"A Conversation With God"

[Wade Moor]

Part I: RE/BIRTH

A grouping of silver wisps passed by the limited consciousness it possessed, its hand metaphorically reaching out towards them. As it thought about coming into contact, they seemed to come towards it instead, filling it up as a hazy vision appeared before it's minds eye. Each one different than the last, shattered, distant memories.

Some made it feel melancholy.

Some made it feel anxious.

Some made it feel hopelessness.

Then they were all washed away, replaced instead with a controlled frenzy and anger, ready to unleash it on it's unwitting victims.

Oh how it couldn't wait, how it wanted out so badly. But it waited, patiently scrubbing every weakening part of it's psyche until nothing was left but to come.

And come it will, it's children, there will be no stopping it.

Then it happened.

A

L I G H T

A

R E / B I R T H

A screech of triumph and Godnilla had come again.
_____________________________________-_____________________________________________

Part II: A Conversation With God

The static gives way to a slow black hole overtaking the screen, that inhuman screech is heard once more before the distortion gives way completely. The Leviathan, Wade Moor, sits before the camera in an open floral shirt, a #BeachKrewTheon shirt underneath. His usually dirty and matted hair is cleaned and pulled backwards into a fine ponytail, a number of deep blue dreads woven in, his whiskers trimmed. An expensive leather fedora sits askew on the top of his head, pulling the outfit together in some kind of faux-polish.

He cracks his neck before positioning himself in his seat, resting his hand on his knee. He tips his head down and stares at slits through the camera, which zooms out and refocuses on the other man in the room, Hank Brown. Hank looks visibly uncomfortable, though the wrestlers he has regularly scheduled interviews with typically descend into beating his ass into the ground. He never has a reason for why he continues to allow it. 'Maybe I'm a glutton for punishment', he thinks to himself. He shudders as he realizes the small chub growing underneath his cheap, unpressed suit. Putting his restless thoughts away, he returns to the business as the hand. His hands fold together in a temple atop his notebook, praying to Harambe above to forgive him his most heinous transgressions, before realizing that H-Bomb hisself was a man killer and didn't give a fuck all the same. Hank coughed, looked towards Wade Moor - who himself looked deep in thought - before beginning his opening statement.

“Wade Moor, GodNilla, The Leviathan”, Hank Brown started, his most professional of tenor coming through in his moment of superlative fright, “A man of many names, as it is, and a wash list of accomplishments to boot. Former WCF's World Heavyweight Champion, main event of One, runner up in WAR, Hellimination Tournament Winner, Stable of the Year...the list goes on and on. You're one who has certainly earned his spot in this company and the weight your name carries with it...”

Wade laughs from deep within his gullet as Hank continues on. Noticing the change in aura from Hank, he quickly changes the focus to Wade, being the enlightened reporter that he was.

“Is there something you want to say, Wade?” Hank asks, that professional tenor going to an alto in a right said minute.

“You obviously had a very prepared opening statement, Mr. Brown”, Wade says, that Godnilla accent running deep through his forked tongue, “I applaud you, truly, I do. You're very professional, Hank, and very brave to come all the way out here to meet me for this interview. Have you recorded your disclaimer already, 'what you see here may disturb you' kind of stuff? A little advice: You might want to get on that, because what you see here will indeed shift your insides. Indeed they will.”

Hank gulps a boulder down his throat, cold sweat now running down his forehead as he catches a hint of sea salt and blunt smoke on Wade's breath. He scratches his chin furiously as the urge overtakes him. Wade laughs, continuing on.

“What did you come here for, Hank? Did you come to get the 'inside scoop'?”, Wade folds his hand as a beggar, motioning toward Hank Brown, “Oh, where have you been Wade? Why were you gone Wade? What are you doing with Pantheon Wade?”

Wade sneers, tilting the hat on his head before raising a finger gun to his temple.

“You'll get your story, that I promise you, but it may not be the one you want to hear”, Wade returns to his original position, but holds his hand out towards Hank, “Give me your hand, Hank.”

Hank chillingly reaches his hand towards Wade, as if he has no choice but to obey him.

“Look at my hands and you know that these hands have done things. Some things that you mentioned before, various achievements and accolades, other things that you have carefully withheld, stricken from the record so as not to cause panic among the plebeians. It seems you don't want them to know that there is a God in the rat's nest, the Pied Piper leading them all to their timely deaths. Then you look into my eyes, and you know that it's true.”

Hank quickly withdraws his hand as his face turns a pale shade of pink. He fidgets with his notes for a moment before letting them slide to his feet, putting the interview entirely in the hands of Wade Moor.

“Are you threatening the WCF roster, Moor?” Hank asks, his voice digressing back to it's beta tenor.

Wade laughs again, pursing his lips.

“From the moment #BeachKrew reformulated under that #Pantheon Jolly Roger, the roster couldn't help to pull out their tin foil hats and cry conspiracy. 'Oh, they're here to ruin our good time. The darkest of days have returned once more!'” Wade cried in the best beta impression he could muster, “It turns out they were correct in their assumptions, and you know that I've never made an idol threat, Hank. Everything I've ever said I would do, I've followed through, and that much is true. I'm a Prophet, a Indicant of the End Times. I'm no Messiah, I'm the gnashing of teeth, Hank. This roster is unequivocally and indisputably fucked, that I can assure you. The Darkest of Days are upon them again, and this time it's taken form of Earth's Mightiest Wrestling Stable. #BeachKrewTheon is going to break you in half, make you fucking humble. #OfficialFuckingBowDownPlebeians

“These so called men...men like Teddy Blaze are the hardest of perpetuates the WCF has ever seen. These are the men that perpetuate spearheading this quelling of the uprising, one of the King Rats...but he himself has admitted to being nothing more than a follower. You see, back when Teddy had a pair between his legs, he went by the name of Teo Del Sol. That...that was a name that would carry some weight behind it. One of the longest reigns as People's Champion, tertiary as it is, and a biased fan popularity contest that dooms men like me to fail.

“You see, people like Teo Del Sol, he represented a beautiful lie...but I represent the ugly truth. But people, they don't want to hear the truth, no no...they want to continue chasing that beautiful lie. It's easier somehow, having hope. Teo carried weight, but Teddy is nothing more than that truth, and that truth is rearing it's ugly, rotted, filth laden head as I live and breathe. You wait long enough, and the truth always comes out.

“Teo, if you're in there, I want you to listen to me. I want you to listen to GodNilla speak and tell you the truth. You finally took off the mask, and I don't mean the white and gold piece of shit you snatched out of the bargain bin at that beaner flea market way back when. I mean the one you'd been wearing when you decided Teddy Blaze just wasn't enough to make it in this cutthroat world. Teddy Blaze was, for all intents and purposes, a dead man.

“That's when Teo Del Sol was born, the man of the people, the masked avenger, a superhero that every small child could look up to and aspire to be. You lead The People's Choice to elusive victory, one after the other. You overcame the odds, time and time again, and those children were correct to believe in their champion, drink in the hope in large swallows. They couldn't have enough of Teo Del Sol. You were finally over, you were finally in a respectable position

“But you did what people like you tend to do in these situations...you grew bored. You looked around at those children sporting their bargain bin masks, holding up those custom People's Championship belts, cheering your name...and you began to despise your self for it. The thing about people like you is you want and want, but enough can never be enough. You shed Teo, and became Teddy Blaze once more...but the problem was he was dead on arrival. You had already snuffed that miserable life out because you knew you couldn't hack it against the truly great, the Nilla's with the real power.

“The heat you garner is resonant with a cup of temperature controlled coffee. Toasty, but still enough to gulp it down. The kids can still only see Teo, their hero making a total mockery of himself, irreparably damaging any credibility he may have earned as a champion of the people...All for a pair of cheap red sunglasses and a continuance of where you once were. Now you're still another tertiary champion, waiting for somebody with a modicum of real talent to come and rip it all away from you.

“That someone will be #BeachKrewTheon, Teddy. We're here to invalidate all of your beliefs, that you're some great champion, that you're the baddest motherfucker on the block. I'll knock those two dollar sunglasses off your punk mug and into the abyss...and you along with it, just for good measure. These aren't empty words, like everything Teo was and stood for. You recognize yourself that you haven't actually beaten me, and you never, ever will. Gif this shit, Teddy. You'll probably get one million likes before I'm finished knocking your head off your shoulders. Have fun plundering the mid card you waste of skin.”

Hank's anxiety seemed to be dwindling. He was drinking in the truth for once in his life, pouring straight from the mouth of GodNilla. Holy Body Shots – but don't tell Tom O Cock because Hank thinks that fool has a drinking problem.

“Now that we have the fact that you embody every typical and negative Native American stereotype there has ever been, we can get down to the real meat and potatos here, and the reason why this match will be storied and one of the greatest of your bright career so far...uhh, actually, just kidding. You're a plebeian whose career has been meandering from the get go. Night after night of getting #beachbodied by men that are more daring and hungrier than you are night wolf.

“You want to talk about how you're about to take off and become a house hold name by barely becoming Tag Team Champion. The only reason you're Tag champion is because Seth Lerch hates black men more than rain dancing bow benders. #RIPBIGHARAMBTRAIN lest we forget. He was too beautiful for this world, when that kid fell into his enclosure and the zookeeper put a cap in his dome. Even in captivity he wasn't safe.

“You want to boast about your three eliminations in WAR? I did that in lieu of almost winning, only to capture the World Championship a few weeks later just because I wanted to. That's what real motherfuckers are doing out here in these streets while you drink your nights away on a bottle of cheap Wild Turkey while plotting out ways to get in to Serujah's snatch – spoiler: it isn't gonna happen. Might as well raise the gun to your head now and pull the trigger bitch, because this match is essentially assisted suicide.

'What the fuck are you even doing here, Tom? Don't you have a starving reservation to attend to? You do live in a trailer, correct? Is Seth paying you in fucking beads? Even my bank account is generous and I haven't even been an active member of the roster in near on four months. Generation after generation, yet you all remain so stupid, so blind to your plight. Falling to the same demons time and time again. Gambling. Drugs. Alcohol. That's what I call a lazy Sunday, but somehow that shit controls your life. Here's a hint: if you call it a problem, you should probably fucking quit.

“That's what wrestling is for you – a problem. You can't seem to hack it, being carried by someone slightly more talented than you in a tag team doomed to fall to pieces, hardly winning against a team of grease paint faggots while the cream of the crop rises far and above your wildest expectations. You're the warm up before the real one, the guy I kick the living shit out of to let everyone know that I'm back and better than anyone has ever seen me before. How does it feel to know that no matter how hard you try, you'll never rise up to meet the standards set by someone you absolutely deem morally reprehensible yet you fall prey to the dilemmas I'm faced with day after day. Like a candle standing to a Tidal Wave you are, Tom, ready to be snuffed out.”

Hank was living the truth that Godnilla was spitting now, cracking his knuckles and clearing his throat. His voice was a deep bravado now, shaking the walls of the room they were inhabiting.

“Do you know now, Hank? I know you can feel it, Godnilla feels everything. I'm a mystic, like I came down from another place entirely to let this world know how badly it fucked up. I'm anti-Promethean, I'm what man created to purge itself from this sickening earth...the Arbiter. This is a fight nobody can win, especially another masked freak without the decency to plunge himself off a cliff.

“You...Captain WCF...you have to be somebody Seth Lerch drunkenly created on WCF TWO KAY SEVENTEEN and thought was a fabulous idea. His fetishism of Japanese wrestling culture and gimps birthed you, a mistake of Lerch's loins. How does it feel to know everybody looks at you as a big joke? These people aren't laughing with you...they're laughing at you, Cap. Trust me, I know the difference, being on both sides of that fence in my lifetime.

“Too bad you're too much of a half wit to realize this, even as I spell it out for you. You came to America hoping for an opportunity and you found one. You happened to fit the mold Seth was chiseling out for himself. A loveable goof who wasn't afraid to make a big joke out of himself. Sure, you've gotten opportunities, you've won a championship...but the day will come when Seth looks at you with nothing but disgust. He realizes the hunchback he drunkenly consummated and wants nothing more than to lock you away in the attic to starve along with his other illegitimate children.

“You know, you remind of somebody I used to know and mentor. He was a good kid waiting for a bad influence, an indefinite quantity of talent, a little bit of a queer. We found each other, and for a while we needed each other...until I didn't anymore. His little support movement made me sick. I wanted to rip his blonde locks from his head and shove them down his throat. He was trying to change this world for the better, and that I couldn't abide. I couldn't abide him living a false dr3am.

“You can't make this world a better place, Cap. You can't just beavlieve the worlds problems away...you have to stomp them into the ground, rub the peoples face in them, that's the only way they'll learn from their mistakes. Why do you even care, you're another one of this worlds adulterine creations, just like me. Come with me, come with me Captain...so I can take you and put you out of your slothful misery, and I'll be only one doing you a kindness.”

Hank's eyes shined as he watched The Leviathan speak, drinking in every word as lifeblood.

“And why join Pantheon, Wade?” Hank asks his new God, “With the success that #BeachKrew has found on it's own, this tactic has been looked upon with a mass of criticism.”

Wade laughs devilishly, his cool blue eyes flaring a deep shade of red, but only for a moment.

“Hank...every God has his Dissenters. My actions will explain themselves...when the time is right. That you can count on.”

Hank joins Wade's laugh, feeling his intentions deep within the darkest part of his soul.

“Thank you, Wade Moor, Godnilla. Thank you, thank you. I'm Hank Brown from your #OfficialFuckingBowDownPlebieans.”

The scene fades out into that haze of static once more.