Post by John Rabid on Apr 24, 2016 15:58:51 GMT -5
FOUR YEARS AGO
Autumn leaves dance over a cacophony of eerie, mid afternoon gloom that has beset a Buckinghamshire Mansion; a towering, isolated white edifice gripped by a strange discord.
A swirl of wind causes a mall of bare oak trees to creek and moan as their procession snakes towards a nineteen thirties, streamline-moderne residence. A country home that lies nestled at the end of a long deserted driveway. A set of open, malcontent double doors bang and clatter almost off their hinges, a rhythmic brattle that rests over the sound of twin black Labrador's, attentively licking blood from the punctured jugular of a face down, middled aged woman; her dying body dressed in gaudy Dolce & Gabbana floral patten stretch pants, and a now crimson, and formally white blouse.
A wave of long, dyed platinum blonde hair is matted with blood to a face oversaturated with orange tan, a face that has a strange reptilian sheen to it, a unnatural cadence that indicates a multitude of surgical procedures. Tattooed eyebrows appear set in permanent surprise mode. While the woman's bloated, botoxed lips pout and pant like a fish out of water; desperately searching for air that will never arrive.
Her eyes are large and piercing, two ivory islands surrounded by a sea of black mascara. Tears intermixed with paint to create a mosaic of anguish; this woman has suffered before the end; and as her gaze looks out over the vast acres of the estate, we see in the distance a set of large wooden stables, their doors unlocked, yet no horse inside is eager to bolt. Instead her prize Arabian white stallions rest, bodies still. Hearts like stone. Their stomachs ripped open by shotgun blasts. Their eyes, gauged out. Sleeping forever more on a bed of knotted, crimson hey.
A diamond wedding ring on her finger, the size of a fist, twitches. The last motion of a hand desperate to remove a kitchen knife buried deep into her throat by her oligarch husband, one last attempt to stop the flow from a gushing artery that's been slowly killing her for the last three hours. The gleam from the silver handle catches a stray glint of light from the chandelier inside the mansion's hall. Inside, a long spiral staircase of stone and white marble twists and contorts it's way to the second floor, a trail of blood guiding us to:
Beeeeeeeeeeeeep! You have one new message.
Hello, Viktor, this is Jason. How are you, today? I take it by now my instructions are progressing well and on schedule. You understand I had to move quickly once you turned down my final offer to buy out your shares. There was no time for a moral debate. Take comfort in that, Viktor. I am rarely backed into a corner, but somehow you managed it.
The faint echoes of a sound system reach us.
I wish their could have been another way in truth. Over the past two years I thought we'd developed an understanding. I thought we'd reached a place of mutual respect. We kept our distance, but there was always honour, always trust. Always that sense you shared my vision for this business. A clear and concise vision, that would elevate this sport to that next, envious plateau.
The second floor reaches us as we glide now over to the bedroom. A needle stuck upon a black vinyl record clips at a constant pulse, that Beethoven allegretto directing us to the mansion's proprietor.
Property tycoon, Premier football league football club owner, and Kingdom Pro Wrestling shareholder, Viktor Abrankovich. A large overweight man, instigator of this explosion of horror and violence that has beset his home.
Viktor sits on the end of a large, double bed. The framework is gold. The sheets and duvet are of the finest silk, while the man himself is dishevelled and broken. A dyed black comb over flops to one side, masking an ear from view, while the left side of his face twitches with misfiring synapses. He's wearing nothing but boxer shorts, a white wife beater, the fabric of which is blooming with a patch of blood that casts sacrilege upon a large gold crucifix.
I've made you a lot of money, Viktor. I fulfilled my part of the bargain. It troubles me so to hear you wouldn't complete the sign off as we agreed. This ship, Viktor. It does not sail without me. It has no course. No horizon. No place to call home without me at the helm. Without me, Viktor? Without me, it lacks vision.
As sadly, do you.
The line goes dead. Silently, Vikor stands and wipes the answering machine on a nearby dresser before opening it's top draw and removing two sets of scissors. Viktor clasps each set in a hand, sitting back down on the edge of the bed as he blankly looks down at a photograph of himself, his wife, and younger brother; taken at a football match several seasons ago during an F.A. cup final. A moment of sweet satisfaction, framed with a heavy border of gold as it sits on that dresser, staring back at him. Wondering what the fuck went wrong.
It will receive no reply this day. It's calls for reason will reach deaf ears. And blind eyes.
Viktor rams the scissors into his eye sockets. He doesn't even scream as he dies. His orders made no mention of the request. You don't get something for nothing in this life, that was always Viktor's motto.
THE STABLES
A plume of mist retreats back towards the road. Happy to have observed a satisfactory conclusion to an eventful partnership. The way forward, now clear and in sight.
TROJKA TEA ROOMS, LONDON. TWO WEEKS LATER.
A hand attends a steaming cup of earl grey with an ornate silver spoon, turning it counter clockwise with delicate, yet regimented precision. Eighty seven stirs is the preferred number during this procedure, Johnny Rabid doesn't have very many rituals, but the perfect cup of tea does share a unique place in this man's lifeless heart.
These tea rooms, resting at the apex of Primrose Hill where Johnny's home away from home during the week. It was here that Rabid would dream up new matches and orchestrate new conflicts. He was known as the Seth Lerch of London, the puppet master of Old Kent Road. From here down to Tower hamlets they would converge, the great and not so good of the indy wrestling world, all desperate for a try out. Rabid could see that desperation in their eyes as they sulked forwards from the shadows. It warmed him as they bowed and muttered platitudes. He enjoyed the spectacle. The sharpness of superiority that silenced the air around him. He was king, and everyone knew it.
And now the Trojka Tea rooms had been absorbed into the growing colossus that was Rabid plc. A not so fringe benefit for Johnny as the final papers where signed over that week and he assumed full control of Kingdom Pro Wrestling, all on instructions from a cowering board of directors.
Now, the staff of the tea rooms, dressed in 30's period livery, smiled and offered slices of Madeira for inspection to their new proprietor, while the Regent's Park Road clientele peeked over their copies of OK! Magazine and occasionally took pictures. But all knew the truth in some small dose. The undeniable truth. Never, ever cross paths with this man. And so that spoon stirred. Eighty five...eighty six...eighty--
Rabid!
The deep Russian accented voice of Alexi Abrankovich loomed over Rabid's table. Heart pounding. Eyes red with sorrow. Alexi had just inherited three point two billion pounds; the Mansion in Buckinghamshire and a Football Club about to enter the Champions League finals. But nothing could offset the sight of his brother with two scissors plunged deep into his eye-sockets. Nor his brother's dead life with her body drained of blood on their gold leaf and marble porch. There's no money that balances out that equation. Not for Alexi. Not today.
--seven. Rabid took a small sip of tea. Unperturbed by the large, heavy built man in his mid forties and his two hulking bodyguards, neither were of much concern to Rabid, who never did give much away as he adjusted his black tie on his accusatory charcoal suit.
Johnny Rabid: Alexi. And...friends. How good to see you. Please, take a seat.
Alexi said nothing as Rabid's eyes travelled, searching for firearms. None seemed concealed, perhaps an ankle holster? He couldn't be sure.
Alexi Abrankovich: I'll stand.
Johnny allowed his answer to slip from his forked tongue with a slither of a smile. Almost a gentle giggle to drive home the contempt.
Johnny Rabid: As you wish. Although it does cause a bit of a scene. I have rules.
Alexi Abrankovich: Your rules mean shit to me. My brother is dead. And I know what you are.
Johnny Rabid: And what would that be?
Alexi Abrankovich: You are what lingers in the hour of the wolf. You are the Satan that scratches upon our doors. You are the serpent. And you've taken everything from me.
Johnny Rabid: Says the man who's now worth over three billion pounds. I take it Scotland Yard's investigations into your not-so-reputable past continues? Perhaps you shouldn't be crying wolf so readerly. Last time I checked we didn't live in the middle ages. Pointing a finger and screaming Satan? It isn't much of a alibi, Alex. It's desperate, and beneath your family name.
Alexi's face turned to stone as he signalled to one of his bodyguards. The guard opened a manilla envelope, allowing a cascade of black and white eight by ten photographs of Rabid's wife, Emily with a push chair bound three year old Dorian, out on a day out in Hyde park, to fall haphazardly onto the restaurant's table.
Now, Alexi had Rabid's attention.
Alexi Abrankovich: I want you to hurt the way I hurt. I want you to experience my anguish, my torment. To understand--
Johnny Rabid: Understand? Let me tell you what you need to understand. I build empires. I tear them down. I make fortunes, and then spend them. I move with impunity because no alternative exists. I am every nightmare you've ever dreamt because I choose to be, and I will haunt you until your body stoops and crumbles under the weight of time. I take what I want, and discard the rest. Those that are fortunate enough to be of worth to me, never know want. Those that try to take what is mine? Disappear.
I built Kingdom Pro Wrestling from the ground up. It is my vision. My gift to a world that bows on it's knees to God television. And television is God, Alexi. It is a malevolent bastard, just like me. Cold and indifferent. We get along. We sing from the same pulpit, and quote the same scripture. And every Saturday night, between 6:30 and 8:30pm that God smiles down on me and hands me the keys to the kingdom. Your brother had no business standing in the way of that. I'm sorry for your loss. I truly am. But as of now, my grieving process is over. I strongly suggest you walk away, before we move into a new phase of our relationship.
Television belongs to me, Alexi. I own it as I own this city and every soul within it. You oligarch cunts try and hold my country to ransom with your gas pipes and your new money. You buy up council houses and force ordinary people out onto the streets. You destroy communities for a quick quid and shit on hundreds of years of history with your garish brand names and white trash upbringings. No one will cry over your brother. Look at me, Alexi...
Rabid stands, his eyes are infinite; the universe pouring out. A billion stars freeze the Russian's heart with a icy vision only Abrankovich can see. The rage of all time reaping Alexi's soul and leaving him as paper. He stumbles back down into a waiting wicker seat as it becomes Rabid's turn to tower over his “guest”.
Johnny Rabid: Look at me and fall. Good. Now we're obeying the rules. As you should. Now, you and your fiends are going to try the apple crumble. Smile. Then leave MY FUCKING TEA ROOM! The photo's stay however. As does this promise.
Rabid leans in, a whisper that can shatter a world.
Johnny Rabid: You move against me? And I'll fucking kill you. You. Your children. Your friends. I'll poison the well of your name for a thousand fucking years. I'll make you stab out your eyes, lickity split. Now, try the fucking crumble.
“No. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong!”
WINDSOR TEA ROOMS, TORONTO. CANADA. PRESENT DAY.
Beaver shook his head as Jared Holmes finalised the final pieces of his deconstructed espresso and drank the beverage. This was the “Windsor Tea Rooms” in Toronto. Spacious and modern. Scandinavian wood panelling and a nonchalant bearded DJ, wearing a Purple Rain Tee in mourning, accompanied the proceedings. The decks played “Sign O' the Times” on infinite request as the two #beachkrew stalwarts held court on a rainy Friday afternoon. The patter of the drops syncopated with the tempo of the conversation, fast and hushed.
Dustin Beaver: No way does Rabid operate like dat. He doesn't make moves in public places dat would give himself away. It's not hiz style. That's NEVER been hiz style. Dah man's all about subterfuge, G. He's tight with dat' ninja sheeit! Dat's why he's dah serpent, man. He doesn't announce himself like some Oblivion retard. He slithers in, he's a Loki type.
Jared Holmes: You've been hangin' with Aquarius again, haven't you?
Dustin Beaver: Yeah, so?
Jared Holmes: Nothing. Look. Rabid doesn't need to hide in London. Rabid OWNS London. They raise that Tower Bridge when he sneezes! Rabid does what he wants, because they're a heathen country! It's different for Rabid in America. We still have a bible belt. Old time religion and God fearing seniors. Rabid pulls that Omen shit on U.S. Soil? And half the mid west cries for his head. That's why he has to watch his step with us. But it won't last for long. Rabid, he'll tire of it. He'll throw off that facade and then we'll have to deal with that. Unless we deal with it...before.
Dustin Beaver: What? Nah, man! Me an' Rabid? We got no feud. We be tight.
Jared Holmes: Oh, you and Rabid are friends? Really? You think a man like him can be trusted? You think a man like him has any honour, or friendship? He's only driven by one goal, the pursuit of power. That pursuit drives him over everything and everyone like a fucking blitzkrieg. You stand in his way, just once? And you'll be praying for Jesus in a giant wicker man by sunrise. He'll dance while you burn, Beaver! He's a fucking pagan psycho-God! He'll get inside your head and you'll light that torch yourself. You'll disappear in a mist and leave behind an obituary with nothing but a question mark. Tell me, does Gag trust him?
Dustin shakes his head.
Dustin Beaver: Nah. Gag makes a sign of the cross when Rabid leaves the room. I didn't even think he was religious. You honestly think Rabid's gonna turn?
Jared Holmes: Turn? No, I think he's going to do what just comes natural to him. Think back, what was the first thing that Rabid did when he arrived? He super kicked Andre Aquarius in the face! Is that how you announce yourself to a new circle of friends? No, it's a message for a line of targets! Me, you, Kyle, Andre. We're just in his way. We've always been in his way. Just like Wade.
Dustin sighs.
Dustin Beaver: You're not saying.
Jared Holmes: Is it so impossible? A few months ago Rabid was hitting homes runs into the side of the WINEebago, knocking down the door with his Jimmy Olson pal, Kyle Kemp. Rabid was sending Wade a message that he was coming for that Whirlpool championship. You think that's suddenly all over with? That he would drop that idea like a stone? Rabid understands the long game and how to play it. We didn't have a leader with Rabid, we never did, we were under fucking siege!
Dustin Beaver: I dunno man. Rabid took care of Dune. He did that assassination all on his own at Explosion. Wetworked the fuck out of the Sandman. Rabid didn't even ask for our help that night.
Jared Holmes: Exactly! He robbed me of my chance to exact revenge! Dune broke my fucking jaw!And Rabid? He took a fight that was mine, and made it his. Why did he do that? Because he's obsessed with eclipsing my legacy! This Sunday night I'm going to become the winner of the Trilogy cup. I'm going to hoist that trophy aloft and become a God reborn. You think Kyle is going to be okay with that? You think he's going to let that go? Kyle...he'll turn, to Rabid, and ask him what he thinks, and Rabid will seize upon that opportunity. He'll slither his ideas inside Kyle's brain and turn him native. Then our problems will begin to multiply. Then who's next? Gabe? Aquarius?
Dustin Beaver: I don't believe this. This is Trilogy nerves talkin' man. You don't mean what you're sayin'
Jared Holmes: Think it though, Dustin. What's happening this Sunday? What's Rabid going after?
Dustin Beaver: The SEA-V title. So what? That doesn't mean he's dancing all over your legacy.
Jared Holmes: He doesn't want to dance on my legacy. He wants to surpass it! He's taken out Dune, now he wants the title I held before my injuries. He's backtracking all over my career and trying to upstage me. He wants to condemn my achievements to the shadows. He wants to make me look weak for a reason. That Sea-v championship is going to wrap itself around Rabid's waist. Tiffany White is no competition for a man like Rabid. Tell me, what has she achieved in her brief run here? Defeating the mountain of talent that was Asshole Johnson? Fuck this useless bitch, her report card has nothing but a sad face on it. She's persona-non-whodafuckcares. She's more of a ghost than the fucking Scarecrow.
But that dyke, she keeps saying she's here to compete. She keeps saying she's here to be treated just like everyone else. Really? That's her endgame? Then why is she stumbling all over every fucking trailer park stereotype imaginable just to try and get herself noticed? Stealing Chance Von Cranks bitch, Pixie Paradoxx; running that age ol' lesbian homewrecker angle? Wringing that shit dry until it's all used up. And then what? Nothing. Because that's all she ever had to say.
The woman got dealt one set of cards, and she's played them all in her debut match. She's been running on empty ever since. An extra rather than a main player, who ran up against a zero in Shadowlove last week and came away with the title, because her one per cent of talent somehow managed to outmatch the ninety eight percent of mediocrity she faced. Shadowlove, a nothing that drones on about waffles and the era of new coke for fucks sake! Every time Tiffany faces an obstacle that's worthy of the boots they lace? She falters. All she is, is just another plucky young woman with dreams of standing toe to toe on the big stage. Just another starstruck, star-fucker, that thinks mastering an arm drag is an actual achievement.
Tiffany White is the perfect target for a Johnny Rabid to exploit. Rabid can see she's faltering, losing steam. Tiffany dressing up as Dan Severn last week for Slam 350? You can smell the blood in the water. Gender swapping for a promo against a weirdo like Vulgar? An opponent that she should be beating in her sleep? I'd say how far she's fallen, but the truth is, she's never climbed above total average since she's been here. She as flat as her fucking barren chest! And once Rabid is done with her? Poor Tiffany, she'll simply flat-line her way out of this business, just like Dune. And that will be another victory for Rabid to brag on about ad-nauseam as he fills his blogs with self congratulatory crap about how his so called “reign” over the WCF brought prosperity to the company. He'll orchestrate subliminal digs at my achievements in between the paragraphs and pat himself on the back for a job well done. And that shit will pile up, clog up my...our plans. Dissect all the good work we plan to achieve, me and you...together.
Jared leans forward, places his hand on Beaver's. Beaver retracts. Frowning.
Dustin Beaver: You got one thing right. Rabid will beat Tiffany for that title. She's a woman who's too self absorbed for this business. Too wrapped up in her own reality TV personal life to hang onto that belt. Her mind wanders, she lets self doubt in too easily. He has no steel for this business. No gumption. She thinks just like all these sloths that serve me bagels and pour my coffee. She's all about getting by. All about “just happy to be here”. She's content. At peace. She wins her debut match then sits back and coasts the rest of the way. It ain't January no more. Ultimate Showdown is looming. That belt.
Jared Holmes: Is the ticket home. You think that's fair, Dustin? To have Rabid face against me in that match? Knowing what you know now?
Dustin Beaver: And what exactly is that? That you think he's the antichrist? You ask me here and you spin some yarn about Rabid that supposedly happened four years ago in London. Then you tell me he's going to brainwash us into pulling off some Tibetan fireworks or some such shit. And I'm supposed to nod my head and grunt and fall into line? That's not how it works, man, I need proof. Not hearsay.
Jared Holmes: Two days from now, Johnny Rabid is going to be lifting up that title and declaring himself the second coming all over again. And this time, they'll be no Kyle Kemp to brag about how he kept him in check. He'll be all his own entity. Heading home for a heroes welcome at XIII.
Dustin Beaver: Yeah well, I'm not too happy about that to be honest.
Jared Holmes: After everything that happened last XIII with #beachmania, Rabid is bosom buddies now with Corey fucking Black? That fucking Judas is going to walk into a sold out Royal Albert Hall, with my title around his waist. And what do you suppose he'll tell that crowd? Those thousands in attendance, eating out of the palm of his hand? That he's a proud member of #beachkrew? Or will it be, “Johnny Rabid: the last king of London?”, or, “The Ripper that Conquered America?” He'll have a prize, my prize, draped in American History over his shoulder. He'll have our hearts and souls in the palm of his hand! That Sea-v title is #beachkrew's, it's our history! And he's going to deface it by dragging it's name though the fucking mud at XIII!
Dustin Beaver: Oh God, please. Come on, man. Enough.
Jared Holmes: He'll have everything he's ever wanted from us at that moment, Beaver. And that, is when he'll finish the job.
Jared places a black calling card down on the table top. It's design hidden from view.
Dustin Beaver: What's this?
Jared Holmes: Turn it over.
Dustin Beaver: What is it?
Jared Holmes: Just oblige me.
Dustin Beaver: Who sent you this?
Jared Holmes: It doesn't matter.
Dustin leans forward, as serious as cancer.
Dustin Beaver: Oh, I think it does. Has Rabid seen this?
Jared Holmes: I stole it from his house. His study to be exact the night of the Rico murder.
Dustin Beaver: What?
Jared Holmes: At first I wanted to help. I thought this was a warning that he was keeping to himself. Just like always. Hiding dangers from us. But then I began to study the card closer. It's design was intricate, a riddle. An escher that bloomed inside my mind one night and revealed it's truth though a fever dream. In that one perfect MDA moment, it all became clear.
Dustin Beaver: You're not making any sense. Not that it's out of the ordinary for you not to make sense, but.
Jared smiled, the smile of a precocious child who's just solved a math puzzle.
Jared Holmes: Look at it again, tell me what you see.
Dustin turned the card over in his hand. Thought it through.
Dustin Beaver: I see an owl, carrying a snake. The snake can't get free. It's struggling.
Jared Holmes: No.
Dustin Beaver: What?
Jared Holmes: You're missing it. What do you see? What is the Owl doing?
Dustin stared at the card. Took a breath and...
Dustin Beaver: Carrying. The Owl is carrying the Serpent...Son of a bitch.
Jared leaned back in his chair. Folded his arms.
Jared Holmes: He's one of them. They got to him. Johnny Rabid is working for the Owls.
FADE.
