Post by Eddie "Shiro" Felt on May 8, 2016 16:17:31 GMT -5
Nervous Man in a Four Dollar Room:
I awaken with a gasp, feeling a certain sense of emotional whiplash after being ripped from the vast, eldritch expanse that is my mind palace and thrown right back into the stuffy darkness of this hotel room.
The last few days have been an alcohol-induced daze of aimless wandering and mindless babbling at confused locals. Not sure if they even knew what I was saying; I sure as hell couldn't make out anything they were saying. It was like they were speaking Spanish.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and hop off, rubbing my eyes, squinting into the darkness. I've spent the better part of a week in this room but in what passes for lucidity to me I don't recognize anything. I grope wildly in the dark, swinging my arms all around, before hitting the lightswitch and flooding the room with a dim, flickering light. "Fuck…" I mutter, shaking my head. I shamble over to the bathroom and look at my reflection in the mirror. Same old, same old. Same unkempt stubble, somewhere between five o' clock shadow and shitty hipster facial hair. Same red eyes, same drooping eyelids. I should be getting back to bed but something drives me to keep looking at the mirror.
"You look like shit," my reflection tells me with a wide, shit-eating grin as it leans in closer to the mirror and studies me, eyes following my each subtle movement I make with furrow-browed intensity.
"What's wrong dude? This ain't even the weirdest shit you've seen this week."
I open my mouth but I feel like my tongue's trying to jam itself down my throat so instead of responding I'm stuck awkwardly forming my lips into the shapes of sounds I'm failing to produce. My reflection chuckles at the sight, gesturing for me to keep trying with a faux-expectant look on its face.
"Oh, so I'm an It? That's all I am to you? Low blow, my dude. Low fuckin' blow."
"You can read my mind?" I finally manage to spit out, stammering, choking on the words as they force their way out of mouth only to be met with a bemused expression from the man in the mirror.
"No shit, Sherlock. The fourth wall can't save you here."
"What are you?"
"I'm you, bro. Well, your better half anyway. You before you started tucking your tail in-between your legs and lopped off your balls. Before #BeachKrew fucked your ass six ways to Sunday which, and I don't know if you've been lucid long enough to realize, is when you get a rematch with the same group of wash-ups you couldn't put down even with the help of two championship-caliber teammates."
The reflection stops for a second, cocking his head. He gestures for me to come closer. Beckoning me. The smile on his face widens with each step I take, almost devilish by the time I make it to the cracked porcelain sink that the mirror hangs above.
"You've lost it, man," My reflection whispers. "Not sure you ever had it in the first place to be honest. But if you had, you've definitely lost it. How fuckin' sad is that? You've been wrestling for, what? Two months? And already you're the biggest wash-up this side of Steve Orbit. That's sad, isn't it? I think it's sad. Maybe you don't since you're so glad to sink your career on the chase for horse-faced ginger snatch. What was that beckoning call of a pseudonym she gave? Oh, Kiss me, I was Irish."
My mouth hangs agape, and before I can even attempt to come back, my reflection shushes me.
"You can do better than this. Be better than this. Just let me in, Eddie."
I reach out and touch the mirror.
The glass cracks when I touch it, spider-webbing throughout the whole mirror from the mini-ground zeroes covered by my fingertips. I press on the glass a little bit, and the mirror shatters, raining shards of glass into the bowl of the sink.
"See how much prettier things are from my point of view."
The Constant:
"What do you want to do after you graduate?"
That was the question that plagued Eddie. The one that seemed to follow him everywhere, an albatross around his neck. He shifted anxiously in his seat, eyes darting around the guidance counselor's office, avoiding eye-contact like the plague. He stuttered out a vague response - nothing more than gibberish really, trying to buy himself some time so that he could possibly, potentially, hopefully, come up with an answer. A real answer. Instead, all he could do was continue to stammer endlessly.
"Yeah, that's a bit of a daunting question. Let me make it a little simpler: are you planning on going to college?"
"Colleges are just money traps," Eddie wanted to say, but his teeth instinctively bit down on his tongue before the words could escape. He cleared his throat and leaned back in his seat, speaking through a sigh: "I don't know."
The counselor smiled. "You should. You got the mind for it Eddie, I think anyone can see that."
"Now, if only you could stay out of trouble."
The way people talked about him, you'd swear Eddie was a budding juvenile delinquent. Just one of about a quarter of the graduating class, headed for the ultimate goal of rotting in the Twin Towers Correctional Facility. Get in a fight or two and everyone looks at you differently. It wasn't that he regretted this at all; he'd do it again if he could. In the blink of an eye he went from skittish conspiracy nut to absolute psycho. Whatever, he thought. Let them think whatever they wanted.
"Don't think I can do that," Eddie said with a chuckle.
That was his greatest ally: his ability to deflect. To turn things into a joke at the drop of a hat, to keep things from getting too serious, to keep him from thinking about things too hard. Because the truth was simple: he didn't have a plan. He had absolutely nothing in mind for what he'd do once he got his diploma. Outside of continuing to hunt the truth but that was obvious. That was expected of him, he was a Felt. Anyone who had the displeasure of meeting Eddie's father Robert knew that the conspiracy roots ran deep. Something he passed onto his children with the expectations that they'd do the same.
But as far as any real career plans going forward, his mind went blank.
He wasn't Ethan, that was for sure. There was no doubt in Eddie's mind that Ethan had his future planned out to the most minute detail He wasn't Gabriel either. He couldn't just go with the flow, take whatever life gave him.
"I guess I don't got a future," Eddie muttered under his breath, for him and only him to hear.
He wasn't sure how certain he was of that, but it felt right to say in the moment. He couldn't see anything for himself.
This must be how the future convicts feel, he thought. Staring at the wall with nothing in their heads greater than a desire to make things work in the temporary. Long-term planning wasn't viable when you were busy making ends meet any way you could.
Eddie gripped the chair and gritted his teeth in anger. He hated not seeing anything for himself. He vowed that no matter what, he'd do something. Anything.
He'd expose the truth his dad could only speculate about.
While dear old dad was serving half a decade for aggravated assault after beating some poor bastard half to death in a drunken stupor, he'd be doing something with his life.
The fact that he didn't know what scared him to death.
"What'd you say?" the counselor asked.
"Nothing," Eddie said with a smile that only felt half-phony.
Clear Eyes, Full Hearts, Can't Lose:
I feel like I'm at a crossroad and the demons are lining up in a neat single-file line, all clamoring for me to offer my soul to them. All offering untold riches, the fame we crave, the respect we rightfully deserve but has been withheld from us for too long. Don't get it twisted: there's two things you need to know about team White Pride. One: that name is really unfortunate. I mean shit that sounds more suitable for Dagvald Riddik's new catchphrase than it does the team name for the trios tournament's dark-horses. Two: we're winning this match. There aren't going to be any draws this week, which is the only way the Unstable Pimplements (yeesh talk about unfortunate names) could survive any encounter with us.
But who are these demons I see?
At the front of the line, there's Steve Orbit. A grotesque monstrosity if ever there were one. Stomach swollen, dragging on the ground as he approaches, bloated from swallowing his own empty self-promotion. As if being Steve Orbit is cause enough for pride in 2016 when the only things he's done lately are eat shit and eat even more shit. See, on his back he carries his prior accomplishments; the motivation he needs to keep on scarfing down his delusional self-hype. To keep on hoping that he can coast by on empty nostalgia and that at the end of the day, he can go softly into that good night and everyone will forget this run sooner rather than later because let's be real: current world champ or no, losing to Logan approximately a billion times does not look on one's resume.
He's offering validation. Or maybe he's seeking it. He can keep on crying about how generic Ethan and I are like it makes a fucking difference but the fact of the matter is he's never been able to get the job done against The Pride. Sure, he can get to a draw (so can Purse) but the second that isn't an option? He falls. Just as we expected. Though at least he has the decency to man up and accept those losses, unlike a certain Sarah Twilight (who 67% of the Unstable Pimplements are either still obsessed with or have lost to this year). But that doesn't make up for the fact that no matter how much you like to flap your gums like you're still the measuring stick for talent, for success, you're nothing but a washed up hack and that isn't speculation. This isn't me pulling some bullshit without probable cause. Nah man, this is all on you.
You literally let the briefcase slip through your fingers in the Final Destination match. Think about it, Steve. That was your ticket back to relevance. That was the golden opportunity, all you had to do was pull down that briefcase and you'd get that validation. You'd be able to coast by on your reputation again because you proved definitively that you're still the real deal. But you fucked that one up, didn't you? Now we got Logan making the most out of the opportunity that should be yours. Could've been yours. Would've been yours.
Then you had that immortal best of sixteen billion series against Logan, the same guy who benefited from your inability to finish the job. Which you continued to lose, lose, and lose again, each time another nail got hammered into the coffin containing the tattered scraps of your career. You finally managed to win sure, but by that point the damage was already done. Rest in spaghetti, never forgetti.
Those glory days are so far in the rearview mirror they're a fuckin Pepperidge Farm Remembers meme.
You remember when Steve Orbit was a credible threat?
Pepperidge Farm Remembers.
You remember when Steve Orbit was the man?
Pepperidge Farm Remembers.
You remember when Steve Orbit would wreck Logan no problem?
Pepperidge Farm Remembers.
Now Steve Orbit's a husk of his former glory, perpetually unable to get the job done against anyone. So he can bellyache about us being generic, act superior to Ethan and act like Ethan's victory over him for the US Title was a fluke. Nah man, Ethan rekt the shit outta you.
You're the only guy the Family can consistently beat.
I'm surprised Dag didn't lobby to fight you for the International Title since he wants an easy fight and you do have a streak of undeserved opportunities to keep up. Go on, challenge Tall, racist, and dumbass. I'm sure you'd find a way to fuck that one up too.
This isn't personal, Steve. We just have to do this. We have to take you out behind the woodshed because it's just your time to go. We're going to stop you, so you can't hurt your legacy any more because you are a legend, man. And no legend deserves the shit you've been putting yourself through.
You deserve better, Steve.
So take my hand and die.
The next demon I see is Jeff Purse, trailing behind Orbit. Hiding behind him, like he hides behind his past accomplishments because unlike Orbit, who tries and fails to stand on his own two feet in this new era of the WCF, Purse doesn't even try. He is Jeff Purse, the same Jeff Purse he was in his prime, outside of the fact that he can't go like he used to. WAR winner Jeff Purse this is not. This is midlife crisis Jeff Purse, clinging to his youth and his glory days, unable or unwilling to accept that he's no longer in his prime. The Future has become The Past in the blink of an eye.
And he wants to talk about us disrespecting his legacy?
Motherfucker the only one disrespecting your legacy is you.
Is it our fault you decided to go back on your word? Didn't you retire because wrestling' too dangerous? Because you're a family man now? Obviously your family isn't as important to you as making sure you stay even the slightest bit relevant even if that relevance comes from you being a scummy piece of shit who's willing to use his family for sympathy. Who can't keep his word. But you're the good guy, right Jeff? The Pride are the mean bullies disrespecting you?
Is it our fault you're so scared of us you're retreating into recreating Star Wars instead of actually talking about our wrestling match like a man with a set of working testicles between his legs? What's up with that, man? Are you so scared of taking this shit seriously out of fear of losing that you make it all into one big joke to save face? Do you see Ethan parodying Pulp Fiction? Nah, you don't and guess what? That dude's a fuckin champ.
You were. Keyword, were.
You aren't.
This is wrestling.
Ethan is a wrestler.
You're a fuckin jester dude, hiding up in your castle made entirely of your past conquests.
Talk about a fuckin glass house.
What is it Jeff? Are you so afraid of fading away, of confronting the fact that you just don't have it in you anymore that you're willing to throw away what credibility your career has left until the only thing people remember is a monumental losing streak the likes of which makes 2016 Steve Orbit look like Joey Flash? Are you afraid that people will forget you that you're ready and able to make sure the sight of your broken body is permanently etched into every wrestling fan's memory?
Is that your goal? Is your endgame that pessimistic? That desperate?
Shit, desperation ought to be the name of your whole fucking trio. Three dudes stuck in the past, desperate for a return to those days that are long gone, only existing in their memories. Desperate for attention. Desperate for validation. Three guys stuck in the middle of an existential crisis screaming at the WCF fans, begging, pleading for them to just tell them they're good.
They're hungrier for them props than fuckin rookies.
Us rooks don't want them props though. We want that gold. That shine. That shit you fucking wash-ups already gorged yourself on already. You don't want to win this tournament, you just want to be told you could. You don't want to hear that condescending bullshit like "oh if they were in their prime they'd win that shit no problem".
You want to be good enough.
But you aren't.
Not anymore.
Then, bringing up the rear we have the last demon: Polar Phantasm. The bone-thin abomination in worn, tattered clothing. Hands calloused from constant, vigorous circle-jerking. Eyes rolled back into his head so he'll never take his eyes off the past. So he'll never look ahead and see the current landscape. I mean talk about stuck in the past. Phantasm has such a fuckin boner for his glory days he can't go fifteen seconds without dropping a call-back. Newsflash dude, there isn't a soul around who cares in the slightest.
His mouth is sewn shut since he can't be bothered to say anything of relevance. You'd think that Purse's Star Wars rant was a straight up sit down interview discussing the match compared to Phantasm's inanity. I hate to come off as condescending to people much more experienced than me but Jesus Christ guys, it ain't like you goths put too much thought into it. I mean Orbit's just been crying about us being generic but at least he's saying something. Come on P-dawg, flex those fuckin vocal chords and join in on the screaming too.
We're generic! Oh so generic!
Tiff's gay and we're just fuckin generic!
Come on P, it's fun.
It's insane how these three are the obligatory "legends" team in this tourney. Though I guess in a way it really isn't. They're the logical conclusion of shit like that. Self-obsessed to the point of willful ignorance, egos more inflated than the fuckin Zimbabwean economy, records looking like Dag Riddik crossed with Adam Young. Only able to survive on technicalities.
But these guys aren't the only team we're facing. Nah, we got the badass team of Cathy Fitch, Snake Venom, and Bad News Benson.
Yeah, that Bad News Benson. The same dude the Pride ran over in our debut. The guy we fucked up and left strewn across the ring. I know, I know; that ain't much of an accomplishment. Everyone's done that shit but hey it's relevant now. Cuz while we don't have dat Griffin boy anymore, we got certified BAMF Tiffany White as our third. If you thought you got fucked up the first time bro, you ain't felt nothing yet.
And fuck me man they got a goddamn reptilian on their team. Y'all didn't want to believe me but Jesus Christ look at the "Sadistic Snake" Venom. Dude's straight up one of them lizard people trying to infiltrate the world of wrestling. He's got the name, obviously trying for that refuge in audacity bullshit, like no reptilian would bring attention to it via their name. That'd be like Satan taking the form of a human and calling himself Lou Cipher. That's like Ben Linus' name literally having the word lie in it. That's like the Zodiac Killer running for president on levels of why the fuck would you expose yourself like that.
But look at him. He's a fuckin alien trying to adopt human wrestling culture. Like two dudes who are good friends must be gay and shit cuz he's a fucking generic cunt. I know I got on Orbit for being the boy who cried generic but just look at this dude. He's a "sadistic" wrestler who uses snake motifs. He shares a name with a fuckin Spider-Man villain. Shit, someone get Tobey Maguire on the case.
I give you a three out of ten for the effort reptile man. You just weren't audacious enough, I think everyone can you're nothing but an alien trying to play a part. But at least you're an actual reptile person unlike Dragon Clan who claimed to be from fuckin Jupiter or some shit. Yeah I may believe some shit that seems out there but that was just straight up dumb. Ain't ever gonna catch me slipping on some shit like that nosiree you can count on that. I'll just be steady telling the truth and bringing the facts while silly aliens like SADistic Snek Venum speculate on my sexuality like it ain't already obvious I'm the reason that bow legged motherfucker Ethan walks the way he does.
Shit bro, even Dagvald "NIGGER" Riddik ain't that desperate for some 'a dat heat.
Try harder mister Snek man.
Then we got the most talented member out of those three: Cathy Fitch. Yeah, she's the most talented by far but looking at the other two is that really a fuckin accomplishment? That sounds about on par with being the prettiest person in the Burn unit, or maybe the best Jame Gumb impersonator not named Katherine Phoenix (RIP Kat, you crazy teddy bear flower power chuck you), ooh or maybe the least underwhelming member of the Unstable Pimplements.
Congrats, Cathy, you're the Steve Orbit of your team. Not the vintage, classic Steve Orbit. The 2016, gets shit on by Logan on the reg Steve Orbit. But unlike Steve Orbit, you don't even have anything to fall back on. Your greatest hit so far was managing to drag Snekboy McReptiledysfunction and Bad News Benson across the finish line against everyone's favorite to get rekt in round one: The Young Family. The only team capable of making The Family not the worst stable to have the word "Family" in it. That's your legacy. Shit, you're already making the team of "legends" look fuckin legendary so I guess you guys are accomplishing something.
Come at us, all six of you. Aim right at our heads, line up those shots perfectly, shoot to fuckin kill. It doesn't matter when all you're shooting are blanks. Loud ass bark with no bite to back it up. Hoping to scare us into submission with your big dog posturing when this whole trio has made its name on being the underdogs.
We aren't gonna stop now. Nah, far from it. We're just getting started while the Unstable Pimplements are showing signs of wear. The wheels are falling off of them. Putting any money into fixing them is more than they're worth at this point.
Meanwhile team Bad Snekfriends is on some factory recall shit. Put together improperly. It hasn't been announced yet since it's cheaper to settle on an individual basis.
Team White Pride (ughhhhhhh) is a well-oiled machine though. We're the ones who'll run through all six of them and look good doing it. We don't have to deal with rust. We haven't had to patch ourselves up yet.
We've proven we can actually go.
It's the logical conclusion, my dudes.
We win.
And that's the truth.
I awaken with a gasp, feeling a certain sense of emotional whiplash after being ripped from the vast, eldritch expanse that is my mind palace and thrown right back into the stuffy darkness of this hotel room.
The last few days have been an alcohol-induced daze of aimless wandering and mindless babbling at confused locals. Not sure if they even knew what I was saying; I sure as hell couldn't make out anything they were saying. It was like they were speaking Spanish.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and hop off, rubbing my eyes, squinting into the darkness. I've spent the better part of a week in this room but in what passes for lucidity to me I don't recognize anything. I grope wildly in the dark, swinging my arms all around, before hitting the lightswitch and flooding the room with a dim, flickering light. "Fuck…" I mutter, shaking my head. I shamble over to the bathroom and look at my reflection in the mirror. Same old, same old. Same unkempt stubble, somewhere between five o' clock shadow and shitty hipster facial hair. Same red eyes, same drooping eyelids. I should be getting back to bed but something drives me to keep looking at the mirror.
"You look like shit," my reflection tells me with a wide, shit-eating grin as it leans in closer to the mirror and studies me, eyes following my each subtle movement I make with furrow-browed intensity.
"What's wrong dude? This ain't even the weirdest shit you've seen this week."
I open my mouth but I feel like my tongue's trying to jam itself down my throat so instead of responding I'm stuck awkwardly forming my lips into the shapes of sounds I'm failing to produce. My reflection chuckles at the sight, gesturing for me to keep trying with a faux-expectant look on its face.
"Oh, so I'm an It? That's all I am to you? Low blow, my dude. Low fuckin' blow."
"You can read my mind?" I finally manage to spit out, stammering, choking on the words as they force their way out of mouth only to be met with a bemused expression from the man in the mirror.
"No shit, Sherlock. The fourth wall can't save you here."
"What are you?"
"I'm you, bro. Well, your better half anyway. You before you started tucking your tail in-between your legs and lopped off your balls. Before #BeachKrew fucked your ass six ways to Sunday which, and I don't know if you've been lucid long enough to realize, is when you get a rematch with the same group of wash-ups you couldn't put down even with the help of two championship-caliber teammates."
The reflection stops for a second, cocking his head. He gestures for me to come closer. Beckoning me. The smile on his face widens with each step I take, almost devilish by the time I make it to the cracked porcelain sink that the mirror hangs above.
"You've lost it, man," My reflection whispers. "Not sure you ever had it in the first place to be honest. But if you had, you've definitely lost it. How fuckin' sad is that? You've been wrestling for, what? Two months? And already you're the biggest wash-up this side of Steve Orbit. That's sad, isn't it? I think it's sad. Maybe you don't since you're so glad to sink your career on the chase for horse-faced ginger snatch. What was that beckoning call of a pseudonym she gave? Oh, Kiss me, I was Irish."
My mouth hangs agape, and before I can even attempt to come back, my reflection shushes me.
"You can do better than this. Be better than this. Just let me in, Eddie."
I reach out and touch the mirror.
The glass cracks when I touch it, spider-webbing throughout the whole mirror from the mini-ground zeroes covered by my fingertips. I press on the glass a little bit, and the mirror shatters, raining shards of glass into the bowl of the sink.
"See how much prettier things are from my point of view."
The Constant:
"What do you want to do after you graduate?"
That was the question that plagued Eddie. The one that seemed to follow him everywhere, an albatross around his neck. He shifted anxiously in his seat, eyes darting around the guidance counselor's office, avoiding eye-contact like the plague. He stuttered out a vague response - nothing more than gibberish really, trying to buy himself some time so that he could possibly, potentially, hopefully, come up with an answer. A real answer. Instead, all he could do was continue to stammer endlessly.
"Yeah, that's a bit of a daunting question. Let me make it a little simpler: are you planning on going to college?"
"Colleges are just money traps," Eddie wanted to say, but his teeth instinctively bit down on his tongue before the words could escape. He cleared his throat and leaned back in his seat, speaking through a sigh: "I don't know."
The counselor smiled. "You should. You got the mind for it Eddie, I think anyone can see that."
"Now, if only you could stay out of trouble."
The way people talked about him, you'd swear Eddie was a budding juvenile delinquent. Just one of about a quarter of the graduating class, headed for the ultimate goal of rotting in the Twin Towers Correctional Facility. Get in a fight or two and everyone looks at you differently. It wasn't that he regretted this at all; he'd do it again if he could. In the blink of an eye he went from skittish conspiracy nut to absolute psycho. Whatever, he thought. Let them think whatever they wanted.
"Don't think I can do that," Eddie said with a chuckle.
That was his greatest ally: his ability to deflect. To turn things into a joke at the drop of a hat, to keep things from getting too serious, to keep him from thinking about things too hard. Because the truth was simple: he didn't have a plan. He had absolutely nothing in mind for what he'd do once he got his diploma. Outside of continuing to hunt the truth but that was obvious. That was expected of him, he was a Felt. Anyone who had the displeasure of meeting Eddie's father Robert knew that the conspiracy roots ran deep. Something he passed onto his children with the expectations that they'd do the same.
But as far as any real career plans going forward, his mind went blank.
He wasn't Ethan, that was for sure. There was no doubt in Eddie's mind that Ethan had his future planned out to the most minute detail He wasn't Gabriel either. He couldn't just go with the flow, take whatever life gave him.
"I guess I don't got a future," Eddie muttered under his breath, for him and only him to hear.
He wasn't sure how certain he was of that, but it felt right to say in the moment. He couldn't see anything for himself.
This must be how the future convicts feel, he thought. Staring at the wall with nothing in their heads greater than a desire to make things work in the temporary. Long-term planning wasn't viable when you were busy making ends meet any way you could.
Eddie gripped the chair and gritted his teeth in anger. He hated not seeing anything for himself. He vowed that no matter what, he'd do something. Anything.
He'd expose the truth his dad could only speculate about.
While dear old dad was serving half a decade for aggravated assault after beating some poor bastard half to death in a drunken stupor, he'd be doing something with his life.
The fact that he didn't know what scared him to death.
"What'd you say?" the counselor asked.
"Nothing," Eddie said with a smile that only felt half-phony.
Clear Eyes, Full Hearts, Can't Lose:
I feel like I'm at a crossroad and the demons are lining up in a neat single-file line, all clamoring for me to offer my soul to them. All offering untold riches, the fame we crave, the respect we rightfully deserve but has been withheld from us for too long. Don't get it twisted: there's two things you need to know about team White Pride. One: that name is really unfortunate. I mean shit that sounds more suitable for Dagvald Riddik's new catchphrase than it does the team name for the trios tournament's dark-horses. Two: we're winning this match. There aren't going to be any draws this week, which is the only way the Unstable Pimplements (yeesh talk about unfortunate names) could survive any encounter with us.
But who are these demons I see?
At the front of the line, there's Steve Orbit. A grotesque monstrosity if ever there were one. Stomach swollen, dragging on the ground as he approaches, bloated from swallowing his own empty self-promotion. As if being Steve Orbit is cause enough for pride in 2016 when the only things he's done lately are eat shit and eat even more shit. See, on his back he carries his prior accomplishments; the motivation he needs to keep on scarfing down his delusional self-hype. To keep on hoping that he can coast by on empty nostalgia and that at the end of the day, he can go softly into that good night and everyone will forget this run sooner rather than later because let's be real: current world champ or no, losing to Logan approximately a billion times does not look on one's resume.
He's offering validation. Or maybe he's seeking it. He can keep on crying about how generic Ethan and I are like it makes a fucking difference but the fact of the matter is he's never been able to get the job done against The Pride. Sure, he can get to a draw (so can Purse) but the second that isn't an option? He falls. Just as we expected. Though at least he has the decency to man up and accept those losses, unlike a certain Sarah Twilight (who 67% of the Unstable Pimplements are either still obsessed with or have lost to this year). But that doesn't make up for the fact that no matter how much you like to flap your gums like you're still the measuring stick for talent, for success, you're nothing but a washed up hack and that isn't speculation. This isn't me pulling some bullshit without probable cause. Nah man, this is all on you.
You literally let the briefcase slip through your fingers in the Final Destination match. Think about it, Steve. That was your ticket back to relevance. That was the golden opportunity, all you had to do was pull down that briefcase and you'd get that validation. You'd be able to coast by on your reputation again because you proved definitively that you're still the real deal. But you fucked that one up, didn't you? Now we got Logan making the most out of the opportunity that should be yours. Could've been yours. Would've been yours.
Then you had that immortal best of sixteen billion series against Logan, the same guy who benefited from your inability to finish the job. Which you continued to lose, lose, and lose again, each time another nail got hammered into the coffin containing the tattered scraps of your career. You finally managed to win sure, but by that point the damage was already done. Rest in spaghetti, never forgetti.
Those glory days are so far in the rearview mirror they're a fuckin Pepperidge Farm Remembers meme.
You remember when Steve Orbit was a credible threat?
Pepperidge Farm Remembers.
You remember when Steve Orbit was the man?
Pepperidge Farm Remembers.
You remember when Steve Orbit would wreck Logan no problem?
Pepperidge Farm Remembers.
Now Steve Orbit's a husk of his former glory, perpetually unable to get the job done against anyone. So he can bellyache about us being generic, act superior to Ethan and act like Ethan's victory over him for the US Title was a fluke. Nah man, Ethan rekt the shit outta you.
You're the only guy the Family can consistently beat.
I'm surprised Dag didn't lobby to fight you for the International Title since he wants an easy fight and you do have a streak of undeserved opportunities to keep up. Go on, challenge Tall, racist, and dumbass. I'm sure you'd find a way to fuck that one up too.
This isn't personal, Steve. We just have to do this. We have to take you out behind the woodshed because it's just your time to go. We're going to stop you, so you can't hurt your legacy any more because you are a legend, man. And no legend deserves the shit you've been putting yourself through.
You deserve better, Steve.
So take my hand and die.
The next demon I see is Jeff Purse, trailing behind Orbit. Hiding behind him, like he hides behind his past accomplishments because unlike Orbit, who tries and fails to stand on his own two feet in this new era of the WCF, Purse doesn't even try. He is Jeff Purse, the same Jeff Purse he was in his prime, outside of the fact that he can't go like he used to. WAR winner Jeff Purse this is not. This is midlife crisis Jeff Purse, clinging to his youth and his glory days, unable or unwilling to accept that he's no longer in his prime. The Future has become The Past in the blink of an eye.
And he wants to talk about us disrespecting his legacy?
Motherfucker the only one disrespecting your legacy is you.
Is it our fault you decided to go back on your word? Didn't you retire because wrestling' too dangerous? Because you're a family man now? Obviously your family isn't as important to you as making sure you stay even the slightest bit relevant even if that relevance comes from you being a scummy piece of shit who's willing to use his family for sympathy. Who can't keep his word. But you're the good guy, right Jeff? The Pride are the mean bullies disrespecting you?
Is it our fault you're so scared of us you're retreating into recreating Star Wars instead of actually talking about our wrestling match like a man with a set of working testicles between his legs? What's up with that, man? Are you so scared of taking this shit seriously out of fear of losing that you make it all into one big joke to save face? Do you see Ethan parodying Pulp Fiction? Nah, you don't and guess what? That dude's a fuckin champ.
You were. Keyword, were.
You aren't.
This is wrestling.
Ethan is a wrestler.
You're a fuckin jester dude, hiding up in your castle made entirely of your past conquests.
Talk about a fuckin glass house.
What is it Jeff? Are you so afraid of fading away, of confronting the fact that you just don't have it in you anymore that you're willing to throw away what credibility your career has left until the only thing people remember is a monumental losing streak the likes of which makes 2016 Steve Orbit look like Joey Flash? Are you afraid that people will forget you that you're ready and able to make sure the sight of your broken body is permanently etched into every wrestling fan's memory?
Is that your goal? Is your endgame that pessimistic? That desperate?
Shit, desperation ought to be the name of your whole fucking trio. Three dudes stuck in the past, desperate for a return to those days that are long gone, only existing in their memories. Desperate for attention. Desperate for validation. Three guys stuck in the middle of an existential crisis screaming at the WCF fans, begging, pleading for them to just tell them they're good.
They're hungrier for them props than fuckin rookies.
Us rooks don't want them props though. We want that gold. That shine. That shit you fucking wash-ups already gorged yourself on already. You don't want to win this tournament, you just want to be told you could. You don't want to hear that condescending bullshit like "oh if they were in their prime they'd win that shit no problem".
You want to be good enough.
But you aren't.
Not anymore.
Then, bringing up the rear we have the last demon: Polar Phantasm. The bone-thin abomination in worn, tattered clothing. Hands calloused from constant, vigorous circle-jerking. Eyes rolled back into his head so he'll never take his eyes off the past. So he'll never look ahead and see the current landscape. I mean talk about stuck in the past. Phantasm has such a fuckin boner for his glory days he can't go fifteen seconds without dropping a call-back. Newsflash dude, there isn't a soul around who cares in the slightest.
His mouth is sewn shut since he can't be bothered to say anything of relevance. You'd think that Purse's Star Wars rant was a straight up sit down interview discussing the match compared to Phantasm's inanity. I hate to come off as condescending to people much more experienced than me but Jesus Christ guys, it ain't like you goths put too much thought into it. I mean Orbit's just been crying about us being generic but at least he's saying something. Come on P-dawg, flex those fuckin vocal chords and join in on the screaming too.
We're generic! Oh so generic!
Tiff's gay and we're just fuckin generic!
Come on P, it's fun.
It's insane how these three are the obligatory "legends" team in this tourney. Though I guess in a way it really isn't. They're the logical conclusion of shit like that. Self-obsessed to the point of willful ignorance, egos more inflated than the fuckin Zimbabwean economy, records looking like Dag Riddik crossed with Adam Young. Only able to survive on technicalities.
But these guys aren't the only team we're facing. Nah, we got the badass team of Cathy Fitch, Snake Venom, and Bad News Benson.
Yeah, that Bad News Benson. The same dude the Pride ran over in our debut. The guy we fucked up and left strewn across the ring. I know, I know; that ain't much of an accomplishment. Everyone's done that shit but hey it's relevant now. Cuz while we don't have dat Griffin boy anymore, we got certified BAMF Tiffany White as our third. If you thought you got fucked up the first time bro, you ain't felt nothing yet.
And fuck me man they got a goddamn reptilian on their team. Y'all didn't want to believe me but Jesus Christ look at the "Sadistic Snake" Venom. Dude's straight up one of them lizard people trying to infiltrate the world of wrestling. He's got the name, obviously trying for that refuge in audacity bullshit, like no reptilian would bring attention to it via their name. That'd be like Satan taking the form of a human and calling himself Lou Cipher. That's like Ben Linus' name literally having the word lie in it. That's like the Zodiac Killer running for president on levels of why the fuck would you expose yourself like that.
But look at him. He's a fuckin alien trying to adopt human wrestling culture. Like two dudes who are good friends must be gay and shit cuz he's a fucking generic cunt. I know I got on Orbit for being the boy who cried generic but just look at this dude. He's a "sadistic" wrestler who uses snake motifs. He shares a name with a fuckin Spider-Man villain. Shit, someone get Tobey Maguire on the case.
I give you a three out of ten for the effort reptile man. You just weren't audacious enough, I think everyone can you're nothing but an alien trying to play a part. But at least you're an actual reptile person unlike Dragon Clan who claimed to be from fuckin Jupiter or some shit. Yeah I may believe some shit that seems out there but that was just straight up dumb. Ain't ever gonna catch me slipping on some shit like that nosiree you can count on that. I'll just be steady telling the truth and bringing the facts while silly aliens like SADistic Snek Venum speculate on my sexuality like it ain't already obvious I'm the reason that bow legged motherfucker Ethan walks the way he does.
Shit bro, even Dagvald "NIGGER" Riddik ain't that desperate for some 'a dat heat.
Try harder mister Snek man.
Then we got the most talented member out of those three: Cathy Fitch. Yeah, she's the most talented by far but looking at the other two is that really a fuckin accomplishment? That sounds about on par with being the prettiest person in the Burn unit, or maybe the best Jame Gumb impersonator not named Katherine Phoenix (RIP Kat, you crazy teddy bear flower power chuck you), ooh or maybe the least underwhelming member of the Unstable Pimplements.
Congrats, Cathy, you're the Steve Orbit of your team. Not the vintage, classic Steve Orbit. The 2016, gets shit on by Logan on the reg Steve Orbit. But unlike Steve Orbit, you don't even have anything to fall back on. Your greatest hit so far was managing to drag Snekboy McReptiledysfunction and Bad News Benson across the finish line against everyone's favorite to get rekt in round one: The Young Family. The only team capable of making The Family not the worst stable to have the word "Family" in it. That's your legacy. Shit, you're already making the team of "legends" look fuckin legendary so I guess you guys are accomplishing something.
Come at us, all six of you. Aim right at our heads, line up those shots perfectly, shoot to fuckin kill. It doesn't matter when all you're shooting are blanks. Loud ass bark with no bite to back it up. Hoping to scare us into submission with your big dog posturing when this whole trio has made its name on being the underdogs.
We aren't gonna stop now. Nah, far from it. We're just getting started while the Unstable Pimplements are showing signs of wear. The wheels are falling off of them. Putting any money into fixing them is more than they're worth at this point.
Meanwhile team Bad Snekfriends is on some factory recall shit. Put together improperly. It hasn't been announced yet since it's cheaper to settle on an individual basis.
Team White Pride (ughhhhhhh) is a well-oiled machine though. We're the ones who'll run through all six of them and look good doing it. We don't have to deal with rust. We haven't had to patch ourselves up yet.
We've proven we can actually go.
It's the logical conclusion, my dudes.
We win.
And that's the truth.
