That Upstart Crow

[Crow McMorris]

RP 1

WCF – Slam! 

Trios Tag Team Tournament Match - Round 1:

The Poondock Kings 

vs

Caleb Ronan, Tom-o-hawk and Justin Sane

Act I:

Diamonds in the sky

**Robert Hercules Cairo blinked his eyes to an artificial tempo, those eyes that had seen so much poon now burnt holes though my neon glass prison as a computer generated “Godfaddah” was sat upon the muscular frame of a white, Arabian stallion; it's broad, Pegasus wings, carrying the bare chested bionic Jew up high into the heavens.**

**Cairo was soaring now, through cloud cover that dispersed as if on command, a veil of mist that parted to reveal the bowed heads of monolithic Gods: Ares, Zeus, Odin, Apolo, Loki, Hera, Hades, Poseidon, their huge gleaming swords and Trident, held aloft, forming a tunnel of mythic steel hundreds of feet high, a highway of superhuman respect as a squadron of naked Valkyrie fluttered about like anxious bees, their naked winged poon encroaching our vision with nubile Asgardian beauty, athletic bodies ripe to be plucked.**

**Yet onwards did Cairo fly, beyond that delicate band of atmosphere that separates us from catastrophe, out into the stars themselves; towards the waiting arms of that loving Jam Willy Jesus himself as RiRi's “Diamonds in the sky” accompanied The Poondock Saint's ascent towards immortality and peace. Each night I memorised this televised ritual. Right now It was four in the morning, three weeks ago. The national station was about to close for the night, and I could find no fawkin' sleep.**

**It had been this way now for months in truth. Those small hours, in between the drudgery of work and...work was sleep for some, but for me? Just extra time thinking. Smoking unfiltered roll ups. Drinking Wild Turkey. These distractions contained no bespoke truth to my unique situation. They faltered, as everything seemed to falter. Nothing had the truth of it all, nothing except what was obvious.**

**I was dead. And I needed life.**

**I needed the feeling of life in the balance, and if not my own, then some other poor bastard at my feet; begging to hold onto his delicate allowance of life, a narrow margin that could so easily be snuffed out quick with a Roadkill curb stomp, or through the sweet melody of a Murder of Crows. I need the battlefield, the forge of action and reaction that once made my existence feel worthwhile for so long, before the fall, before the worms danced around my skull and occupied a corpse.**

**I adjusted my position on that large leather couch and checked my smart phone. Four in the morning here was about eleven at night back in Pennsylvania. As if on cue, my idroid 9 hummed and shook to the nervous clatter of a Seth Lerch missed call. Then another. And another. It had been this way for days now. He called, I ignored. He danced and I, watched television. Or smashed an ignorant noob on Street Fighter until he was Caleb Ronan. Or simply...did nothing. It wasn't lethargy on my part. I just wasn't interested in speaking to him. Hearing that whiny voice as it spat out plans and threats. I wanted action. But the WCF? I wasn't so sure.**

**My fingers danced over the remote as I searched for something to occupy my time as Seth's desperate call rang out. Kaz and Sophia were away this weekend at the beach house. I had the place to myself. No need to worry about waking up the family. Static greeted my electric blue eyes, just murmurs of signals in the darkness. Until I reached channel forty eight, and there, before me.**

**Stood the Scarecrow**

**He was a man made from straw and magic. An actual, living Scarecrow. The Fawk?! Who the fawk was this? The Scarecrow spoke in a quasi Shakespearean manner, a cadence that carried a sizeable amount of theatrical malevolence. The television signal was weak, I didn't catch everything, but what I could make out was that this...thing was a competitor from a rival federation, and not Corey Black getting his digs in early in anticipation for my return at Trios as I originally suspected. Return, I started to think about it more as this imposter sang his hymns and bashed his bible. This fake Scarecrow, this avatar that stood upon my grave and thought he had it all at his feet. They all did in truth.

**I was forgotten, and they where jackin' my sheeit like vultures.**

**I didn't even flinch as I answered Seth's call, throwing the remote across the room. Suddenly my ears could bare the sound of his voice, of his plans. Dead blood burned bright with a rush of noise that sounded like life. I wanted the world to remember me now. On the grandest stage of them all I wanted these buzzards to know just who the fawk they where dealing with. The People's Champion, of People's Champions. The man that fought a God..and won. The man that died, and was resurrected. The Grandson of the shape. The Son of a coked up madman. My name is THEE Muddafukkin' Scarecrow! And I no sell death, you worthless fawks!**

Seth Lerch: Hell...Hello?

Crow McMorris: Sup, nig?

Seth Lerch: Crow? You...answered.

Crow McMorris: Don't sound so touched, nigguah. I know you have no soul. What's occurring? You sound whack, bruh. You know what time it is on Poon Guinea?

Seth Lerch: I don't know much about Poon time.

Crow McMorris: Thought as much.

**Seth's breathing was slight and quick, his wits had been dulled by another night of drink, coke and failed advances. Actually getting an answer from me wasn't part of Seth's plan. He had to think fast now on his unstable, spaghetti feet, gather what damaged thoughts he had left and climb that mountain.**

Seth Lerch: What's...with the voice?

Crow McMorris: Side effects. What's with yours?

Seth Lerch: Forty, Forty. Same as always. Crow, I need to hear it from you, do you still intend on refereeing this match at Slam Three Fiddy? I have contracts I need you to sign and--

Crow McMorris: And what? Get to the point. Your life's real short nig. Don't waste it on unTHICK spin. Get dah fawk to it.

Seth Lerch: Trios is coming up. We've lost a lot of talent lately. Dune. Omega. Armstrong. I've got new faces drifting in with no pedigree. No star power. I can't put “Justin Sane” on a poster and expect a sold out house in Mexico City. I've got President Nieto breathing' down my neck wondering who the fuck half my card is. Every Asesinato De Mayo is the same, Crow. There's an agreement. You psychos pull all the shit you want, your grandfather goes on one of his famous Easter egg hunts for kiddie brains, but in the end? We're all happy. Because in the end? We sell out houses night after night. We rake in the Peso's and everyone gets their cut. Everybody's pockets gets lined to that brim. But this year? This year I'm in trouble man. This year I've got a line up with a Vegan crybaby, an injun joe stereotype and an MMA turd that I just can't seem to flush. Nobody gives a sheet about these fools, Crow. They want NAMES. They want marquee standouts that raise the roof. I need guarantees, Cory. I need assurances. Or my head gets welded to the hood of an Oldsmobile, Sicario style. I need...I need that old Crow magic. The real Crow. Back alive and killin' it, bringing that Mex-i-CROW city to a fucking standstill, unleashing a day of the dead like no fucking other. I'll...I'll even feed you some fools to begin with, some government chowder to get the ring rust off. Those three I mentioned. Caleb Ronan, Tom-Oh -hack and Justin Sane. You can desecrate their bodies once you're done, I don't care. Just...just put on a show for me and the cut will be fine. Real fine. I know...

Crow McMorris: Know what?

Seth Lerch: That you need the money. And I --

Crow McMorris: Don't want me to sue your black azz for damages? You think this is Atreyu speakin' nig? This ain't no house of Oh-let-me-feel-ya-muscles, nig. This is Crow ya jabberin' to. Get ya sheeit together, Seth. We be cuttin' a deal, all righteous an' alike. We be walkin' dat path together, me and chu' Into the maw of hell, ta kill us some rats in dat rancid kitchen, that once gleaming alter where legends slew dragons, before the health inspectors arrive an' shut chu' down. That's what you want, isn't it? That's your dream. Right? To stay afloat. To put the pedigree back into the Dub Cee Eff?

Seth Lerch: We can make a lot of money together, Crow. We can--

Crow McMorris: Pick a number, a number between one and ten. Knowing you Seth, it's one. Now, add zeroes...lots of zeroes. Add three to the ring in Sane, Ronan and Oh-hack. And to dat check? Add a whole lot fawkin' more. You want Crow to come home? Line his nest with gold, nig. Line it with fawkin' gold.

**I hang up and wait. I spend the next five minutes starring at that television screen. I watch the silent lips of an imposter pontificate like he owns the place. He owns nothing. Just another shallow man, zipped up in a body bag. He just doesn't know it yet. He doesn't know, that it's time.**

Act II

A sorry state of affairs.

Let's be clear about something before we begin. Flippancy is the worst sin. Worse that murder, worse than rape. Flippancy in this business is a self inflicted genocide that can never be matched. You could gas yourself, and a thousand clones, for a million years, and never come close to that cardinal sin of flippancy. And yet, here you three are. Committing that crime. Defacing this business with your vacant stares and furrowed brows and nonchalant optimism. Completely unaware of the fight that you three now find yourselves in. That's the sin of flippancy my friends, the worst kind of sin for the sinner, because those that commit it? Will always be the victims that fall. And fall HARD.

Take Caleb Ronan for instance, this guy rolls stupidity off his tongue like he's reciting the alphabet. Every word and syllable he utters is supposed to be this meta-textual examination of a man that has no personality, a husk for internet opinion. Well, congratulations, you've succeeded. We've peeled back the layers of your character and found that black hole you where so desperate for us to discover. So now Caleb, you can fuck off and retire. You can jettison this bizarre idea that you can make it in this business by flippantly running down multiple time tag champions in Kaz Mazy and ZMAC. You can excommunicate your ambitions from the centre of the ring because your Frank Brown gimmick is perhaps one of the most unintentionally tedious examples of poor craftsmanship I have ever fucking seen. Is is an abomination, giving birth to a travesty. I want to smother your promos with a pillow and choke them to death, such is the absolute mess you've managed to create.

Every note you hit “Ronan the FAKE AZZ libertarian” is off key, it's scientifically impossible to be so fucking wrong and yet you've managed it time and time again. You write off a US Champion and former Tag champion with a wave of your hand, yet the sum total of your own achievement is pinning a cardboard cut-out of a wrestler in Chaos, in a debut match that syncopates perfectly with the sound of an audience taking a piss. That's it. That's all you have. It's embarrassing to even be typing this blog on you. I feel so fucking tarnished by this necessity. It's stifling.

Caleb, you're supposedly “a man”, such a loose fucking term in regards to you, that claims to be fighting for equality; yet you judge constantly on face value alone. You're a bigot in hipster clothing, Caleb. A snake that's managed to whip up a white squall of fake political correctness. Creating a storm around himself to mask the fact that you, Caleb Ronan, are nothing but a plagiaristic conman, ripping off KL Henson's peroxide gimmick wholesale, a slight of hand to conceal the fact that you're just a boring cunt, full of hate from the scarf up. A naughties man child....and nothing more. Winning matches on Slam against Chaos doesn't constitute wrestling prowess, you could replace Caleb with a mop, paint it with a sad face, dress it with a hoodie, and the result would be absolutely identical. In fact, I'd wager the mop has more personality, and impressive aerial offence. It looks like it works on it's cardio at least.

I know, Caleb. I know. You're stunned, right? You're in shock because I don't type the way I speak. That's a side effect called...flippancy. You never did your homework on me, did you? You never studied my background. My University education. My knowledge of advanced engineering. Your flippancy is the shovel that has dug your own fucking grave, and you never even knew it...because...

Of your flippancy.

You judged me on my family life, my accent and my history. You're a judgemental bigot Caleb, and I'm going to be really fucking enjoy placing my size twelve boot upon the base of your neck and driving that hypocritical skull of yours into the mat on Slam. It's going to be fun watching you fall to a Murder of Crows, Caleb. A joy to behold. A bold new sunrise for those sick of your twisted sense of entitlement.

See, I'm the buzz kill that jack knifes your run, Little Ronny. Those precious wins of yours? They're just noise getting in the way of the truth about you. That your career is nothing but a burning Prius, it's battery filled to the brim with toxic fumes. Killing the environment as it melts. Being the nauseous hypocrite, right to the end.

Cel la vie, Caleb. You morose, arrogant fuck.

Now for Tom-O-Hawk. That proud member of the Cherokee nation. The question is though, is your tribe proud of you, Tommy? What do you think they see when you walk out on that stage in your plastic moccasins and belittle “The white man” for his actions over the years? I know what I see, I see a Native American, pretending to be an up-tight middle class white man, pretending to be a proud Native American. You're a fraud, Tommy. The worst kind of fraud, because you tap into something serious and real, and you turn it into a one note sight gag. You've flatlined your own fucking legacy and wiped your ass with what's left. The ghosts of wounded knee aren't too fucking impressed, Tommy. They're not digging the act. They might be Sioux, but you're still jacking their tragedy for cheep heat. That makes you long on idiocy and short on career, because no one in the WCF has ever managed to hang longevity on a single joke that was never funny to begin with. Not even Adam Young managed it, and that man has tried very fucking hard to do so.

Your soul is blackface, Tommy. It's a little mistral boy singing for it's supper. You're just as flippant about this “justice for the Cherokee” as Caleb is about his manufactured indignation. You're both born from the same mould. Cut from the same cloth. Your manager, “Mister Burns” probably flies though your bedroom window at night, naked, tucking you in with a wink and a smile. His slimy hand running through your hair as he tells you everything is going to be alright. Problem, Tommy. This isn't “Wayne's” world. It's mine. It's not going to be okay. It's not going to be fine. No basketball match is going to save you. No hoop dreams can prepare you for the foundry, the anvil and the hammer as the Crowbreaker awakens and screams for flesh blood to be sacrificed, and I, it's loyal servant, feel honour bound to oblige. After all. It's my heritage. How can I refuse?

What's left? What's rotting in that bargain bucket at Target? It's been there since November Twenty-fourteen I believe. Festering, getting sour like stale half n' half. Why, it's that un-flushable turd known as Justin Sane. Wrestling lesson numero uno, Mister Sane. We at the Dub Cee 'eff often partake in a past time commonly known as “home-twek.” That's when talent digs up shit on a no hope, broke azz fucker, and dances on their fucking grave. If only your partners knew what kind of no show you've been over the years, recycling the same failed gimmick time and again with that cardinal sin of flippancy hanging over proceedings, maybe then they'd understand how on Sunday night? Everything comes home to roost. The sin kills the sinners. And how glorious it will be, to witness demise number two of Justin Sane. His path of glory warped and twisted into a funeral march. Not because I hone a hatred for the man. But because his passing will be a valuable message; signed, sealed and delivered to the rest of the locker room. A chorus that will reverberate across the entire Federation, that just showing up once every two years? Well that just isn't enough, Mister Sane. It's nowhere near enough. A man that can't die, will this Sunday battle a man that won't perform. I think we can all call it. Time of death? Ten thirty. Place? The may day resurrection on Slam. Twenty oh sixteen. The hour of the Crow; as he takes their flippancy, and makes them fawkin' choke on it.

While up above, among the heavens so bright, that Bobby Cairo? Well, he's looking down on us all now I imagine. And wondering, “What dah thick happened to my Dub Cee Eff ? And for the evah lasting death of me? I have no fucking idea.

Act III

Tag.

**Kaz's cybernetic hand wrapped it's gleaming steel talons around the throat of the Odin-Terminator. In that one split second everything fell into place. My father would be saved. My best friend and I would vanquish the foe. Everything would be fine. Secure. Safe. All I had to do, was make the tag.**

**And so I did, I held onto Kaz's human arm and earthed his body from the thousands of volts that surged through his nervous system, all of them cannoning straight towards me. My thought processes where supercharged now with visions of the Baron and the future as the crackle of burning undead flesh ignited my flaring nostrils. All my exploding eyes could see was the past and present intertwining. I saw a ship capsize, a large white vessel that carried the rich served by the poor. While somewhere in among the water, motionless, was a blonde woman. A pregnant waitress. Nothing special in truth. Just an unmarried maid five months gone, hired by a shipping magnet to provide general service for the guests on board. Hiding her bump with a long flowing uniform. Too bad for her, that ship managed to hit a wave, a large one, and...**

**Her eyes were so still now. As if they never knew life at all. While in her belly, a fetus remained somehow alive, fighting, struggling to live as it defied its environment by breathing in the last of the air from the maid's still , dead lungs. Survival at all costs. That's the McMorris way. Even if I never knew it for twenty eight more years, I've always known how to live it. Then, as now. **

**I awoke to see Kaz and my father whiffing the smell of charred flesh from their nostrils.**

KMAZ: Nig, you got dat George Foreman look all ovah my nigguah! You in pain?

**Bobby Cairo stood behind Kaz, placing a hand upon his charges shoulder, a forlorn look upon his jewbraindrainium face. I tried to listen to what the Godfaddah had to say, but all I could make out was “be there”. I tried to nod, as pops tried his best to avoid Cairo's gaze.**

FIN