Post by 6ix God on Apr 28, 2016 21:56:19 GMT -5
Scene I: פNIΛVƎ˥ラスベガス
The beep of the cheap clock radio roused Jared from the rather pleasant dream he’d been having of fucking Kim Kardashians while wearing the new Yeezy Season desert boots – you know, the suede ones that have “taupe” listed as their official color. All ironies and cultural commentaries aside, the blare of the radio combined with the piercing sun was enough to have the Six God fully alert, rising from the uncomfortable spring mattress to stand naked in the middle of the ugly motel he’d secluded himself and Thursday to the night after Slam. Thursday groaned in agony, pulling the pillow over her head as her hand flailed in vain for the “Snooze” button; Jared simply moved the clock out of her reach.
Jared Holmes: Rise and shine, sweet thing! We’re hitting the road!
Turning from her stomach to her back, Thursday pulled the pillow from her face and glared up at Jared, her eyeliner and mascara smudged and faded from the inevitable sweats and movements which accompany cheap motel desert slumber.
Thursday: I still don’t fucking get why you moved us from the fucking Bellagio to the fucking Best Value Inn. This is the worst mattress I’ve ever slept on and the bathroom is fucking gross. The man at the front desk smelled like curry and stale perspiration.
Jared only chuckled, leaning over to tussle her hair affectionately; she was unamused. Giving up on enjoying a mutual laugh, Jared spun on his heels, his hands coming up like a director’s framing a scene as he faced the window.
Jared Holmes: I have a month in that dirty little hellhole south of the border! I need to know what I’ll be expecting! After all, we’re facing the far less charismatic and attractive and interesting DRG this Sunday, and I need to see how the other side lives! I need to know all the weird little motivations which make a group of schlups like Bates, Mikey, and Battle tick! Plus, it’s sort of fitting, isn’t it? It’s like the beginning of some 60’s biker movie, like “the Wild One”.
Thursday only shook her head before turning back onto her stomach. She mumbled irritatingly into her pillow.
Thursday: There’s a fine line between artistry and insanity.
Jared crawled back onto the bed, brushing aside her hair to give her a kiss on the back of the neck, her known soft spot. Her body tensed as he continued the affectionate assault, drawing his mouth down her spine to the small of her back. With a pleased moan, she rolled onto her stomach, her upper half bared to him.
Thursday: Well, if that’s how you wanna start the morning –
But it wasn’t. As soon as she turned, Jared had popped back up to his feet, walking to the bathroom as he whistled “King of the Road.” Now it was a frustrated grunt which escaped Thursday’s throat as she pushed to her feet and begrudgingly plodded towards the shower.
After the long and hot shower, Jared stepped out before the mirror and snatched up the comb, eagerly slicking his soaked hair back across his scalp and away from his face. After toweling herself off in the bathroom, Thursday accompanied him, staring inquisitively at the manic movements of her lover.
Thursday: You’re exceedingly chipper today.
Jared answered without pausing his actions, his eyes locked intently on his own reflection.
Jared Holmes: Why wouldn’t I be? I’m the Number One Contender, the mastermind behind another dream team, and I’m about to make an absolute mockery of the Dick Riders Gang on national television.
Thursday: You downed an entire bottle of Pepe Lopez tequila last night. By yourself. You’re not hungover in the slightest?
Jared scoffed, pointing to a collection of empty shooters on the bedside table.
Jared Holmes: The hangover woke me up at 3:00 AM. I already beat it back with a hair-of-the-dog; in fact, I’m still pretty drunk.
The frown disappeared from Thursday’s lips as she shook her head, walking behind him to wrap her arms around his waist and droop her chin across his shoulder to stare at his reflection.
Thursday: Mexico is going to be so much fun.
Jared Holmes: Yeah, it is. You know you’re not going, right?
Thursday froze, the smile evaporating and soon replacing itself with a look of rage.
Thursday: The fuck you mean I’m not going?! I was looking forward to this! I have a lot of shopping to do and tequila to drink!
Jared simply laughed, tossing the comb aside as he reached for his toothbrush.
Jared Holmes: Fuck no, do you even know what that country is like? Infested with rapists and murderers with an addiction to blonde, lithe white women. You’d have the fucking hyenas on you in no time. Considering that THC and cocaine is practically ingrained into our veins, you’d be like fucking cat nip to those spics.
Thursday’s arms released from his waist to fold across her chest in a huff. As she turned away, her lip curled down in a pout, Jared turned back to her to now wrap his arms around her waist. He cooed quietly in her ear.
Jared Holmes: Oh, come on. You get to ride with me to the border, and I’ve arranged a plane trip for you to New York from there. You’ll get to spend the next couple weeks with Alessandra at Martha’s Vineyard. You’ll have a great time.
Her mood did not recover, her temper tantrum only increasing as her voice turned to a high whine.
Thursday: Can’t we just go to Puerto Vallarta where all the white people go?! There’s a lot of all-expense resorts I could stay at while you’re in Mexico City, and you could fly in during the week!
Jared Holmes: Absolutely not. Those cops are armed with machine guns to keep you in as much as the filth out. They want you all to themselves.
He paused, taking a moment to give her another kiss on the back of her neck. His voice lowered once more.
Jared Holmes: It’s only a month. You and Alessandra can go to the beach and laugh at the disproportionately high number of deaf people who live on that little island. Joey and I rented a nice little Gingerbread cottage in Wesleyan Grove. You’ll love it.
Thursday sighed, her anger slowly deflating. Her voice was quiet and conciliatory.
Thursday: Can I smoke in my room?
Jared Holmes: I don’t give a fuck what you do there. It’s your vacation; you earned it for being the best.
A small smile creeped over Thursday’s lips as she turned in his arms, throwing her own arms over his shoulder as she leaned up to kiss him.
Thursday: I love you.
Jared Holmes: And I love you.
Releasing her, Jared turned back to his bag on the floor, opening it to retrieve a worn tye-dye shirt, the colors long fading. He grinned as he pulled it over his head and stepped into a pair of dark washed True Religion bootcut jeans. Finally, he pulled on a pair of motorcycle boots and snatched the black leather “Dag Riddik Gang” motorcycle vest, which he pulled over the tye-dye shirt. Turning to Thursday, he raised his arms in display.
Jared Holmes: How do I look? “Easy Rider” enough?
Thursday giggled as she slipped into her own motorcycle boots, zipping the thigh-highs up and standing to give a double thumbs-up.
Thursday: We should reenact the “Bound 2” video in Arizona.
Jared Holmes: That sounds like a great way to end in a motorcycle wreck.
Thursday: Kill-joy.
A knock on the door interrupted their banner, Thursday hastily pulling on her bra and the black leather biker jacket draped over another chair. As Jared opened the door, the smiling figure of Hacksaw Jim Thuggin stood before him.
Jim Thuggin: Favorite Earth Child, my heart metaphorically swells with pride to see you this morning. Typically, the swelling of the heart would be indicative of a disastrous cardiovascular condition, but in this context it means I am pleased that you have won the Trilogy Cup. My only sadness concerns your desire to travel with your new compatriots rather than the private jet I have chartered for your #BeachKrew brethren; are tensions not eased following the magnanimous embrace of yourself and Earth Child Kyle?
Jared shook his head, his hand snatching for the Ray Bans on the bedside table which he quickly placed on his face to block the sun.
Jared Holmes: Everything is fine, Jim. If we want to really be the DRG, we need to live the DRG. Call it method acting.
Jim Thuggin: Your logic is odd, but I understand you have your rituals and understanding of Earth culture and symbolism which surpasses my own understanding. I wish you a safe trip. The motorcycle you requested is out front.
Reaching into his jacket pocket, Jim Thuggin produced a set of keys. Stepping forward, Jared took them in his hand and patted Thuggin on the shoulder.
Jared Holmes: Get the room all packed up; I can’t take any of this shit in the saddle bags. Is the plane going to be ready in Douglas?
Jim Thuggin: All arrangements have been secured. A second set of motorcycles shall be available there as well, per your request.
Jared Holmes: Excellent. Thanks, Jim.
Jim Thuggin leered like a Cheshire cat.
Jim Thuggin: Thanks be to you, Earth Child Jared. You have overtaken my wildest expectations; the Dark Riders Gang shall weep in despair at your feet.
Turning back to Thursday, Jared beckoned.
Jared Holmes: Let’s go. We’re meeting Andre and Joey on the outskirts of town.
Thursday followed him out into the blistering Nevada sun. The black parking lot glistened with the rise of heat from the asphalt, the desert stretching beyond them past the city skyline. Parked before the motel room sat exactly what Jared had requested.
As they made their way down the rickety metal stairs from the second floor to the parking lot, Thursday shook her head.
Thursday: And I thought Gemini Battle’s Joker biker was garish.
Jared scoffed as he threw his leg over the bike, grabbing the American Flag-printed “Easy Rider” helmet from its resting place on the handlebars. Slinging her own leg over the back and wrapping one arm around Jared’s waist, Thursday grabbed her own helmet – a simple black metal, German-style “brain bucket”. Turning the ignition and revving the engine, the bike roared to life. Thursday let out a soft moan as the vehicle rattled beneath her, leaning forward to plant a kiss on Jared’s shoulder.
Thursday: You have no idea how turned on I am right now.
Jared ignored the gesture, instead reaching into the front breast pocket of the vest. With a small scrap of paper on his finger, he turned to her.
Jared Holmes: Open up.
With her mouth opened eagerly, he placed the tab of blotter paper on the tip of her tongue. The alkaline, electric chemical taste of LSD was instantly recognizable to her taste buds as she giggled and wrapped tightly against him. Placing a tab on his own tongue, Jared pushed the blotter to the lining of his gums before kicking out the kick stand and walking the bike backwards. In an instant, it tore out of the parking lot towards the city limits.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
ＲＩＤＥ ＴＨＥ ＨＡＲＬＥＹ ＩＮＴＯ ＴＨＥ ＳＵＮＳＥＴ
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Can we start by acknowledging that you have no business being in this fucking group, Mikey? I’m so fucking disappointed in you right now; you’re like the son I never had who I want to beat the shit out of for bringing his loser high school friends home for the first time. Fuck it, this isn’t even just about reuniting with the DRG, this is about your whole career so far. If you’re not going to take responsibility for your own fucking mediocrity, I’m just going to have to slap it into you. Shame on a nilla.
Every time I watch you wrestle a match, I want to consider you a threat. Fuck it, I’m sure a bunch of people do, right? The Mikey smarks are all over /r/SquaredCircle sucking your dick since you kicked Grayson in the testicles and took back the United States title, and even I fucking marked for that moment. It was fukken great: you took a guy who’d spent a few weeks bragging about how he was the #GreatestUSChampEver and made him look like an idiot. You gave zero shits, swinging that big Mikey dick upside that loser’s painted face. And now here we are, less than a half-year later, and you’re spreading your cheeks to the old glories of the past.
Jesus Christ, man, I thought you outgrew this? I thought you realized that you’re better than these fucking mooks. Hell, I even kinda liked your unofficial team-up with ZMac. It was fresh. Original. Why the fuck isn’t that your Trio partner? Nah, instead we’re getting dead careers and literally dead people dug up to glomp to you two like leeches or remoras. You have devalued yourself in a single act. You deserved to lose the United States Title for this shit.
I don’t know if you’re keen or aware enough to get this, but Thomas Bates and
Maybe that should’ve given you momentum, right? Like, “Oh, holy shit, Mikey Extreme is stepping out of the shadows! Oh, and look, Danny Anderson is coming for him! (lol) Who will Bates back as the next big thing in the DRG?” Spoiler alert: it was Danny. You were too busy shitting the bed against Kaz and raping people with some big freak. You were a liability and a disgrace to the DRG name. How the fuck long did you remain a prospect anyway? I can’t find anything about it, but I keenly remember you languishing in the Prospect leagues with Brian Payne before he lost his head. Fuck it, your patching ceremony was such a non-event, it probably wasn’t even televised.
No one backed you going into Ultimate Showdown, a match you clawed your way into. You squandered your shot by getting beaten by Kaz after you failed to pin a putz like Scarecrow in adequate time. It seems like every moment Mikey Extreme spent in the DRG was riddled with mediocrity and missed opportunities. You went into Ultimate Showdown with nothing and left with exactly what you came in with. You were a wasted space on the card that was completely eclipsed by Thomas Urinal Bates. Your stupid little token “Vice President” position came after Caraid, Danny Anderson, Spencer Adams, and Gonzo flew the coup and Gemini stepped out. You were literally the only other candidate available besides Doug E. Fresh. In the group that you slaved for and have voluntarily realigned yourself with, you had to advance by default; if Gonzo showed up again by Wednesday, you’d be warming the bench before your first match. I hope you realize that.
When the DRG finally fucking died in the biggest fart of 2015, you finally had your chance. You grabbed that brass ring and made it your bitch. That’s not even a compliment when you’ve already held the belt; you’re just retreading the same ground. Some may think you’ve elevated the belt, but when your high profile feuds have been Bernard Core (gone) and Vengeance (also gone), I can’t help but think you’ve been doomed to some wretched purgatory of the mid-card. What happened to the shooting star? Where’s the rise and the accomplishments? Why the fuck aren’t you fighting men better than you?
Short answer: you’re mentally handicapped by the lack of confidence everyone showed in you. You don’t believe you’re ready, don’t you? After a year of slaving thanklessly to a team absolutely unable to win it big, you’ve become stuck in that mode of thinking. You were the only one to do anything with your career, but your inferiority complex has you crippled. In fact, here’s my prediction for this match: Mikey Extreme eats the pin. It doesn’t matter that Grayson Pierce has been choking like a faggot against Kyle Kemp and been turned out permanently by Joey Flash. It doesn’t matter that our last memory of Tom Bates was me pinning him in WAR to put him on the shelf. It doesn’t even matter that you’ve got all the momentum in this team. You’re a bitch with a bitch heart and a bitch mentality; you’ll do exactly as you’re told.
You fucking dog, Mikey. You’re an absolute disgrace to anyone with any sense of dignity. You are actively ruining that belt by doing nothing with it. You have no prospects for advancement, no desire for achievement, and no drive to become greater than what you are. You really are America with your entitled prattling for assistance and unwillingness to pull yourself up. I would be wholly unsurprised if you spent your paychecks on crank and child support payments. If I looked up “white nigger” on Wikipedia, it would have a picture of you at the top.
My advice to you? No-show. If you have any semblance of self-worth, you’ll do just that. You have absolutely no reason to team with either of these men; neither of them like you, and you never clicked in the DRG. You are shoe-horned into a cheap nostalgia act that no one cared to see brought back up, like a remake of “All In the Family”. I have been more excited to watch re-runs of “Happy Days” than I am to face you in this first round.
But unlike “Happy Days”, there’s no jumping the Shark for you. I’m going to scrub the ring with your face, let Andre Aquarius pin you, and send you back to your corner soapbox, screaming about American like a second-rate Mitt Romney with half the charisma. Your title and self-proclaimed position is fitting: America is fucking finished.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
ＲＩＤＥ ＴＨＥ ＨＡＲＬＥＹ ＩＮＴＯ ＴＨＥ ＳＵＮＳＥＴ
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Scene II: ORANGEJVLIVS
After an eight hour ride through the desert, the Dag Riddik Gang dismounted their bikes, Jared removing his helmet and wiping the sweat from his forehead with an American Flag rag (just like he’d mop the floor with Mikey on Sunday). As Thursday stepped off the bike, she gave Jared a final kiss.
Thursday: God, we need to fuck while you ride that bike again. That was so hot.
She giggled and blushed as she turned towards the limousine awaiting her. As the long vehicle pulled off, the Trios team was finally alone.
Joey Sp
Jared scoffed, reaching into his right breast pocket for a little metal bullet. He tossed it to Joey casually.
Jared Holmes: Shut up and snort the rest of this blow before we have to cross the border. The rest is in my gas tank, but they’ll find that shit for sure.
Shrugging, Joey unscrewed the cap and raised the bullet to his nose. With a hard snort, the container was empty and tossed aside. The LSD had finally began to fade, and only the thin gray traces of gossamer traced the skyline for Jared. Opening his left breast pocket, he retrieved his final two stamps, tearing them apart and offering one to Andre. Aquarius stared.
Andre Aquarius: A whole fukken stamp? Bruh, you gonna have me runnin’ through this shit naked, screamin’ at rocks if I take that much. Just gimme half.
Relenting, Jared tore the stamp in half and tossed the other half and full stamp into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. Splash stared in horror.
Joey Splash: That was a stamp and a half you just took.
Jared shrugged.
Jared Holmes: Yeah? And.
Joey Splash: That is thirteen hits of LSD you just consumed at once. And we still have twenty-two hours to Mexico City.
Jared grinned, handing the bike over to the squad of hired goons Thuggin had prepared as he, Splash, and Aquarius crossed the parking lot.
Jared Holmes: If it’s good enough for Hendrix, right?
Flash said nothing else; his expression was a mask of mild horror, regret, and bemusement. As they approached the new set of bikes, Andre’s jaw dropped.
Andre Aquarius: You’re fukken shittin’ me.
Before the three men sat three identical black BMW mopeds, each emblazoned with the bearded death’s head smoking a fattie and the words “DAG RIDDIK GANG” splayed across the sides in that sort of pseudo-gothic shit font bikers are so fond of. Flash stared for a moment before a faint giggle escaped his lips; the coke had already hit.
Joey Splash: Mopeds. We’re taking fucking mopeds for the next leg of the journey.
Jared Holmes: Not any mopeds, gentlemen! DRG Official mopeds.
Climbing into the seat of the putzy little scooter, Jared cranked the key to start the mosquito-sounding engine. Flash’s bemusement crumbled into a fit of hysterical laughing, falling onto his arms on the seat and banging one fist on the rubber cushion.
Joey Splash: This is… the stupidest… fucking… thing… I have ever seen. You expect me, the greatest World Champion of all time, to put through Mexico on a fucking scooter.
Jared’s smile only widened.
Jared Holmes: If we’re ridiculing the DRG, we may as well go all the way.
Andre considered this.
Andre Aquarius: Jared, you a weird dude. But word, we’ll catch more boppers on scooters than the DRG in a fuckin’ Lambo.
Joey sit had not recovered from the laughing fit as he pulled himself onto the seat and started the engine, the pathetic electric purring of the engine only causing him to laugh harder.
Joey Splash: Well fuck me! I suppose there’s some “brilliant” explanation for this?
Jared Holmes: You think the Border Patrol is going to check the gas tanks of some mopeds for five pounds of coke? Now c’mon, we need to get on the road before the acid hits Andre and I.
In an instant, the group had taken to the road once more, the hum of the mopeds droning softly in the waning afternoon. The border crossing had been a cinch; just as Jared expected, the guards hardly paid mind to the three men on mopeds veering off to Mexico. Or perhaps they realized that all three men were clearly insane and wanted no trouble; Jared just seemed to have that sort of luck. With the United States behind them, Jared found himself tearing through the desert once again, the sun beating down as the new wave of LSD slowly crept up his spine and set jolts of energy through his jaw and veins.
Minutes turned to hours turned to seconds turned to weeks as the concrete snake coiled through the dirt and sand of barren and parched lands South of the Border. As the sun set in the sky, the clouds slowly splintered into fantastic fractals and intricate webs woven by some neon spider hiding behind the clouds. The moped slowly lifted from the snake beneath it, gliding fluidly forward as Jared let the journey overtake him. In the blink of an eye, it was simply himself, alone, on the back of a mechanical stallion tearing off towards the sacred plateau before him.
He was unsure of just when he had split from the group or if they even noticed his absence. It didn’t matter; everything compelled him to keep climbing higher and higher up the steep craggy mesa which rose from the desert floor. A beautiful gold light burned at the top, beckoning him with a single outstretched finger. His extremities had gone numb, replaced by only the hum and whirl of the great cosmic dynamo ebbing and pulsing within him. At the top of the mesa, Jared found himself face to face with the gold light, pulsing from a porcelain temple. Church had been called in session to the Lord and Prophet Llamas Urinal Gaytes. After parking the moped, Jared dismounted and began to ascend the vast staircase which led to the Church’s entryway. He found no doors, and upon stepping into the hall, he found himself face-to-face with a vile sight.
Before him, upon a porcelain throne, sat a mass of flesh and hair with teeth like God’s shoe-shine. The grotesque slug-like creature writhed in place, his glistening horse-like teeth shining through a tangle of wiry beard set on a fat, rolling chin which draped two drooping pectorals. Age and time had not been kind to the Southern Slug God, Urinal Gaytes; his skin hung baggy and pimpled – what was once a Confederate Flag tattoo on his stomach had stretched down to resemble a speckled starfish upon a bloody rock. His stomach pushed up, the delicate traces of a dwarfed phallus peaked from within folds of flesh and fat, and a small man in an ill-fitting, baggy suit and smeared make-up worked diligently to sexually stimulate the flaccid member. In one hand, Urinal Gaytes held two lengths of leather which found themselves bound around the neck of the make-up man and a second around the neck of an emaciated hippy who held two gold chains affixed to the edges of the porcelain throne. In his other hand, Urinal Gaytes clutched a colossal clear plastic drinking cup, the contents betrayed by the familiar “ORANGE JULIUS” logo grinning back at Jared.
Urinal Gaytes: My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings; Look on my work, ye mighty, and despair!
Urinal Gaytes: You know, Orange Julius is the official beverage of the DRG, even if those negro-lovers up North in Minnesota made it. Of course, Colonel Bates puts his own secret blend of herbs and spices into our batch.
Urinal Gaytes: Lithium. I’m sure we can understand each other, don’t we? Yessuh, Lithium is the perfect ingredient to Orange Julius. And it keeps my boys in line. Ain’t that right now, boys?
Urinal Gaytes: Yeeeh-ssuh. But that’s only the beginning. My finest ingredient –
Urinal Gaytes: – is that.
A new neon beer signs flicked on, illuminating a dark corner of the Temple. A whirling dynamo carries a stream of bodies, dangling from their feet with their arms limp. Men, women – there was no discrimination in the faces moving forward. As they passed a point, a serpent-like nozel spraying the bodies with Vantablack. The Orange Julius chuckled.
Urinal Gaytes: I maintain a strong sense of pride in my Southern heritage. This is why we make sure everyone exploited is a negro before being put to work. For as you know, being a “nigger” does not imply you are black; a white man can be a “nigger” too. I just colored them to make sure they were all black.
As the conveyer belt continued, the bodies were dropped into a funnel. The grinding of blades and gears whistled “Dixie”. From the bottom of the grinder dripped a thick slushy paste into a fresh plastic Big Gulp cup.
Urinal Baytes: Now… Mikey! Go get our guest a nice Orange Jewlius, please.
Andre Aquarius: Bruh! BRUH! Fuck you doin’?
The mesa was real, but the temple was not. Standing at the lonely top of the mesa with their bikes parked, Joey Splash and Andre stared inquisitively at Jared. Jared rubbed his eyes for a moment, the delusion fading in an instant.
Jared Holmes: The fuck happened?
Joey Splash: You went barreling up a fucking mountain, dismounted, and started screaming about Orange Julius.
Jared looked from Andre to Flash to the empty top of the mesa. He shook his head as he got back on his bike.
Jared Holmes: Joey, take point. I’m way too on-one to navigate.
Splash scoffed and sneered but obliged, throwing his leg over the moped and blaring back down the road. Andre and Jared followed suit, leaving behind only a discarded Orange Julius cup to continue its dwelling on the mountain.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
ＲＩＤＥ ＴＨＥ ＨＡＲＬＥＹ ＩＮＴＯ ＴＨＥ ＳＵＮＳＥＴ
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I want to repeatedly punch you in the testicles for all the time and space you’ve wasted fighting for the title you can’t win while other people have to twiddle their thumbs and wait for your punk ass to get pinned. Considering that people have been yammering about how you’re going to be the “next big thing” for months now, it’s sort of funny to watch how you’ve proved your believers wrong and your doubters right. At long last, the myth that Grayson Pierce belonged at the top of the card has been thoroughly debunked. And considering how you called yourself “the Greatest US Champion Ever”, only to lose on your first legitimate title defense, proves that you don’t even belong in the middle of the card. You’re a jobber in champion’s clothing. You deserve the purgatory that is the tag titles. With any luck they’ll slap the Cruiserweight Title on you and hope you disappear. Your career is as dead as anything that’s ever fallen out of Kat Ruiz’s vagina.
Oh, am I touching a nerve? Considering your propensity to slam them out then drop them on their heads, I wouldn’t be surprised if some bastard child from your Gemini Battle days comes knocking on your door, only to get hit by a car minutes later. Your inability to connect with fans on an emotional level since you wiped off the make-up has been staggering. Your momentum has been completely killed, and I’m starting to wonder if you’re killing your own kids just to get brownie points with the neckbeards who watch this crap. Little tip: you’re a shitty enough wrestler that you don’t need a dead kid for us to pity you. We pity you every time you step in the ring and flail yourself into another pin or submission.
Did anyone think you were going to beat Joey Flash? Show of hands people. Riddle me this, Grayson: why the fuck would anyone who lost to Kyle Kemp be able to turn around and beat Joey Flash? On what planet were you living when you thought you could take it easy? And the delicious part is that while Kyle killed your momentum, it didn’t even give him enough momentum to beat me. Kyle Kemp is #betterthanyou, and I’m better than Kyle Kemp. You’re a fucking joke stepping into this ring.
You poor sad man, don’t you have another loser faction to team with that’s actually relevant? You’ve let your own tag partner run off with Sarah Twilight while your other two teammates go frolick with a man you’d been briefly feuding with (RE: Jay LOLmega) before he was put to the pasture. What's wrong, Grayson? Did no one want you? Does your own team believe that little in its tag champs that it’d rather take the worst WSeaF Champion of all time?
Even Kanye thinks this shit’s whack, son.
And this is just me slamming out half a rant on how pitiful your first half of the year has gone; do we even need to bother with the rest of your fucking career? How about the absolute abortion that was your first run before you decided to get in drag? Or do we talk about how KL Henson is the worst person in this fed because he convinced you to take off the make-up? Quick analysis: he won that feud. Not because he won the blow-off match but because your career has been exponentially shittier since you discovered you had been Grayson Pierce all along. I ought to go track that moppy-headed faggot down and give him a good fist to the grill after I’m done kicking your head around.
I’m not even having cohesive transitions between my paragraphs anymore; I have too much shit to throw at you to bother with that. Fuck, I should probably turn this into a Cracked.com article “10 Reasons Why Grayson Pierce is Shit and Will Lose”. Maybe we should talk about how much shit you spewed at #BeachKrew but never did anything? You know, for a guy calling us a bunch of douchebags and saying we were all talk, you really look like a fucking idiot that we’re still running around. Your results against #BeachKrew have been negligible; a fluke win for the tag titles. Soon #BlackBeaver is going to take that from you, and then you’ll be really boned. As for the rest of us, well, Wade beat your punk ass a bunch of times. Kyle’s kicked your head off. Actually, it may look worse that you’ve yet to really step to us – you and your whole little fun bunch. What’s wrong, Gayson, I thought you were formed to stand up to us? Your little “power faction” has been carried on the shoulders of Andre Holmes as you’ve gone back to swing from the dick of Tom Bates. Even in this incarnation, you aren’t going to win. It’s going to be just like WAR: I take out Bates, I take out Gonzo, and I would’ve taken out you if not for Spencer Adams.
You can only catch lightning in a bottle so many times. I think you of all people probably realize right off the bat that this trio team was a stupid, worthless idea. Don’t worry, Gemmy ol’ boy, I’m going to put you out of your misery like I was giving you a vasectomy; your dreams get crushed in the first round after you won last year, and maybe you’ll join Bates in running off to a new career, like children’s birthday parties, autograph booths at WrestleCon, or bagging groceries. You are worth less words than Mikey Extreme was. You are that much of a non-factor.
So I should probably start talking about Thomas Bates here because I’d hate to end on a shoot, but I’d also hate to have two shoots after another. So thanks, Tom, you can’t even have the decency of allowing me to structure a decent promo. Everything about this return smacks of failure and AIDs. I can’t wait to see the look on your fat face after I pin you. Again.
If you thought you and Howard Black didn’t get along, just wait until you set your eyes on this shit. See, you and I? We have nothing in common. Zero, zip, zilch. We are completely antithetical in every way. I am a swaggy, rich, beautiful, fit, popular, nihilistic, atheist genius, and you are a fat, redneck, Christian, closeted, stereotype. I can only imagine the raging erection you’re going to get when you step into the ring with me. After the match, you’re going to have to take it out on Gemini in the shower. Just like the Good Ol’ Days!
I hate everything about you, and I’m sure you’ll hate everything about me. I hate how you claim to be a pious and humble man, but you’re a trembling, gelatinous mound of self-aggrandizing shit. You’re so big headed, I’m sure your beard is disguising the metal supports helping your neck keep your chin in the air. For all the lashings you’ve given out, you’ve taken a handful, yet you’ve never once acknowledged that you could be anything but right. I’m not surprised you’re going into politics; only someone as delusional as you would make a good politician.
And for all the talk of God and all the shit about not drinking or doing drugs to keep your body pure, it’s hardly done you any good. Christ, it’s really all image with you people, isn’t it? This is just it, Tom: it’s the little things about you which get under my skin and drive me crazy. It’s your propensity towards pomp and circumstance, the blind smugness, the idiot chest beating. Why the fuck did you come back? Did that Dolphin Driver knock you legitimately retarded? Do you not have anything better to do? Are your prospects in the rest of your life so miserable that you need to come back to a place you aren’t wanted?
Have you forgotten that you were hated? Do you think that “wounds heal with age” and everything would be peachy again? Fuck. No. We don’t want you here. We never wanted you back. You’re an antique. A relic. You are more stale and old-fashioned than Steve Orbit or Logan coming back. You were the pompous, racist, homophobic Southern “gentleman” *tips fedora* never cheered north of the Mason-Dixon Line. I am a douchey, racist, homophobic, sexist fratboy, and I’m still going to get a bigger pop than you. I at least have a little self-awareness encoded into my DNA.
I know what you're thinking. You're gonna hit me with that nice and sexy retort shoot at a moment from the deadline, aren't you Tommy? Oh, you! Don't play coy : ) I want it. Gimme that hard response, you little slut. Can't you see how eager and willing I am?
It'll feel real good if you do. And everyone will think you're super cool. Now c'mon Tommy Boy. Gimme that hard response.
You fucking loser. This is almost too easy.
From the moment I stepped in this fed, you were my bitch. Before I even stepped in the ring with you at WAR, I had made you my bitch through sheer meme-ry alone. Remember this shit?
Let's see how many more memes I can get going about you at the drop of a hat. Think everyone might start calling you Orange Julius now? Maybe it'll just be more mockery of how you've incessantly shit the bed in every big match you've had. Trios Finals? Gonzo got the pin. TV Title Defense? Tapped to Howard Black. Rematch? Lost. Ultimate Showdown? Second place. Defense the next night? Lost. WAR? LOLOLOLOLOLOL.
Poor, Poor Tom Bates. Do you obsess about dental hygiene? I bet you do. You strike me as that type. Only a man as bloated and crazed as you could floss daily. You should’ve stayed in Alabama.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
ＲＩＤＥ ＴＨＥ ＨＡＲＬＥＹ ＩＮＴＯ ＴＨＥ ＳＵＮＳＥＴ
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Scene III: Talking Shit on a Pretty Sunset
As the sun began to settle in the sky, the three bikes parked somewhere off the road, tucked within a ravine so as not to draw any passing attention. From their hiding place, the three members of the Dag Riddik Gang had already began to make camp, setting the tent and beginning the fire to roast the rations they’d brought along. As the fire crackled before them, the three men passed a coke-covered mirror back and forth, taking turns to snort lines with rolled pesos.
Joey Splash: Sometimes I swear Seth hates me. I can’t imagine why he’d put me against fucking Gemini Battle two weeks in a row.
Andre Aquarius: Maybe he hates Gemini.
Joey Splash: Then put him against someone else who beats him all the time; it’s not fucking hard.
With a long snort, Flash ingested his line before handing the mirror back to Jared. Jared’s eyes remained fixed on the setting sun.
Jared Holmes: It’s sort of anti-climactic, ya know? Like, this whole “Dag Riddik Gang” was supposed to be to directly troll these guys. Like, we’d be rubbing salt in their wounds the whole time we’re winning and finally face off in some big show-down type thing. Or hell, maybe we wouldn’t even face them at all. I just – I dunno – hoped there’d be a little more build to it.
Flash shook his head disgustedly.
Joey Splash: You think way too much about the most inane shit.
Jared Holmes: I mean, sure, but it sort of loses the impact, don’t ya think? We fucking knock them out in round one, and that’s it. Fuck, even the Poondock Saints made it to Round Two last year – it just feels like we’re blowing our load off the bat.
It was Andre’s turn to shrug.
Andre Aquarius: Maybe it is what it is, bruh; we slap Massah Bates, Massah Pierce, and Massah Extreme down real quick then just barrel on through. I mean, fuck could the worst thing be?
Jared considered this.
Jared Holmes: The joke becomes pointless.
Joey Splash: Who gives a fuck about the joke?
Jared was quiet.
Jared Holmes: Yeah, I guess the win is what matters.
The sun was almost down; the night would soon be upon the group, and the next day they’d be meeting up with some “friends” to exchange the remaining coke. After a few more days, they’d be in Mexico City, whoring it up on cheap coke and rotgut mescal. A month would pass, they’d win the tournament, then Jared and Joey would turn on one another for that belt. Such was how it was destined to go.
The sun was almost down; on Sunday it would set for the DRG as well. And that would be the end of it; the former champs would end in an embarrassing fashion as the Dag Riddik Gang would charge up the card in a whirl of fists, leaving a trail of broken bones and hurt feelings. That was how it was meant to go, even if it wasn’t supposed to start like this. But even as he resented the final sigh of his masterstroke joke, he hardly pitied the Dark Riders Gang. No, they’d fall. If anything, the loss of the aesthetic was more saddening.
It must be wretched to be so low and insignificant that your existence is only good for continuing on a cheap punch-line for quick lulz. Would anyone take this match seriously? Had any bets been placed against them. No, of course not. Who could place bets on a team consisting of a rusty veteran, a perpetual loser one-half tag champ, and the definition of “mid card purgatory” when faced against the world champion, the number one contender, and the hottest free agent on the table. Last year, the “Defilers of Logic” were the dream team.
This year? That was the Dag Riddik Gang.
The sun set on the DRG. It was a pretty uninspired sunset. The night after would be short.
