing to Andre Jenson, and he took it out on you in spectacular fashion. First he took your title. Then he beat you in the rematch. Then he beat you in the rematch of the rematch at ONE. On the biggest stage of them all, Kyle Kemp couldn’t compete. He couldn’t hang. He choked again. You may have humiliated Teo. You may have took his mask and gotten under his skin. But who drew the blueprint that you couldn’t follow?
I did. Hell, I even did it better than David Sanchez. Despite my WAR loss, I have consistently taken Teo behind the shed to beat him like a dog. If Teo had the choice to punch only one of us, who do you think he’d choose?
It’s because I’ve taken everything Teo has stood for and torn it up in front of his face. Sanchez played Teo’s weakness for the people against him, and I took a big shit on Teo’s doorstep. What did you do? Provide a minor inconvenience. Really get him cross. But you never had a resounding impact on him, other than the unmasking. You never got that win over Teo which made the series look close. Think on it for a moment, buddy: at what point was your little feud with Teo ever competitive? You eliminated him in Hellimination. Cool. You eliminated him in WAR. After I softened him up (I lasted longer than you despite having a match, by the way. The numbers, they matter). The other one-on-ones? Lopsided. As lopsided as this. Teo and I? Also lopsided. In my favor.
For all the talk of “being my boy” and siding with me in Hellimination, you sure started singing another tune the moment I was injured. Oh, don’t think I didn’t notice you and Rabid palling around like a couple into their first months of dating, you little Benedict Arnold. Didn’t I treat you right? Didn’t I give you everything you wanted? I should’ve chosen Sandy Coconutz as my third man for Hellimination if I knew you’d pull this shit. Maybe that’s why I’m so looking forward to kicking your ass; I have a real bone to pick about this shit. I give you a little sniff of the good life, and it goes to your head. Now you’re biting the hand that’s fed you. You’re so drunk on the successes that I engineered that you’ve convinced yourself of your own bullshit. Don’t you listen to Biggie? Never get high on your own supply. Never go Full Kyle Kemp. You went Full Kyle Kemp.
Rabid did everything in his power to keep me held down, and you were more than happy to be the eager-to-please son, saying “Did I do good, Pop?” You Beaver Cleaver motherfucker, you clung to Rabid’s coattails for success, just like you clung to mine. Your whole career has been a series of endorsements and carries from #TeamHandsome to #BeachKrew to Johnny Rabid to me. Who got all the pins in those wins and defenses for those belts? Johnny fucking Rabid. Who went on to Final Destination? Johnny fucking Rabid. Who is going to whip Tiffany White for the TV Title while you’ve never even be considered a shot at that belt? Johnny fucking Rabid.
If Wade didn’t shit the bed in that Triple Threat, Grayson Pierce would be making his way to the ring to face #BlackBeaver on Sunday rather than embarrassing himself in another loss to Joey Flash. That fucking schlup has made you his bitch so many times over, it’s like he decided to snatch defeat out of the jaws of victory against you last week. And frankly? That you beat him has made this whole thing even more fucking laughable. Everyone knows Grayson is going to get his ass blown out again, and it was all too evident after he lost to you. He has no momentum going into this match; who could when they just came off an embarrassing singles loss to Kyle Kemp? Now, thanks to you, #BlackBeaver look even more screwed not getting the Tag Title shot they earned. Christ, people, I give you kids a bit of leash and you can’t do anything right – this main event is epitomized by #BeachKrew mediocrity.
I take that as a personal insult and personal responsibility. I should’ve tried harder. I should’ve broken Grayson’s legs when I had the chance. For that, I’ll say ‘my bad’. On the other hand, I’ve been so busy rigging this fucking tournament in our favor, I thought you’d have the decency and appreciation to help me out for a second. C’mon, Kyle, you can’t actually think you earned this spot?
Newsflash: you didn’t. You’re here in the finals because I have deemed you the person to face in the finals. Let’s be real again for a moment: you were put in this tournament to be fed to Dune. That’s it. The odds against you were astronomical (hence why I made a fucking killing in Vegas on your win). Your spot was as legitimate as Occulo’s against Atreyu – an absolute joke. But I threw you a bone: I told Rabid to screw Dune. Just like I told Rabid to screw Chance von Crank. I have gone through every match in this tournament with no external aid – I fucked Sarah Twilight until she loved me, and I made the Mad God bow before the power of the Six God. My path was the path of most resistance; if any of those two were facing you here, you’d lose just as resoundingly as you will against me. This whole tournament has been a testament to my power, planning, and leadership. I screwed Tiffany White. I screwed Occulo (just forgot to send in the segment. Oops, there goes the Fourth Wall). I screwed Dune. I screwed Sarah Twilight before a live studio audience. I screwed Chance von Crank. Then I beat Benjamin Atreyu. Now, I will beat you.
It would be a fucking mockery to this whole business if you won, pushed up like a puppet prop of myself and Rabid. You’d step into the ring with Flash, and in an instant we’d hear “ZA WARUDO” followed by “one, two, three”. Ding-ding-ding, Joey Flash retains in the shortest match of his career. Walking away, Flash would tell reporters that Adam Young had provided a bigger challenge than you. In the meanwhile, everyone would be forced to do the soul-searching required when someone goes so catastrophically wrong. Hell, Seth may even cancel the tournament in the future to save himself the embarrassment of a repeat performance – the biggest laughing stock of an accolade since Jay Omega won WAR and Logan won Final Destination. You have earned none of your wins. None of your accomplishments are legitimate or deserved. You were the paper tiger I pushed up for the lulz, much like the lulz I got when I bullied Alex Richards or attacked Tiffany White before Round One. This tournament should be named the Jared Holmes Memorial Cup over how much I’ve molded it in my image.
Here’s a little secret: you were the worst person in this tournament.
You want to see the difference between us? I can get injured for several months and come back with hell fully raised. I can take a few weeks off for philanthropy and still win any match I feel like. I am always have momentum. I always have heat. I’m always in the top tier with no need to grind or even try. I broke the WAR elimination record after saying multiple times I didn’t give a shit about it, just to blemish Grayson Pierce’s achievements. I was the sole Hellimination survivor after you and Wade went down to Spencer fucking Adams.
I’m the GOAT. You’re the current WOAT of #BeachKrew, falling back to that place after BrOblivSEAon got the boot. Can I tell you another little secret, Kyle? You are my BrOblivSEAon. Seriously, I’m really proud of myself for how well I’ve done with you. Let’s take a moment and acknowledge that Wade and Rabid didn’t know what the fuck they were doing and didn’t get it. It’s not about “sea pun names”, it’s about mentality. You had the right mentality. You had the right look and style I needed. Fuck it, after all the shit I’ve talked, I’ll pat you on the back a bit: you’re my finest creation. Your success is proof that my methods and ideas worked; I was able to integrate a non-#BeachKrew member seamlessly into the fold. It was perfect, beautiful even. Hell, who was the one behind recruiting Beaver, even if Wade really mentored him? I’ve got the eye for this shit; Wade and Rabid didn’t. That’s why Wade and Rabid’s protégé was a fat retard dancing the nae-nae with a sea pun name who couldn’t win a match. My tutelage? That’s why you’re where you are. You were my handcrafted sculpture. A fine project of the Six God. If it had gone any other way? You would’ve been a few steps from being this:
But you weren’t. You were Kyle Kemp, my finest project. And that’s why you’re here now: a nice reward. A good little note in your accolades: “2016 Trilogy Cup Finalist”.
You have blasphemed the name of the Six God. You have insulted the man who made you. You’ve decided to butt heads with the real Alpha. Before me, Kyle Kemp was a fucking loser. Persona non grata. Jobber fodder for the lower echelons. Lucy fucking Starr before he was a thing. Before I came into the picture Alex Richards, Spencer Adams, and everyone-fucking-else was better than you. You didn’t turn it around on your own, I did it for you. Your name matters because it is associated with mine. Your checks don’t bounce because I make your wages. You get fucked because I’m your wing man.
You are a shit wrestler with a big head looking to get smacked back down like the pussy he is. How dare you turn your back on me. How dare you slight a man whose career is more impressive than anything you could accomplish in the next four years. There is a reason why Joey Flash isn’t even considering you in the slightest. There is a reason why Sarah Twilight is bullshitting that she rolled over to let me through. There is a reason that Pantheon wanted nothing but to see me six-feet-deep. Because since the moment I stepped into this federation, I have been the problem. Everything I touch turns yellow and gold. Everything I do drops jaws. Everyone has my name in their mouth because real recognizes real.
This isn’t a match, this is a fucking massacre on the scale of Cambodia’s Year Zero. Since I came back, I’ve lead by example while the rest of you have sat on your hands like a bunch of fucking muppets. Now you have the audacity to claim you belong in this ring and deserve that title shot. Not. Fucking. Happening.
My name is Jared Holmes. I am the Six God. On the first day, I created #BeachKrew. On the second day, I created Kyle Kemp. On the third day, I created Dustin Beaver. On the fourth day, I won Wade the World Title. On the fifth day, I won Hellimination. On the Sixth day, I crushed Kyle Kemp to win the Trilogy Cup. And on the Seventh Day, I’ll take Trios for kicks. I don’t rest. Even when I’m not competing, I’m influencing everything and driving the bus. That is real power. That is real godhood. And you, Kyle? You’re just a man.
He considered his options for a second before raising from his throne. As he glided through the wreckage, the many hooded figures he passed froze and saluted at attention. He paid them little mind; his journey ended at the door of a dirty cell deep within the bowels of the old Packard Plant. With a beckoning of his finger, the door creaked open to reveal the curled form of Hunter Updegraff. The man turned to look up upon his keeper, his eyes wide and wild with fear and loathing. Moloch smiled as he bent forward to caress Hunter on the chin.
Moloch: Fear not. Your suffering here ends tonight. And begins anew immediately.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
On Sunday evening, Jared had Thursday pack his bag for the arena. Things had grown tense in #BeachKrew; the WINObago was practically nonexistent to Jared at the moment. It was a troubling development, but perhaps it was one of necessity. He had heard the talk and heard the rumors; the questions of his ambitions and leadership were a natural propaganda tool of his enemies. Instead, they’d began to infect the minds of his brothers and compatriots. This, of course, greatly annoyed the Six God.
But God didn’t need to ride shotgun for them to know he was there; they knew all too well. When the Israelites broke God’s rules and besmirched his name, he sent a flood which destroyed the world, only to rebuild it again. What #BeachKrew was seeing now was the flood; what would come after was the time to rebuild.
In the meanwhile, Jared sat at the hotel room table, staring down at the leather vest before him. A coy smile crept over his face as his eyes danced over the embroidered patch on the back – the bearded death’s head clutching a blunt in his mouth staring back at him. It was another fine creation of the Six God – audacious and daring. Jaws would drop, heads would shake, and fuccbois would rest in peace. It was time he began pressing forward.
As he slung the Trios Cup “uniform” over his shoulder, he smiled to himself. Should his gifts and offerings to #BeachKrew be stupidly denied, then he’d simply move on. Occasionally, Jared wondered if this was precisely what had happened before. Had God left Jalaxaritkatusa for Earth, leaving them to die of their failures for turning their back on him? Had God now abandoned Earth for somewhere else?
At any rate, the Six God was more than happy to fulfill this vacancy; he knew himself to be more merciful than that. If #BeachKrew came back, he would welcome them with open arms. Such was the rule of the Six God. Meanwhile, new gears turned as fresh ventures presented themselves to him. Everything could go according to plan: crush Kyle Kemp, win the Trios Cup Tournament, and face off against the man of his fascination at Blast.
Before leaving the room for the limousine waiting downstairs, Jared retrieved his phone from his pocket. The message he was expecting arrived, a single group text from a familiar name.
“Joseph
alrite im in. we gunna fuccin do this or wut?
?”
Jared smiled. Everything goes according to plan. He sent back a single message to Joey and their third man.
“Jared
After I finish with Kemp, consider Grayson Pierce the new Mitch Morales.”
From his fortress above the skies, Steve Bosstin frowned. No, he shook his head, it was a complete impossibility. Despite his generally dismissive attitude towards Jimophy's so-called Harbinger, there was one area in which Thuggin felt confident: the identity of the destroyer. His own candidate for Harbinger, of course, had failed to cross paths with the Destroyer, but was that not all in accordance with prophecy? Was not the Harbinger supposed to wait and face the Destroyer for the fate of Earth when the time was right?
The implications of Bosstin's discovery made him tremble, a sensation and emotion he'd only recently acquired from his study of Earth. His fingers drummed nervously on the table as his eldritch brain raced to process the implications.
The Jalaxaritkatusan commander sang only to himself in the hollow confines for his observation room. His head turned towards the empty operating table where the Destroyer had laid many times before. Slowly, he turned back to the image on the screen: the two men standing across from one another. In the eyes of the so-called Harbinger, Bosstin saw the same glint he'd seen all too many times when he looked in the mirror. The familiarity of this look, so alien and so familiar, made him shudder openly. His lip curled down into a grimace of terror as he turned and floated from the room.
He readied his decent to the planet below, his mind reaching out to touch that of Jimophy. The hour was at hand; they needed to speak urgently, especially should the men of prophecy be at the crux of relations. After receiving his affirmation, Bosstin stepped into the teleporter. His last words before beaming left his lips in a quaver.
In the beginning, Six God stepped onto the scene. The scene was a vast waste, fuccbois covered its surface, and the spirit of Six God hovered over the dance floor. Six God said, ‘Let there be #BeachKrew’ and there was #BeachKrew; and Six God saw #BeachKrew was legit, and he separated #BeachKrew from the fuccbois. He called #BeachKrew his bros, and the fuccbois gay. So #BeachKrew came, and fuccbois went. This was the first #FuccboiGenocide.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The sun pierced the windows, diving like a hawk for the eyelids of the sleeping Six God. The sting of morning’s break shot a surge of familiar pain through his body, causing him to turn and groan in place. The hangover was as common as ever, crawling from the burning pain in his skull down his spine and coursing through his body like a thick black sludge. Another groan escaped his lips, now prompting the woman beside him to turn and slowly open her eyes. As Jared moved the pillow over his head, Thursday smiled at him, leaning forward to kiss his forehead. Her voice was low and gentle.
Thursday: Good morning, my perfect man.
Jared’s body instinctively curled into her awaiting arms – not from any sense of affectionate reciprocation but the ugly writhing of his condition. He giggled and kissed him on the top of his head, her fingers slowly dragging through his hair.
Thursday: You had a lot to drink last night.
Jared could only muster a groan, his face burying into her bare breasts as if hoping that he could find comfort and sanctuary from the sun. She laughed again, turning slightly to reach a single slender hand for the pill bottle on the bedside table. Shaking a few pills into her hand, she turned back to the vulnerable form of Jared Holmes, stroking the side of his head with her free hand.
Thursday: Open up!
Jared’s head lolled back, his eyes squeezed tightly as his mouth opened expectantly. The pills entered his mouth before Thursday turned to retrieve one of the half-finished bottles of Fat Tire, pouring just enough for him to wash the Aspirin down. Chapped lips parted as a soft, hoarse noise came from Jared’s throat.
Jared Holmes: Sunglasses.
At the drop of a hat, Thursday rose from the bed, the covers falling from the curves of her bodyline and her form displayed to him in its glory. She strode across the room, careful to step over any discarded bottles or knocked over furniture, before she plucked the discarded Ray Bans from the dresser. Turning back, she returned to him, placing the sunglasses on his face for him before curling back against him, her groin gently caressing his upper calf as her stomach slid against his. It was an easy hint to get; Jared promptly rolled on top of her. After a quick tryst, he rose from the bed for breakfast while she remained in bed smiling happily in the afterglow of their orgasms.
In the living room of the hotel room, Jared proceeded to the mini-fridge for a small bottle of Dom Perignon and his box of Captain Crunch. Thuggin always made sure
The night before had been Jared’s Coronation Party, a crazed celebration of his upcoming victory in the Trilogy Cup. A grunted snore alerted Jared to the presence of Andre Aquarius, curled up in a ball in the corner of the room. Undoubtedly, Gable was passed out in the bathroom. Were there more guests still lingering, unconscious in closets or bathtubs? Maybe. Probably. Despite being completely nude and now aware of the others’ presence, he continued to eat. After a moment, Thursday entered the living room with his bathrobe. Andre stirred shortly after, pushing himself up without a word to make his way towards the bathroom door. A beat, then a knock.
Andre Aquarius: Ay, open up bruh! I gotta shit like a muthafucka!
After a second of silence, Andre rapped on the door again.
Andre Aquarius: Seriously, bruh! I’mma fuckin’ pee my shit! Open up!
After still no response, Andre walked back into the living room.
Andre Aquarius: Yo, it cool if I break this shit down?
Jared nodded idly, his mind far more concerned with shoving Captain Crunch into his mouth. Andre left the room once more before two loud bangs preceded the splintering of wood. Yes, the Coronation Party had been everything Jared had expected: raw bacchanalia intended to reward his loyal followers and play just the sort of mind game he needed with Kemp. Of course, everyone had been invited – sort of. Beaver’s invitation was probably lost in the mail; he was a bit too close to the wrong pole for Jared’s liking. Kemp, of course, didn’t show up, nor had Rabid. What matters is they all saw it and knew what Jared was getting at.
Heralded by a loud flush, Andre stepped out of the bathroom and proceeded to the couch, falling back into a deep sleep. Jared smiled at his protégé before rising from the table to use the restroom himself. The Party, of course, had been about more than just his impending Trilogy Cup win; there was his upcoming machinations to consider. Andre, of course, had been instrumental to him lately, far outgrowing his purpose as #BeachKrew Storm Trooper or even bodyguard. The Six God rewarded his subjects, and the upcoming month would be testament to his faith in Andre. Jared considered Andre his finest work: a wrestler who’d gone from no-name flag carrier to tag team force in a few months. It was almost like Jared could replicate any success Johnny Rabid, Kyle Kemp, or Wade Moor could’ve had simply by force of will.
Stepping through the broken portal and kicking aside discarded streamers, Jared’s eyes quickly assessed the situation before him. John Gable passed out in the tub? Check. Two women draped over him like a comforter? Check. Indelible stench of coke and cognac shits? Big check. Jared pulled the shower curtain aside to partition himself from the sleeping guests as he did his business.
Back in the main room, Jared found Thursday sitting at the table enjoying her own bowl of Captain Crunch. He sat next to her, leaned forward to kiss her, and reached for the cup of coffee she’d left out for him, taking a long sip before resting his chin on his hands.
Thursday: You look like death froze over.
Jared smiled slightly and gave a low, single chuckle, his eyes cast down towards the table.
Jared Holmes: I went hard as shit. Looks like everyone did.
Thursday: I’ve always admired how you can make a small party seem so big. I mean, it was only – what – twenty people here last night?
Jared shrugged.
Jared Holmes: I didn’t count.
Her hand reached over to scratch the back of his head.
Thursday: It’s what makes you so special – you are the party.
Jared smiled to himself; her words have reverberations far beyond her intentions. Or maybe she was saying exactly what he was thinking.
Jared Holmes: And soon I’ll be the Number One Contender.
Thursday: You’re goddamn right you will be.
They turned their heads towards each other, their eyes meeting. A wicked grin spread across Thursday’s lips as she rose, slowly stalking behind him to wrap her arms around his neck and rest her chin on his shoulder. Her voice was low and husky, alluring and hypnotic. Jared tilted his head back and closed his eyes, savoring the feeling of her breath on his neck and in his ear – his Queen of Blades.
Thursday: My Six God, my Six God. Everything you’ve done has brought you here. Everything has gone exactly how you planned it, and now you’re on the cusp of getting everything you needed. Do you understand just how elaborate the web you wove was? From convincing a silly little socialite like me to stay by your side to your creation of the greatest faction in WSeaF history to playing everyone like a fiddle.
She paused to kiss his neck, his lips parting so as to allow her teeth to lightly scrape his flesh, followed by the gentle drag of her tongue. When she parted from contact, the faint residue of her saliva remained. She returned to his ear.
Thursday: And even Joey doesn’t get it. He still can’t see what you’re doing. But I can. I see everything Jared because you taught me how to see. And when I close my eyes, I dream of the world beneath the waves where you rule.
She giggled, her lips parting to allow the edge of his earlobe into her mouth to nibble playfully.
Thursday: They call to me every night; the watchers of Carcosa. That’s why that old man wants you to fail; he knows you’ll succeed. And that starts on Sunday, Harbinger. The beginning of the 6ixth Era.
Jared’s hand came up to snake around her neck, the two lovers closing their eyes as they caressed the skin of one another. The sensation was electric – wild and hot like a burning bush. Images flooded through Jared’s mind: a little girl, a teenager, a neglectful father, a world on fire, and a savior in a shining mask. He didn’t understand what was going on – was he seeing into her and could she see into him? They were merging, King and Queen in ecstatic pulse to the ugly beatings of the blasphemous drums of Jalaxaritkatusa. And then, a groan interrupted it all as their eyes opened and they drew apart. Gable trundled into the room.
John Gable: C-coffee. Need coffee.
Thursday strode from the table to fetch the coffee pot; Jared closed his eyes. Something that felt like love surged through him – if that was what love felt like. Or maybe it wasn’t even that. Either way, he knew that his fate and hers was intertwined in some way cosmic and prophetic.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
A Reading from the Book of Blow Job
This is the story of #BeachKrew after its creation.
When the Six God made the #BeachKrew, it was all his old college bros because the Six God is DFL. The Six God formed Kyle Kemp from the dust of a failed singles career and breathed into his nostrils the gift of relevance, so that he could win a match. The Six God threw a party in the Tag and People’s Division, and in it he put the wrestler he had formed. The Six God made titles grow up from the ground, every kind of success pleasing to the eye and good for getting laid; and in the middle of this success he set the Hellimination run.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
I feel bad for you, Kyle. Legitimately. No, really, I’m serious. It must be hard being this delusional and attempting to keep that whole façade of bravado and machismo up when the match is so lop-sided and the outcome so likely. How long have you been pacing in your hotel room? Have you been kept up at night, perhaps even waking up screaming from a dream where I batted better than you? When your ego hangs so delicately on the gimmick of being “better than others”, I can only imagine how you’ll be after losing this match. Just remember, buddy, that we’re all here for you in your times of trouble, and if you’re thinking about offing yourself like a big pussy, give me a call. I care <3
On the other hand, I don’t think that should be a problem if we consider history. Can we do that for a moment, buddy? Friend? Guy? C’mon, we’re pals; we don’t need to bullshit. Let’s lay out the elephant in the room about your gimmick: you haven’t been “better than” anyone since Andre Jenson. I want you to really sit and stew on that for a moment – or, actually, don’t. It’ll make you drink, and I want to kick your ass while you’re sober.
Andre fucking Jenson, Kempo. I mean, Jesus Christ, that’s low hanging fruit. I suppose this is where I’m supposed to point out how this is actually unsurprising – there is a dedicated pattern to your career and a clear progression path. Let’s start from the beginning, shall we?
Kyle Kemp makes his debut, taking a bat to the head of Spencer Adams. So far, so good. This was almost a year ago, wasn’t it? Hell, I think it’s been almost a whole year since you joined this company, before I was around. Good job. This bat to the dome, however, would be the high point of your entire feud with Spencer Adams: here you went shooting your load in your underwear on Day One. I mean, seriously, we’ll get back to how Spencer spent the next several months clowning you like a bitch, but let’s at least give credit where it’s due: you actually had pretty good form. You must’ve sucked at playing field if you couldn’t cut it in baseball. Then again, even Bill Buckner could get a job in the MLB. The worst outfielder of all time was better than you.
For your esteemed battery on the Antidote, you were thrown into your first real shot: Alex Richards. I don’t care what anyone says about his record or how he’s nigh undefeatable holding onto that belt – you had a chance, and you shit the bed. You shit the bed in several title shots that you received against him, in fact. You shit the bed in several non-title matches, too. For all the swagger and bravado, you found yourself on the receiving end of the Archduke of Confusion. In Jay Omega’s Soviet Canada, Richards rapes YOU! (Jay Omega doesn’t rape anyone because he is impotent. And dead.)
Alex Richards is better than you.
Alex-fucking-Richards. You know who was a perpetual thorn in his side, Kyle? Me. Wade and I bent Richards and Crow over on our fucking debut; we made those bitches beg like they wanted more. Hell, I’m almost entirely convinced that I’m the reason why Alex Richards left the fed: I bullied him for months on end for no reason other than lulz. Richards had your number: he had you by the balls. By kicking your ass, Richards could feel better about his shitty career and standings – it was like Seth was giving him comfort wins. You want to know why people even know Richards was molested as a kid? Because he stupidly talked about it while getting ready to face me. Richards tried using getting over being sodomized as an ankle-biter as a metaphor for how he’d overcome me. Facing me was as horrible and frightening as being raped as a child; that’s how tall I stand.
I am better than Alex Richards.
And I am better than you.
I have stood heads and shoulders above you from the time I walked into this federation. In half the time it’s taken you to get near the main event, it has taken me a quarter. Why do you think I dealt with Spencer Adams more easily than you? Yeah, let’s get back to that one, buddy boy: Spencer fucking Adams. Remember how I said that the high point of your feud with him was taking a bat to his head? Can we talk about your shitty little “Devil’s Den” match where you lost? Seriously, stew on that for a moment Kyle: you spend several months clowning this guy. You clowned him so hard, he got fed to Howard Black at Asesinato de Mayo. You clowned him so bad he became a regular meme in a Celeste promo. And then when you have the chance to put your stamp on him? You blew it. Failed. Got put through a table and pinned for three. Spencer Adams moved up… and got fed to David Sanchez. That’s it. That’s your legacy: you made the guy who would get fed to someone who skipped town faster than Howard Black. The Kurt Cobain of the WSeaF. You were enhancement talent for enhancement talent. In the match with everything to prove and all the momentum, you choked.
Spencer Adams is better than you.
Know who fucked Spencer up? Me. After his little gin-rummy flippy shit spot at WAR, costing me my match, I had my eye on the motherfucker. He was the itch needing a good scratch. What did I do? I ran through Hellimination with you and Wade then put Spencer down like the good little bitch he was. And then when I came back? I put him out for good. For all the bombastic talk about how you’ve been rivals to these big names, you’ve never been more than a distraction. An inconvenience. The People’s Choice were practically formed out of a mutual fear and hatred of me; if Vic Venable wasn’t off on some spirit quest, I’m sure he’d tell you. Fuck it, ask your little butt-pal Teo (we’ll get to him) about who flustered him more, and he won’t hesitate. For every “great feud” you’ve had, I’ve done it bigger and better. I’ve had better results and bigger upsets. You were Spencer Adams’s bitch to the point he just dubbed you that in his promos. I am the reason Spencer Adams isn’t still on TV, killing our ratings.
I am better than Spencer Adams.
And I am better than you.
When I formed #BeachKrew, I became captain of this ship. This whole group? This design and aesthetic? It’s all me. I’m the beauty behind the madness; the fucking architect. I’ve always been an artsy guy; I like projects. So here I am, perusing the WSeaF roster, looking to increase my power and influence, and I get this idea:
“Why not grab a complete nobody loser and make him a fucking stud?”
Short list of candidates gave me you, the perfect blend of machismo and idiocy who would dance and sing at a moment’s notice like a capuchin monkey. And what were the results? Exactly as I said they would be: I made your career rise from the ashes like a swagged-out phoenix. How dare you run up on me in our locker room? How dare you think you’re bigger and better than #BeachKrew. Without me, you’d be the same rudderless boat meandering from loss to loss with the occasional crashing of a kid’s kickball game to compensate for your small stature. Your successes started the moment you signed the contract with me. You willingly gave me your soul for everything you could desire. And I gave that to you. Don’t think for a second that any of your accolades are of your own volition – I gave you direction and purpose, a Hellimination win, and a tag partner to go for the gold with. All of you belongs to #BeachKrew, and I am #BeachKrew.
#BeachKrew is better than you.
And I am better than you.
You’d get your People’s Title win over Spencer in what may be the only significant win in your pitiful little career. You’d end up squandering it by losing on a consistent basis to Teo del Sol. Teo had just come off embarrassingly losing to Andre Jenson, and he took it out on you in spectacular fashion. First he took your title. Then he beat you in the rematch. Then he beat you in the rematch of the rematch at ONE. On the biggest stage of them all, Kyle Kemp couldn’t compete. He couldn’t hang. He choked again. You may have humiliated Teo. You may have took his mask and gotten under his skin. But who drew the blueprint that you couldn’t follow?
Teo del Sol is better than Kyle Kemp.
Spoiler Alert: It’s me.
It’s because I’ve taken everything Teo has stood for and torn it up in front of his face. Sanchez played Teo’s weakness for the people against him, and I took a big shit on Teo’s doorstep. What did you do? Provide a minor inconvenience. Really get him cross. But you never had a resounding impact on him, other than the unmasking. You never got that win over Teo which made the series look close. Think on it for a moment, buddy: at what point was your little feud with Teo ever competitive? You eliminated him in Hellimination. Cool. You eliminated him in WAR. After I softened him up (I lasted longer than you despite having a match, by the way. The numbers, they matter). The other one-on-ones? Lopsided. As lopsided as this. Teo and I? Also lopsided. In my favor.
I am better than Teo del Sol.
And I am better than you.
For all the talk of “being my boy” and siding with me in Hellimination, you sure started singing another tune the moment I was injured. Oh, don’t think I didn’t notice you and Rabid palling around like a couple into their first months of dating, you little Benedict Arnold. Didn’t I treat you right? Didn’t I give you everything you wanted? I should’ve chosen Sandy Coconutz as my third man for Hellimination if I knew you’d pull this shit. Maybe that’s why I’m so looking forward to kicking your ass; I have a real bone to pick about this shit. I give you a little sniff of the good life, and it goes to your head. Now you’re biting the hand that’s fed you. You’re so drunk on the successes that I engineered that you’ve convinced yourself of your own bullshit. Don’t you listen to Biggie? Never get high on your own supply. Never go Full Kyle Kemp. You went Full Kyle Kemp.
Rabid did everything in his power to keep me held down, and you were more than happy to be the eager-to-please son, saying “Did I do good, Pop?” You Beaver Cleaver motherfucker, you clung to Rabid’s coattails for success, just like you clung to mine. Your whole career has been a series of endorsements and carries from #TeamHandsome to #BeachKrew to Johnny Rabid to me. Who got all the pins in those wins and defenses for those belts? Johnny fucking Rabid. Who went on to Final Destination? Johnny fucking Rabid. Who is going to whip Tiffany White for the TV Title while you’ve never even be considered a shot at that belt? Johnny fucking Rabid.
Who ate the pin in the Tag Title defense against Rebellution? Kyle fucking Kemp.
I take that as a personal insult and personal responsibility. I should’ve tried harder. I should’ve broken Grayson’s legs when I had the chance. For that, I’ll say ‘my bad’. On the other hand, I’ve been so busy rigging this fucking tournament in our favor, I thought you’d have the decency and appreciation to help me out for a second. C’mon, Kyle, you can’t actually think you earned this spot?
Newsflash: you didn’t. You’re here in the finals because I have deemed you the person to face in the finals. Let’s be real again for a moment: you were put in this tournament to be fed to Dune. That’s it. The odds against you were astronomical (hence why I made a fucking killing in Vegas on your win). Your spot was as legitimate as Occulo’s against Atreyu – an absolute joke. But I threw you a bone: I told Rabid to screw Dune. Just like I told Rabid to screw Chance von Crank. I have gone through every match in this tournament with no external aid – I fucked Sarah Twilight until she loved me, and I made the Mad God bow before the power of the Six God. My path was the path of most resistance; if any of those two were facing you here, you’d lose just as resoundingly as you will against me. This whole tournament has been a testament to my power, planning, and leadership. I screwed Tiffany White. I screwed Occulo (just forgot to send in the segment. Oops, there goes the Fourth Wall). I screwed Dune. I screwed Sarah Twilight before a live studio audience. I screwed Chance von Crank. Then I beat Benjamin Atreyu. Now, I will beat you.
It would be a fucking mockery to this whole business if you won, pushed up like a puppet prop of myself and Rabid. You’d step into the ring with Flash, and in an instant we’d hear “ZA WARUDO” followed by “one, two, three”. Ding-ding-ding, Joey Flash retains in the shortest match of his career. Walking away, Flash would tell reporters that Adam Young had provided a bigger challenge than you. In the meanwhile, everyone would be forced to do the soul-searching required when someone goes so catastrophically wrong. Hell, Seth may even cancel the tournament in the future to save himself the embarrassment of a repeat performance – the biggest laughing stock of an accolade since Jay Omega won WAR and Logan won Final Destination. You have earned none of your wins. None of your accomplishments are legitimate or deserved. You were the paper tiger I pushed up for the lulz, much like the lulz I got when I bullied Alex Richards or attacked Tiffany White before Round One. This tournament should be named the Jared Holmes Memorial Cup over how much I’ve molded it in my image.
Here’s a little secret: you were the worst person in this tournament.
Dune is better than you.
Sarah Twilight is better than you.
Johnny Rabid is better than you.
Chance von Crank is better than you.
Benjamin Atreyu is better than you.
I am better than you.
You want to see the difference between us? I can get injured for several months and come back with hell fully raised. I can take a few weeks off for philanthropy and still win any match I feel like. I am always have momentum. I always have heat. I’m always in the top tier with no need to grind or even try. I broke the WAR elimination record after saying multiple times I didn’t give a shit about it, just to blemish Grayson Pierce’s achievements. I was the sole Hellimination survivor after you and Wade went down to Spencer fucking Adams.
I’m the GOAT. You’re the current WOAT of #BeachKrew, falling back to that place after BrOblivSEAon got the boot. Can I tell you another little secret, Kyle? You are my BrOblivSEAon. Seriously, I’m really proud of myself for how well I’ve done with you. Let’s take a moment and acknowledge that Wade and Rabid didn’t know what the fuck they were doing and didn’t get it. It’s not about “sea pun names”, it’s about mentality. You had the right mentality. You had the right look and style I needed. Fuck it, after all the shit I’ve talked, I’ll pat you on the back a bit: you’re my finest creation. Your success is proof that my methods and ideas worked; I was able to integrate a non-#BeachKrew member seamlessly into the fold. It was perfect, beautiful even. Hell, who was the one behind recruiting Beaver, even if Wade really mentored him? I’ve got the eye for this shit; Wade and Rabid didn’t. That’s why Wade and Rabid’s protégé was a fat retard dancing the nae-nae with a sea pun name who couldn’t win a match. My tutelage? That’s why you’re where you are. You were my handcrafted sculpture. A fine project of the Six God. If it had gone any other way? You would’ve been a few steps from being this:
But you weren’t. You were Kyle Kemp, my finest project. And that’s why you’re here now: a nice reward. A good little note in your accolades: “2016 Trilogy Cup Finalist”.
But that’s not how you’ve taken it.
You have blasphemed the name of the Six God. You have insulted the man who made you. You’ve decided to butt heads with the real Alpha. Before me, Kyle Kemp was a fucking loser. Persona non grata. Jobber fodder for the lower echelons. Lucy fucking Starr before he was a thing. Before I came into the picture Alex Richards, Spencer Adams, and everyone-fucking-else was better than you. You didn’t turn it around on your own, I did it for you. Your name matters because it is associated with mine. Your checks don’t bounce because I make your wages. You get fucked because I’m your wing man.
You are a shit wrestler with a big head looking to get smacked back down like the pussy he is. How dare you turn your back on me. How dare you slight a man whose career is more impressive than anything you could accomplish in the next four years. There is a reason why Joey Flash isn’t even considering you in the slightest. There is a reason why Sarah Twilight is bullshitting that she rolled over to let me through. There is a reason that Pantheon wanted nothing but to see me six-feet-deep. Because since the moment I stepped into this federation, I have been the problem. Everything I touch turns yellow and gold. Everything I do drops jaws. Everyone has my name in their mouth because real recognizes real.
And that’s why no one recognizes Kyle Kemp.
This isn’t a match, this is a fucking massacre on the scale of Cambodia’s Year Zero. Since I came back, I’ve lead by example while the rest of you have sat on your hands like a bunch of fucking muppets. Now you have the audacity to claim you belong in this ring and deserve that title shot. Not. Fucking. Happening.
My name is Jared Holmes. I am the Six God. On the first day, I created #BeachKrew. On the second day, I created Kyle Kemp. On the third day, I created Dustin Beaver. On the fourth day, I won Wade the World Title. On the fifth day, I won Hellimination. On the Sixth day, I crushed Kyle Kemp to win the Trilogy Cup. And on the Seventh Day, I’ll take Trios for kicks. I don’t rest. Even when I’m not competing, I’m influencing everything and driving the bus. That is real power. That is real godhood. And you, Kyle? You’re just a man.
And I am better than you.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
From his roost in Detroit, Moloch watched the WSeaF closely. The image projected in the haze before him was disquieting; the designs had been complete and the rise of the Harbinger was at hand. He shook his slender head. No, this form was compromised; he needed to act quickly before the storm came to his doorstep.He considered his options for a second before raising from his throne. As he glided through the wreckage, the many hooded figures he passed froze and saluted at attention. He paid them little mind; his journey ended at the door of a dirty cell deep within the bowels of the old Packard Plant. With a beckoning of his finger, the door creaked open to reveal the curled form of Hunter Updegraff. The man turned to look up upon his keeper, his eyes wide and wild with fear and loathing. Moloch smiled as he bent forward to caress Hunter on the chin.
Moloch: Fear not. Your suffering here ends tonight. And begins anew immediately.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
But God didn’t need to ride shotgun for them to know he was there; they knew all too well. When the Israelites broke God’s rules and besmirched his name, he sent a flood which destroyed the world, only to rebuild it again. What #BeachKrew was seeing now was the flood; what would come after was the time to rebuild.
In the meanwhile, Jared sat at the hotel room table, staring down at the leather vest before him. A coy smile crept over his face as his eyes danced over the embroidered patch on the back – the bearded death’s head clutching a blunt in his mouth staring back at him. It was another fine creation of the Six God – audacious and daring. Jaws would drop, heads would shake, and fuccbois would rest in peace. It was time he began pressing forward.
As he slung the Trios Cup “uniform” over his shoulder, he smiled to himself. Should his gifts and offerings to #BeachKrew be stupidly denied, then he’d simply move on. Occasionally, Jared wondered if this was precisely what had happened before. Had God left Jalaxaritkatusa for Earth, leaving them to die of their failures for turning their back on him? Had God now abandoned Earth for somewhere else?
At any rate, the Six God was more than happy to fulfill this vacancy; he knew himself to be more merciful than that. If #BeachKrew came back, he would welcome them with open arms. Such was the rule of the Six God. Meanwhile, new gears turned as fresh ventures presented themselves to him. Everything could go according to plan: crush Kyle Kemp, win the Trios Cup Tournament, and face off against the man of his fascination at Blast.
Before leaving the room for the limousine waiting downstairs, Jared retrieved his phone from his pocket. The message he was expecting arrived, a single group text from a familiar name.
“Joseph
alrite im in. we gunna fuccin do this or wut?
?”Jared smiled. Everything goes according to plan. He sent back a single message to Joey and their third man.
“Jared
After I finish with Kemp, consider Grayson Pierce the new Mitch Morales.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
From his fortress above the skies, Steve Bosstin frowned. No, he shook his head, it was a complete impossibility. Despite his generally dismissive attitude towards Jimophy's so-called Harbinger, there was one area in which Thuggin felt confident: the identity of the destroyer. His own candidate for Harbinger, of course, had failed to cross paths with the Destroyer, but was that not all in accordance with prophecy? Was not the Harbinger supposed to wait and face the Destroyer for the fate of Earth when the time was right?
The implications of Bosstin's discovery made him tremble, a sensation and emotion he'd only recently acquired from his study of Earth. His fingers drummed nervously on the table as his eldritch brain raced to process the implications.
♫They should never be as one, lest this whole world be undone♫
♫So this is the man who would walk between worlds, how quickly it all has unfurled♫
♫Planet Earth, tremble in fear. The Harbinger is here.♫
