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[6ix God]

Oh the Shark has such pretty teeth, dear
And he shows them pearly white
Just a jackknife has Jared, dear
And he keeps it out of sight

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Heya WCF. You’ve changed a lot since I’ve gone – in fact, at this point I can hardly recognize you. What was once a luscious and full roster with talent and wit and charisma has become a pockmarked series of blemishes and scars. Where you were once full of life and win there is now only fail and cancer. You eye me suspiciously when you were once my bride to be – I’m sorry you decided to cheat on me with that nasty faggot Logan before we could consummate our relationship, but you can’t fault me for being pissed out. Just imagine if I stumbled in smelling like that whore UCI (okay, we did have a one-night thing).

But enough waxing – there’s enough new eyes on this roster, enough of my name in the mouths of bitches, and enough dumb fuccbois that we better give the re-up. So please allow me to introduce myself, I’m a man of wealth and taste.

My name is Jared Holmes. I’m twenty-four years old, and I have more money than you’ll ever see in your life. I live in many places – Brooklyn, Los Angeles, San Diego, Majorca, Genoa. The beauty of having the amount of money that I do is I never have to stay anywhere too long. Really, that’s been the modus operandi of my whole life – keep moving, keep climbing, keep eating.

I was born Edward Jared Holmes, Jr. I’m named after my father, a nasty little Jew who works as an executive for Paramount Pictures. He separated from my mother when I was nine because he decided he’d rather fuck the negress gold diggers who hang out around the valet parking for the Graystone Manor. Rather than deal with raising me, he sent me to a private boarding high school. I was captain of the soccer team, head of my class, and probably knocked up a third of the girls. What can I say – I’ve been winning since a young age.

In fact, that’s been my entire life: success with minimal effort. I was the Golden Boy since the moment I hit the bedpan. Teachers loved me, guys wanted to be me, girls wanted to fuck, and the weirdos who wear all black and chainsmoke Djarums behind the gym all had me at the top of their “Kill List”. I entered Tulane without writing an entrance exam because a check from my father says more than 500 words ever could. I was immediately chosen for Alpha Beta Psi. I was on track to graduate with honors before deciding to drop out. Literally everything I could ever desire, I’ve been able to get and do in minimal time.

That’s not to say it was all my hard work – I’m a director; a visionary. This is why people flock to me: I can see the whole picture. I don’t want to waste a Wednesday night writing a dissertation on Keynesian Theory? I roll that onto Wade in exchange for a bitch rolling onto him. You need your Molly pure? I know a guy who knows a guy – not that you’ll ever know; you’ll just know I can score the best drugs. I’m the motherfucking General. It doesn’t matter what I do: it’s what others around me do at my instruction. 

And with that said, allow me to describe my career to you.

I rolled into this company leading a group of idiots raising a Jolly Roger flag with a shuttershades-wearing Satanic Goat. This was the first image anyone had of us: *insert pose here*. And what did I do with a fat bastard, a UNIQLO nigger, a creepy Slovenian, a chubby bookworm, and a privileged wigger? I made this company my fucking bitch. Pantheon? Discredited and destroyed. The Dark Riders Gang? Their balls curled up under the skin. The Angels of Destruction? We let their retarded leader pal around with us for a few months, watching him proudly wear the humiliating moniker of “ObliSEAon” before we reduced him to a meme and ruined his credibility for lulz. I recruited Kyle Kemp and Dustin Beaver. I led a team into WAR and connived my way into the record books a year before Thievin’ Stephen. I led the front lines and called the shots the night Wade Moor captured the World Title. I assembled the Hellimination team and stood alone in victory when the dust settled. WCF under my direction? I meddled XIII into being the best drawing into the history of the Pay-Per-View. Take note, Archer: this is what a Magnificent Bastard looks like. Even when I don’t win, I fucking win. My mark is ubiquitous. My touch is golden. Everything is better with my association.

Whose couch was Katherine Phoenix sleeping on when she became Hardcore Champion? Whose locker room did Beaver kick it in when he ruined Andre Homes’s New Years? Who was Joey Flash having weekly dinners with when he bodied Price? I am always on the peripheries. I don’t need to lead #Pantheon: I make #Pantheon happen. Who the fuck do you think made the calls and slipped the envelopes of cash – Joey Flash? While you guys were bitching about “Keyboard Cunts” not participating in WAR, I was adding the finishing touches to a masterpiece. That’s my job: I make things happen. I’m the artist, and you are always looking at my work.

Of course, I can do things from the frontlines when I need.

I walked into the Trilogy Cup with competitors consisting of Dune, Sarah Twilight, Benjamin Atreyu, and Chance von Crank. I had one easy, simple plan: meet Kyle Kemp in the finals. I rigged the entire tournament in my favor. Who do you think sicc’d Rabid on Dune? Who then instructed Rabid to distract Chance von Crank? Who attacked Tiffani White and Occulo before their matches? And that’s just to get Kyle Kemp to the finals. On my end? I absolutely humiliated Sarah Twilight in the ring. The Six God went to blows with the Mad God and rose as the only one in the pantheon (geddit? That’s a pun). I forged my own path, leaving bodies in my wake. To prove I could. To send the message I needed to send.

Have you been paying attention?

In the Trios Tournament’s first round, I lead what would have been the best team in the history of this company through the Dark Riders Gang. I was able to convince a man like Flash to take up a moniker as stupid as “Joey Splash” and team with a nobody like Andre Aquarius. Remember this, folks, before you turn to your bloviating Southern mountain, that I’ve now kicked his head in twice for fun: once in WAR and once in Trios.

Then, I suppose we have to discuss Mexico, don’t we?

Here’s my little secret: I abducted everyone. That flash of light? That nuclear apocalypse sending half the roster scurrying to Chicago to seek shelter in the arms of an idiot like Spencer Adams? I orchestrated the whole thing. It was one big Rube Goldberg machine designed to see what would happen. For a fucking laugh. I even tossed my shot at Number One Contender just to see how people would bend or break. Some rose – others didn’t, but we’ll get to that in time.

What matters now is that I’m back. I’m here to finish the work I started – that I’ve been carrying out from the very beginning. The Prophecy is at hand, #fuccbois, and the Genocide is neigh. I’ve allowed you to rebuild yourselves just so I could burn you to the ground once more. What can I say? Ruining the lives of faggots runs in my family; ask any burnt-out crack slut curled up in a gutter on Sunset that had dreams of stardom before they met my father. And now with my return, I’m going to send my first message by destroying what you hold sacred: I’m going to beat up your little brothers before I end you.

How’s it going Captain WCF? I saw your jaw drop and your eyes get doe-y the moment Joey Flash stepped back into the company. So here’s the man behind the man following in suit and ready to end your short and laughable career in his return match; have you realized your heroes fail you yet?

I know almost nothing about you other than that you’re the new biohazard with none of the “cute” jokes or endearing idiocy. Instead, I suppose you’ve been handed the Tag Titles and are spending your merry time dropping the prestige of the prize like Lance Armstrong ruined the Tour De France. I can’t believe this is what we’re supposed to consider prized talent in the Tag Division today; where the fuck have the Poondock Saints gone?

You embody the WCF for what has become: a fucking joke. A rip-off. A fucking jobber. You have literally been teamed with bioWalker in a match. Let me be the first to say that anything you’ve done at all is purely by the circumstance of me and my boys being gone from the WCF. The moment you had strolled into this company, I’d have kicked you in the dick until you were infertile and shoved you in a dumpster, had I been around. 

On one hand, I should be having a good hearty chuckle that Seth put us into a match this lop-sided: it’s the easiest debut I could make, allows us to murder some folks popular with this “new breed”, and gives us a nice little win over three lackluster champions. It shatters the illusions anyone could have about how things are versus how they were – it’s a demonstration of the domination of the past. On the other hand? I get no satisfaction out of this because I’m here having to go in on two fucking nobody punchlines and a guy I’ve beaten like I adopted him. How the fuck do I show my teeth when I’m thrown a slice of baloney to chew on? How the fuck can I murder a corpse of a career?

I’m all killer, no filler. You and I are not the same – we’re complete inverses. I can’t rip the intestines out of a stuffed bear any more than I can verbally eviscerate Captain WCF: the viscera doesn’t exist to sink my teeth into. And that’s maybe all I need to say – you’re an empty threat. A paper fucking tiger. A cardboard cut-out that I’ve been given and asked to put into the shredder. Wish granted, Seth. Congratulations, I just saved you from a copyright gimmick infringement like the disappearance of Beaver saved #BeachKrew.

Open and shut case. Another #fuccboi murkt. Look upon your loser idols and funny, endearing mascots, WCF. There’s no more fun and games – you stopped running the yard the second we stepped back in. With or without #Pantheon, I’ll body your whole fucking crew; let’s start here.

Behold the 6econd Coming. And say your fucking prayers and watch the skies.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When the Shark bites with his teeth, dear
Scarlet billows start to spread
Fancy gloves wears Jared, dear
So there ain’t no trace of red

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The crowd gathered out from of Holmes Tower in Detroit, cameras raised and arms trembling with nervous excitement. For the past three months, the Tower had been running on a skeleton crew – there were familiar faces for the press such as Boardman Thuggin, Boardwoman Kerrigan, and Chairman Bosstin, but the steady stream of celebrities and high profile names had slowly drawn to a trickle. But today? No, today was a special day. 

A report had come in about the powder blue Lamborghini Murcielago parked out back – that car had become a familiar sight in Detroit a few three months ago. He had been seen on TV again; after three long months of radio silence, Jared Holmes had suddenly stepped out of the shadows as the manager of Joey Flash at WAR. The next week? A booking for Slam. And suddenly the lights in Holmes Tower had begun to stay on a little later than usual. Suddenly over the weekend a stream of expensive cars and people in concealing clothes had been seen talking through the large glass double doors that made up the entrance.

The only person missing was the man of the hour.

That powder blue Murcielago, of course, belonged to a one E. Jared Holmes, Jr., the Founder and Chairman of the Board of the Oblivion Foundation, CEO and Chairman of #BeachKrew LLC. Where Jared Holmes went, so went success – it was a naturally symbiotic relationship. By those lights being on a few hours longer over two days, #BeachKrew stocks had jumped twenty percent, and the city of Detroit had found a new surge of tourism filling its restaurants and casinos in Greek Town. This, of course, is why these people were standing in the rain on a dreary Thursday with cameras in their hands and slick primary colored ponchos draped over their heads and bodies – he could be out at any moment.

When the limousine pulled up out front, they turned and let off a barrage of flash bulbs, every eye desperate for a glimpse of his face behind the tinted windows. It was, of course, the perfect distraction – only a few noticed when the double doors of Holmes Tower opened behind them and Brofessor Coach stepped out clutching an umbrella. I stepped beneath it, flanked by Wade and Jason – the Six God had arrived.

Oh, that’s right, this is all first person.

When a few noticed, they let out screams and wheeled on their feet to snap that hundred dollar picture. I knew they’d be there – more than success, I have a symbiotic relationship with the press: they love me, and I love them. As to be expected of any occasion in which one wants to impress, I was dressed to kill: a slate-colored Mackage jacket with a rabbit fur-lined hood, a KENZO Naga Eye Sweatshirt over an Alexander McQueen regular-fit shirt with an all-over skull pattern of black on white, slim tapered BLK DNM Bedford Gray jeans, and a clean pair of Nike Air Yeezy Red Octobers. Rabid, one far more interested in a more classic vogue, wore a Saks Fifth Avenue Collection solid cashmere two-piece suit with a Eton of Sweden trill dress shirt, To Boot New York Anderson leather Chelsea boots, and a Burberyy textured silk tie. Even Wade who could hardly tell you the difference between a shawl-neck and a pull-over had acquiesced to putting a brush through his fucking hair and wore a Mackage jacket like my own, a Marcelo Burlon Pendleton virgin wool shit with the sort of garish patterns he likes, a Gucci floral print fedora, beige Ralph Lauren solid wool pants, and Salvatore Ferragamo Marrico leather Chelsea boots. Wade and I wore our diamond encrusted #BeachKrew necklaces, Rabid wore a tasteful lapel pin. I’m telling you these details, dear listener, as this is likely the first time you’ve encountered me. I’d like you to take note that our outfits alone cost more than a combined ten thousand dollars. 

I have enough money to buy your family and pay them to swallow bleach.

The flash and strobe of bulbs – the scream of bent and thirsty reporters looking for the next big article – this was a day in the park to me. My security team had already stepped from out of the limo, pushing the masses of dumpy zit-faced hipster wannabes and homely feminist journalists with dry hair to the sides for a path. Still, their forces rained and chattered and screamed and clapped my name in adoration. When the questions came, I could hardly resist.

Journalist: Mister Holmes, #BeachKrew had been wildly succesful based on it's merits alone, which begs the question, why reform Pantheon? What are your intentions?

Jared Holmes: Because I got fucking bored and pissed at my idol and decided I’d rather pound the reset button on this whole world than fight Logan’s fucking carcass at Blast. I dunno, why the fuck do you think I put it aside? Because I had Wade breathing down my neck for beating him with a bat in a parking lot before I wiped him mind and made him my best friend again? Because Dustin Beaver and Kyle Kemp had run out of steam? Because I couldn’t get the fucking smell of Oblivion’s gooch sweat out of the interior of the WINO-bago? I mean, shit, what reasons do you think I have?

But more than anything, I reformed this to drop the heat – even if I don’t have that Slav Thuggin as a smokescreen, I now have a group of arrogant blowhards like Corey Black and Joseph Malignaggi to throw in my way as I complete my task. So you want to know my intention, faggot? To win the title that’s fucking mine! That WCF Title that was mine for the taking before Logan shit the whole thing up.

Because my good friend Joseph Malignaggi asked for my involvement. My stated desire is to simply return to the ring, spread awareness for the good work that the Oblivion Foundation and its subsidiaries do, and perhaps capture a championship belt should I have the opportunity. My ambitions are pure.

A screaming girl pushed her way through the crowd and threw herself at Wade – the big boy I hired from Six Mile intercepted her like Josh Norman and delivered a taser to her kidney. Something in my groin stirred at her anguish; it was a certain magic when a dumb groupie gets traumatically checked.

Reporter: What was your involvement in the Mexico Incident?

Jared Holmes: Is “All Of the Above” an option? If so, that one. For those of you who don’t listen to Coast-To-Coast FM, I totally abducted a shit ton of people. I kept old Joey locked in a stasis chamber basically at my bedside to stare at when I felt down on a rainy day. I mean, granted, there aren’t any rainy days in New Jalaxaritkatusa – it’s literally at the bottom of the sea. But, ya know, metaphors. You want a real question, why not ask me why I let these guys go? Well, all of them besides Eddie Felt; he’s locked in the basement next to this starfish thing Jim gave me. I think it likes him.

My attorney has advised me to remain silent, but I truthfully remember very little. I remember a bright light and woke up back in my apartment in Los Angeles. My fiancée, Thursday Kerrigan, decided it would be beneficial to my mental and physical health if I took a long vacation to Majorca, where I’ve been keeping a low profile ever since.

Wade stepped over the twitching groupie. A tear slid from her eye as she reached up toward him. She would never know the scintillating secrets of his doughy body, much like Teo would never know the embrace of an adult woman that wasn’t his aunt or mother.

Reporter: Is it true you once beat up four juggalos?

Jared Holmes: LOL #BookItSeth. First I’m gonna kill these three faggots – then I’ll body Zero Tolerance like owe me money. Just to prove that ICP was full of shit when they say “Wicked Clowns Never Die.”

Detroit is the place of origin for the Insane Clown Posse and their unfairly maligned fans. I’m not crazy about it, but the kids seem to like it. I’d never physically attack another human being for a difference in fashion or music preference. I also think the FBI is on a silly little witch hunt by trying to designate them as a gang.

Reporter: On the contrary, we heard you’re opening the “Juggaloz with Jreamz Society”. Can you validate these rumors.

Jared Holmes: No comment.

The door of the limousine was open – inside, I could see Thursday had already uncorked the first bottle of champagne and was cutting up the first few lines. Dumb bitch needs to work on the subtlety. I shoved Wade forward into the door, blocking the view of any curious eyes, and Rabid took the hint. Before stepping in, I turned for one last wave, one last photo op, and one last question.

Reporter: Theodore Pierce: suicidal son driven to death’s door by his father’s inadequacy in life and in the ring or murder victim of a father unable to be good at anything accept botching?

Jared Holmes: My theory is both: Grayson left a bunch of marbles in the crib, and the kid gobbled them up like a game of Hungry Hungry Hippos so he’d suffer no more.

Shame on you.

As I ducked into the limo and pulled the door shut behind me, I let the stifled laugh out. Wade had already rolled a dollar bill and raised the mirror to his face, snorting one of three fat lines of Katherine Phoenix* that Thursday had prepared. (*For those curious, cocaine can be referred to by the name of any Caucasian woman. I like to refer to my coke as poor little Katherine as she was the first woman who ever sucked my dick from behind. Not that Thursday wouldn’t – I just hadn’t thought to ask). Jason doesn’t “do drugs” – he sat contended with a single glass of champagne as Wade handed the mirror off to me. Of course, I can’t just do my coke – I scraped my line off the mirror and Thursday’s collar bone before handing her the mirror. After ingesting the line nasally, I licked the residual powder from her skin. I could smell her cunt go damp immediately. As she busied herself with her drugs, trying not to stroke my dick through my pants right in the limousine in front of my companions, I turned to my brothers in arms.

Wade had the big goopy smile he often wore during our “bro sessions”. Jason, naturally, was more collected and serious. He was never much fun – I never liked him much, if at all. Okay, I fucking hated him; but he was useful. 

Wade Moor: Feels just like old times.

I nodded. It was nothing like “old times” – old times consisted of Rabid and I trying to kill one another, Andre being black, and Hunter dressed like the Pope. This wasn’t “Old Times”: it was my time.

Jared Holmes: Sure does, huh? Christ, I even got our theme remixed. It’ll be a blast from the past. Hellimination once more.

Wade Moor: Hell yeah BOI. Now pass me dat Sarah Twilight.

I handed the mirror from Thursday to Wade. Rabid took a sip of his champagne coolly – I’m just glad he didn’t have that sneer on his dumpy Limey face.

Johnny Rabid: Yes, I suppose it is, isn’t it? And what of you, Jared? What do you make of this match?

I shrugged.

Jared Holmes: Teddy Blaze, Captain WCF, and Tom-O-Hawk. Should be a challenge.

Johnny Rabid: Only the stiffest of competition for us.

Jared Holmes: All three are champions.

Johnny Rabid: Prestigious champions in a match which favors their styles.

When the clamor of the car died, Rabid turned back to me.

Johnny Rabid: So. We made your appearance. I suppose you believe you’re pulling the string, charting the course, et cetera. Where from here?

A twinge of red flashed before my eyes – the color blurred my vision in time with the faint smirk on Rabid’s lips. I wouldn’t allow the greasy little faggot to undercut me. Not here. Not now.

Jared Holmes: Los Angeles. We have dinner at N/Naka then make an appearance at the Edison for the end of the evening. I understand you’ll likely depart after dinner?

Jason shook his head. His shitty blond streak flapped against his face.

Johnny Rabid: I’ll make a short appearance – the moment ought to be seized. Let our enemies see us united on the cover of magazines, even if this has never been my preferred lifestyle. I’ll be there for a picture, shake a few hands, and leave. But before we depart Los Angeles, I need to speak with you in private. Is that agreeable?

I nodded. I could only imagine what Rabid would want to say to me in private – perhaps he finally wants to come out and ask to poke my dick. 

Jared Holmes: Of course.

The limousine fell silent, save the gentle beating of the music. Beyond the tinted windows of the limousine, the sidewalks of Downtown Detroit had filled with people shoving to get a peak at our passing. A faint smile crept over Rabid’s lips.

Johnny Rabid: Nothing has changed. The people are still addicted to us. You’ll have to forgive me if I may withdraw myself from such publicity in the future.

This was Jason’s style. He was flashy in the ring, but outside he preferred to be left to his own devices. I don’t blame him – we all have our ways of keeping our secrets.

Jared Holmes: Yeah, I get it. Hard to dodge that sort of attention right after the reformation of Earth’s Mightiest Wrestling Stable.

Johnny Rabid: I have my ways.

The pungent smell of weed hit my nose as I turned my head, finding the source of Wade’s uncommon silence to be the bowl he’d finished packing and just lit.

Wade Moor: Anyone wanna toke?

I accepted the pipe, lifting it to my lips to take a long drag. Turning to Thursday, I placed my lips against hers and blew the smoke into her eagerly awaiting mouth. When finished, I handed the glass pipe back to Wade. The gang was all here. It didn’t matter if #BeachKrew had been proverbially devoured by #Pantheon – we existed still. Our plans were still in motion. The #fuccboigenocide continued. If I was being honest with myself, the three men in the limousine right now were the only three who had ever mattered. It was the cream of our crop against the chaff of WCF. Even in disarray, we were the tallest kids on the playground. Even divided by petty differences, we stood strong and united.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

On a sidewalk, Sunday evening'
Lies a body just oozin’ life
And someone’s sneaking around the corner
Could that someone be Holmes the Knife?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

That could be it. Shoot over, Tom-O-Hawk is fucking buried. Go home, guys, this match is called.

Nah, you aren’t getting off the hook that easy. 

Know what’s the most frustrating thing about facing you, Tommy Boy? It’s not your strength, speed, or anything you could think gives you an advantage: it’s that you fucking suck. I’ve spent half my day on a beach, doing nothing but sipping Coronas and watching your promos. I know literally everything there is to know about you: how you starved, how you fought, how you showed up on that stupid ESPN list (ESPN is the TMZ of sports, btw), how you bought yourself a nice double-wide, and how you like to pal around with Johnny Depp. And the worst thing about this?

I still can’t think of anything worth saying about you.

I don’t need to shred you – I’m better than you. I’m better in any conceivable way your little mystic mojo Cherokee mind could think up. I could spend this whole shoot making jokes where I keep changing which tribe you belong to (which I will do), or I could actually tear out your heart like an Aztec sacrifice and watch you bleed. But fuck it, I feel like cracking my knuckles. So watch a learn what a real scalping looks like, Crazy Horse.

You. Fucking. Suck.

Your belt and accomplishments are laughable. You’re a fucking idiot – the brute of this group who is all brawn and no brains to be thrown in front of Teddy Blaze and prevent him from eating the pin. In your own tag team, you are the worst of two. In a three man team also consisting of Teddy Blaze, you are still the worst. You are the worst champion in this federation by a mile, worse than even Gemini Battle and CJ Phoenix. You don’t have to smoke your sacred herbs or consult the local shaman to get that answer; just look in your fucking reflecting pool.

Before this match, you’ll call up to God for the strength to overcome.

God has heard your request. And my response is “Fuck no”.

If you’re as smart as you think, how could you be so manipulated and taken advantage of by white men on a regular basis? My kind has a lengthy history of subverting your kind, turning you into walking sideshow attractions, and yucking it up. Don’t follow me? Well what the fuck did Wayne Hammond do to you?

Yeah, your mentor? Your trainer? The “only white man you trust”? He screwed you worse than anyone. You starved. You were stealing cars, risking your freedom against the chances of getting caught, so you could show up at your next gig and work for bread money to have a hot meal. You blamed one man: Seth Lerch. Turns out ol’ Sethykins didn’t even need to fuck you; turns out any white guy can gain your trust, go behind your back to manipulate your savings due to an arbitrary decision, then pass it off with some bullshit story about “making you stronger” and you’ll cry like you just saw the Ghost Dance or heard “Indian Sunset” by Elton John. How can I tell you’re retarded? Because if I were you, the first thing I’d have done with that Pontiac Chieftain was run that gimpy faggot Freezer Burn down.

Too bad you’re not getting this idea until now; I’m going to leave you in the fucking hospital, unable to ingest solid food for a week, let alone drive a vehicle.

Let’s cut to the chase: we’re coming for that gold on your waist. We’re going to take it because we want it and we can. Your time was fucking clocked the second we walked back into this company; I’m gonna leave you sprawled out like a drunken Ogalala Lakota in Whiteclay, Nebraska. This isn’t Wounded Knee: this is the flipping of Little Big Horn. General Armstrong Holmes is about to revise history and finish a genocide of an inferior savage people, starting with you, Squatting Dog.

You are Sitting Bull. What I mean by that is you’ve got this delusion that you’re an honorable Injun while you’re really a trotted-out mascot for public amusement. The Nobel Savage, Chief Tom-O-Hawk. Just like Sitting Bull realized he was fucked and joined Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show, you’re little more than an empty attraction fighting lop-sided squash matches for the white man. You’re a sell out who can spin it anyway he wants: John the Savage sitting in his lighthouse for the people to gawk at. I’m going to put you out of your misery; the exhibit it closing.

By the way, as a multi-millionaire working on his first independent billion, I thought I’d give you some financial advice for the future. After all, when I cripple you for your belt, you’ll need a far less paying, more suitable to your skill set job – such as Arby’s fry-cook or child’s birthday party Injun. Maybe a ride operator for Big Thunder Mountain at Disneyland. Here’s my advice for your future career and financial security:

1) Change your stupid fucking name to something normal like Adam, Paul, or Tyler

2) Stop spending all your bread on fire water

3) Stop hanging out with sluts like Serujah and creeps like Wayne.

I’m not going to lie, I’ve got a half-chub for this beating. Shit, it may even get me as excited as that video of the cops racially profiling and patting you down. I dunno, something about watching a minority loser who thinks they have dignity getting humiliated gets me off – I may even jerk off to it later, like the creepy audience who actually watched Serujah promos.  Back to the reservation with you. 

Squaaaaaaaaaw Gettum Firewood.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

From a tugboat down by the river
Lays a cement bag just dropping down
That cement’s there for the weight, dear
I’ll get you ten ol’ Holmes is back in town

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The dinner at N/Naka was excellent. Completely to standards, save the crab rangoo. Before we departed for the Edison, Thursday and I snuck into the alleyway behind the restaurant to exchange tabs of LSD. She giggled as I placed the two stamps on my tongue, gripping her behind the head to pull her in for a long kiss. Her tongue swiped one of the stamps from mine, tucking it beneath as she moaned into my mouth and clawed hungrily at my back. Soon, we were lost in the moment of frantic lust – we hardly noticed the sound of the backdoor to the restaurant opening and the sound of cheap rubber soles upon the pavement.

Fuccboi: What the fuck are you two doing?! Are you two – damnit I’ll call the police.

Even with my pants down, I could easily draw the snub nose revolver from my belt. As I dragged the barrel up Thursday’s uncovered stomach, my jacket concealing the heater from the on-looking man, her abs and cunt tightened in excitement. I turned to look at the person who’d interrupted us: a balding, middle-age man in a white dinner jacket with a black bow-tie. His face was creased with age – considering the property values in Los Angeles, he had to slave several hours at this humiliating little service gig just to keep the lights on. He had a brass band on his left index finger – he was a husband, but was he a father?

Considering I refused to relent the coitus I’d been undertaking, he approached.

Fuccboi: Goddamnit, are you drunk!? Who do you think you are – do you know what this place is, you punk ki – 

When I raised the gun, he froze. His eyes widened as his jaw dropped in silent horror. I wondered what it must be like for a man like this to see God for the first time, staring down the barrel of a .22 aimed at your nose. His hands slowly rose from his sides in surrender as he began to turn for a run. He never made the full motion. My finger curled around the trigger as the gun let off a loud cracked: the shot hit him directly between his big bushy eyebrows. When he fell to the ground, his skull cracked against the pavement with a sickening thud. The red, red kroovy spilled from the exit wound immediately, pouring out of the gaping hole that used to be skull and brains. As he fell, I released into Thursday’s awaiting snatch.

I tossed the revolver on top of the corpse, pocketing the revolver I’d wrapped around the grip and the trigger to cover my fingerprints. When the body was discovered – which would be soon, considering gun shots were uncommon in this neighborhood – the police would grow frustrated with their seeming inability to trace the serial number of the murder weapon to any database. This is what connections, power, and money can afford you.

I pulled out of Thursday, giving her a peck on the lips before lowering her to the ground and pulling my pants back up. As we left to the parking lot, we held hands. When we’d climbed into my Anthracite Blue 2017 Mercedes-Maybach S600, the first scream roll through the parking lot. Another husband dead – maybe another father. The crab rangoo at the place wasn’t nearly as good as it was made out to be; I’d saved an immediately closed room full of dinners a few extra forty bucks.

But the next day in the paper, the police had no leads and were asking for anyone to call in with information. I’d get away – I always do. My whole life had been one effortless success after another; last night I’d killed a man, and Sunday I’d kill three. 

May the Six God have mercy on those who cross his path.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Teddy Blaze, he disappeared babe
After drawing out all his hard-earned cash
And now Holmes spends like a sailor
Could it be our boy’s done something rash?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dear Teddy Blaze,

I’m writing to you today because you deserve a more personal touch than anything I dumb on the losers in your corner this week. Let’s not insult one another: we’re both looking forward to this match. I can already imagine you sitting in the Gymnasium del Sol sorry, you don’t have that anymore, do you? You’ll have to forgive me – I don’t have time to keep up on you or whatever you think is going on with yourself. I suppose everyone thinks they’re the center of their own universe, huh? Not to worry, that’s my job ; ) Being the center of the universe, I mean.

Anyways, I’m losing track here. You’re excited for this match – I’m excited for this match. I’m sure you think this may be the moment to finally give me my comeuppance. Remember how fucking mad you were upon seeing me the first time, when I came back to hype Rabid in the match Bates bitched out of? Shit, I remember it all too well: poor little Teddy Blaze saw me and saw red. And no, it wasn’t because of the red sunglasses (though that would be a funny joke to make at you “in character”). The fact is, Teddy, you’re obsessed with me. You can say that’s changed. You can claim you’ve moved on, and I cling to this idea to stroke my fragile ego. The fact is, you’ve dropped your hand too many times. I see through you, “King of All Media”. I have always seen through you. I’m going to prove it when I beat you again on Sunday, and I watch you cry in the fucking ring.

Yeah, I’m calling it now: you’re going to cry. Everything is going to flood back: the time I grabbed you by the mask to stop you from winning a match, the times I kicked you in the dick, that tag match that completely fell apart in our favor before we devoured you, the taunting of Kyle Kemp, the crushing defeat at the hands of David Sanchez. All of that will hit you as you fall broken in the ring, once more beaten by me, and you question what I have that you can’t figure out. Before you even have this minor meltdown, I’m going to spell it out for you:

I get you. I see what makes you tick, and I can get under your skin like a virus. You can’t do the same to me – you can attempt to throw up a façade of apathy, seriousness, or nonchalance but it will never be your true character. You aren’t as ruthless as you try to be. You’ll never have the killer instinct that people like Sanchez and I have. That’s why we crush you: because we can see through a fucking poser.

You’re an absolute wannabe, Teo. Yes, Teo. You will always be Teo, even if you’ve taken off the mask and put on a pair of red sunglasses. It doesn’t matter how much you drink or what scalding tubs of water you’ve plunged your head into or how many scars you’ve got on your body. You always have been and always will be Teo del Sol, the white luchador who opened a wrestling school in Mexico to help the underprivileged. You will always be the guy who loved signing autographs and taking pictures and doing the Make A Wish Foundation. You suffered a loss of faith; you got cynical and wondered if you needed a change. Rather than realize your own limitations, you decided to try to be something you’re not. That’s what you are now, and that’s why the beating I’m going to deliver you on Sunday will be worse than any beating I’ve ever given you: because you pretend against someone real.

In your cynicism and desire to grow the proverbial beard, you sold out. You fucking idiot, Teo, you proved my exact point about you: the moment life gives you a little too rough of a push, you’ll harden up and try to fight the world. This whole charade of yours? This tough guy persona you try to affect so badly? I spelled it out almost word-for-word over a year ago. And now, here we are. If I knew that kidnapping half the roster and almost burning this company to the ground was all it took to make you snap, I’d have done it two WARs ago. 

Look in the fucking mirror, Teddy. Who’s looking back at you? 

It’ll set in eventually. Suddenly, you’ll realize your uncovered visage is more of a mask than anything you’ve worn in the past. Your hands will come up and you’ll gentle caress the scars and burns and a tear will slide down your cheek as you’ll realize how far you’ve fallen. You’ll remember the times you had in the People’s Choice, when you had legitimate success and adoration. You’ll think of the friendship and comradery and mentorship you once had – none of which you have now. You’ll think of your loneliness – of the bottles by your bedside – of the thinning line of children at your table during autograph signings. And no matter how much you attempt to tell yourself it doesn’t bother you, it’ll keep itching at the back of your head until it’ll destroy you. 

You traded all of this for what – a shot at being something better than the People’s Champ? That’s all you ever fucking were, Teo: a tertiary belt holder. Your Television Title reign was a joke, only lengthened by my apathy towards the belt as anything beyond a rolling tray and coke mirror. Even with this turn of persona, you’re stuck slugging it out with bottom feeders like Gemini Battle, holding an empty accolade and a different tertiary belt, no closer to the main event. 

You’re a fucking sell-out. You’re an actor trying to affect something he isn’t. People don’t change – I’m sure you can see that whenever my face hits the front page of a newspaper, cutting the ribbon of some new homeless shelter or soup kitchen. You know I didn’t wake up one morning magnanimous; you’re probably wondering what sort of dirty money I’m laundering through this one. And that’s why I can look at you, see the scars, see the wrist tape, see the jeans you wear to the ring, see the red glasses, and yet still see a pipsqueak little doofus in a luchador mask with a big dopey smile on his face. 

The levee didn’t break for you, Teddy: you panicked and overreacted. You were bogged down by your own mediocrity, saw your friends disappear, jumped into flight-or-fight mode, and burned the bridge behind you. Maybe, just maybe, this is the sweetest thing of all. One day you’re going to realize that this isn’t you: that Teo del Sol was more Teddy Blaze than Teddy Blaze will ever be. It’ll be during that moment when you stare into the mirror and that tear rolls down your cheek. That tear? It’s when you realize you can never go back. Sometimes when you shatter an illusion, you can’t fool people again – even when you weren’t fooling anyone at all. You’ve codified the “real you” that isn’t the “real you”. People are stupid, Teo; they’ll wonder how they could ever believe a character as good and pure as Teo del Sol could ever exist. How could they be so dumb to not realize you’d end up like this? And none of them will see that you didn’t take off the mask – you put it on. In your pain, you cloistered yourself behind a pair of red glasses and at the bottom of a whiskey bottle.

Not me. I know the real you. I know you’re a fucking bitch in a wolf costume. I know you’re nothing more than silly little twists of whimsy like that ink pack in your wallet or your stupid little gifs and know that the Emperor isn’t wearing any clothes. Was it fucking worth it, Teo? Was your little nobody-cares win for the second WAR in a row to hold onto a belt for jobbers or your new dominant run in a dead division worth compromising your values and failing the kids who look up to you?

I’m writing this letter to tell you I think we should see other nemeses. I’m moving on, Teo: my work here is done. I twisted you in half mentally, snapped you over my knee, and ruined your life. I’ve gave you rope, and you hung yourself in no time at all. On Sunday, I’m going to close the book on the final chapter of this little vendetta of ours: I’m going to stomp you out like a cigarette butt without breaking a sweat just to prove a point. You’re fucked, kid. You’re in over your head, and your allies are the biggest team of losers this side of Philadelphia. I need a challenge: I’m a top-tier challenger who needs a top-tier competitor to give me that. #Pantheon is the cream – I’m done fucking around with the fat. 

You’re not on my level. You never have been. And Teddy Blaze won’t break a trend of Teo del Sol; he’ll only reinforce it. Was it worth it, Teddy? When you realize that you’re as stagnant as always? When you’re still just as weak – if not more so – now? Of course not, you failure.

What the fuck would Hector Habanero say?

Toodles,

E. Jared Holmes, Jr.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sarah Twilight, Salem Shepherd,
Lilith, Tom-O-Hawk, and even ol’ Hank Brown
Yeah the line forms around the corner
Now that Jared Is Back In Town