The Golden Dreams of Yesterday, Today
Oct 12, 2016 20:09:56 GMT -5
Odin Balfore, David Sanchez, and 5 more like this
Post by 6ix God on Oct 12, 2016 20:09:56 GMT -5
The method of loci was widely depicted in the BBC television series Sherlock in the second episode of the second series, "The Hounds of Baskerville", where Sherlock Holmesuses his "mind palace" to seek and reassemble important facts and associations in his memory which were relevant to the case.
The technique is employed by fictional character Hannibal Lecter in Hannibal and Hannibal Rising, novels by American author Thomas Harris. In several passages in these books, Lecter is described as mentally walking through an elaborate memory palace to recall information, mentally escape unpleasant situations and enhance sensory perceptions.
The technique is employed by fictional character Hannibal Lecter in Hannibal and Hannibal Rising, novels by American author Thomas Harris. In several passages in these books, Lecter is described as mentally walking through an elaborate memory palace to recall information, mentally escape unpleasant situations and enhance sensory perceptions.
Randall Park Mall was a shopping mall located in the village of North Randall, Ohio. Despite the mall's importance to the town - it is represented by the two shopping bags appearing in the municipal seal - Randall Park Mall closed on March 12th,2009. Demolition began on the former Higbee's/Dillard's building on December 29, 2014.
Dre-ee-ee-ee-eam
In my dreams, I can be anything I want.
Dream…Dream…Dream
In my dreams, I can do anything I want.
Dre-ee-ee-ee-eam
In my dreams, I can be a Super Saiyan.
Dream… Dream… Dream.
In my dreams, I can put a bullet in Jack White,
When I want you, in my arms.
In my dreams, I can cuck Bates by having Lilith eat my ass as Sarah Twilight slobs my left testicle.
When I want you and all your charms
In my dreams, I can live in a house built of solid cocaine.
Whenever I want you, all I have to do is dre-ee-ee-ee-eam
In my dreams, I can save America’s dead malls.
Dream… Dream… Dream…
And there I was once again, standing in the long gone and buried plaza of the Randall Park Mall, my hand on the banister of the old escalator – back to working condition just for me – as I descended from the surface and into the shimmering depths of a world through the lens of Blue Velvet. I stepped from the automatic steps, the marble tiling beneath me clicking with a satisfactory echo beneath the wooden heel of my black leather Fyre Stone Cross Strap boots. My eyes went from the empty fountain, which sat at the epicenter of the decay like a dry cyst, to the chipped and scratched mahogany-painted railing which lined the upper corridors and catwalks of the second floor. Cavernous, dim corridors lined with empty outlets sprawled in either direction – I was in the heart deciding upon a vein to follow to whatever part of the body I liked. My eyes floated over to the information desk, a black counter with a garnish pastel colored top. A blow-up doll sat in a weather-wracked office chair, the fabric covering tattered and torn for pieces of foam to burst through like puss. The blow-up doll had nothing to say – rude bitch – but the sign above her was helpful enough.
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Escape Does Not Exist
<- Sex &Television Hot Deals!->
As Above, So Below
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What was it Gore Vidal said? “I never give up the opportunity to have sex or appear on television”? I turned left. Hot Deals could wait.
In my dreams, this mall could be whatever I wanted it to be. Under the influence of Blue Velvet, I had all the power in the world. As I drifted down the mineshaft into the depths, I could fill ever store with the wave of my hand as I made my way to the anchor store of my choosing – the Sharper Image that never was. The empty caves were soon alight with arcades and Auntie Anne’s Pretzels. In the Hot Topic, a young woman I must’ve seen a year or so ago lay on a pillow of discarded #BeachKrew shirts. She ran a hand through her thick black hair, a single green tear running from her eyeliner and falling to the cushion beneath her. She was nude, her ass pushed up into the air on display for me, separated only from the air by the tight plastic wrap which bound her legs together and stopped just below the curve of her breasts – a pastiche anti-environmental mermaid of the late 2010’s. I stopped at the Orange Jvlivs for the Thomas Bates Special.
Beside the Orange Jvlivs, an outlet glowed with a thin and ugly static behind the glass windows. It was pulsing and rhythmic – some kind of throbbing electric pudding full of oscillating ants in frantic orgy. Sitting before this hypnotic wall of synthesized fire, the subject of my intrigue sat, fixed quietly on the display before it. It hardly noticed when I approached behind it and placed my hands on the glass pane of the large display window.
It was hunched low like an ape, its hands resting on the floor before it. The tattoos on his hands jumped out to me first – I can never for the life of me understand why anyone would get a hand tattoo before any other, if at all. The ape sat in stone rigidity, its eyes on the bubbling static before it as it smacked its lips quietly. It wore JNCO Jeans like a faggot.
Behold Johnny Evil, the ape-boy prodigy of the WCF. Had this been a different dimension, I may’ve mentioned how the first match I saw you in featured a woman hardly able to wrestle pin you in the ring for a three count. But this ain’t here – this ain’t USeaI. We’ll by the rules, and I’ll slay you like the silverback Harambe-looking motherfucker you are. With just one match under your belt.
Congratulations, Johnny, you have a shot at beating CJ Phoenix. You won a battle royal at the beginning of the card, and now you’ll see the tug job almost as fast as Frank Venable. Will you beat Phoenix? I don’t know – I don’t care. I see Sanchez has his eyes on you, and I suppose you’re his fish to fry. I’m not usually one to respect the sanctity of marriage, but – eh – bro code. So that leaves only you and I going into this week. And like Tom-O-Hawk, Captain WCF, and every loser I’ve slayed before you, I have almost nothing to say about you.
You’re a fucking joke. Everything from your shitty, try-hard hand tattoos to your faggot Ghost B.C. theme song. If “Evil” is your real last name, I’m going to slap your fucking mother for her taste in men. Maybe you were fucked from the start – fucked to be born of a life where your parents deigned you to sound like a shitty original character in a fan fiction written by a middle schooler. Then, I guess, it was only appropriate that you got a faggot Joker tattoo to beat the point home – your face suggests there isn’t a lot of room in that skull of yours.
So you’re from the D, huh? You and every other try hard loser I’ve tripped over in this fed. It’s funny, when I moved my base of operations to Detroit half a year ago, my logic was simple – low property values, easily manipulated crackheads, and an overwhelming sense of national apathy. I could remain unbothered or whatever and just sort of passive-aggressively bully you fucking dweebs from my ivory tower. So, Johnny, can I ask why the fuck it’s suddenly so vogue to be from Detroit?
Like, when I’m twisted and wandering abandoned shopping malls, it’s not because I actually think they’re cool, you tard – it’s because they’re fucking dying and the decay gets me off! Why do you think Detroit got me hot under the collar over somewhere like Cleveland or St. Louis – it’s the epicenter of the failures of the American economy. It’s a whole festering wound begging to be put down. I get to step up to that beautiful corner office window I have, look down at all the dope fiends, and throw rocks at them. I get to kick vagrants in the alley ways for asking for change. I can shoot some hood nigger who chose the wrong car to try to jack. I get to sit there – front row – and watch it all day.
Meanwhile, you fucking losers thump your Detroit Tigers hats or whatever and talk about how you’re investing in ‘The D’ or going to help bring it back or how it’s made you tough or whatever. Here’s my business model: I kill this city’s heroes – starting with you, build it up enough to give it hope, then tear it to the ground. And you fucking dweebs can all skip back to Chicago, thump your Cubs hats, talk about how ‘ChIraq made you, bruh’ or whatever. Faggot.
The creature turned in its pen, its brow low and heavy over its face – a smear of grease paint under one eye. The creature brushed its floppy bangs from its face – its irises were dull and sickly green. A single hand rose, placing itself against the window like a pastiche of Tarzan. I suppose I could humor it – I reciprocated.
Because you know, Johnny, that even when we place our hands side-by-side, even when we examine our similarities, there is no comparing the two of us. I’m a God in this business – an icon. You’re a two-bit chump who won a single match, got thrown into a shitty little three man team to face us, and probably thinks he’s something special, right? I mean, it’s not like Seth goes and gives people intentional weeks off, right? Every match is balanced, right?
News Flash: They fucking aren’t.
Do you think Seth ever expected a team consisting of Johnny Evil, Jason O’Neil, and Kid Krazzy to beat a team that just crushed three champions? Are you fucking retarded? There is literally no one who is going to pick against us in this match – and there’s no reason they should. This was obviously structured as a week off! I’m going to give you one of my favorite little catch phrases to describe this match: Seth clearly fucking hates you to put you in this match.
The dumb animal cants its head, its breath hot and heavy on the glass which fogs before it. It has smell, dull eyes and a slopping forehead. It seems unable to completely close its mouth. Or maybe its unable to breath from its nose. At first, I turn from the creature – why spend any more time looking at it? Something stops me – some movement which perhaps resembles pity. I turn back and press my hands to the glass.
In my dreams, I can do anything I want.
In my dreams, I make the rules.
My hands passed through the veil to the face of the creature. Its eyes were two yellow dish plates as I gently grasped it by the neck and began to squeeze. It shuddered and twitched under my hands, its own paws come up desperately to scratch and claw at my grasp. Fear had overtaken it – its skin was turning blue as fingernails dug into my wrists. It didn’t hurt – in my dreams, I don’t have to feel pain. In its final kicks of fear, urine flowed freely from its groin. Then it stopped moving.
I released it and turned back to the corridor – I still had Hot Deals to find. Just beyond the horizon, I could see the faintest outline of Dillard’s. And the Dragon Pantry.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
ＨＵＲＲＹ ＢＯＹ ＳＨＥ＇Ｓ ＷＡＩＴＩＮＧ ＴＨＥＲＥ ＦＯＲ ＹＯＵ
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
She sat in his lap, the room dark and quiet – smoke lingered up from the blown glass pipe which sat on the coffee table before them. Jared inhaled slowly behind closed eyes, the lingering aroma of myrrh, frankincense, and Blue Velvet still delicately haunting in the air, even above the scent of the woman who sat on his lap. She was facing him, her legs crossed and her shins pressed tightly against his abs as the tips of her fingers traced down the edges of his jaw, staring from his cheekbones before sweeping out and down to his chin. Her breath was hot and close, smelling of Vanilla Dream cigarillos.
His eyes opened, locking with the dull blue that still seemed to shine so brightly from the black pools around her eyes. She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, her blonde locks curtaining her face as her hands came back up to the sides of his face. There had always been a certain alluring sense to his Queen of Blades when he was just beneath the surface – the rough and sharp, imperfect edges and angles of her personality and humanity were smoothed and softened. He tilted his head under her touch, his lips parting to impart the compliment to her – the action was snuffed by a delicate index finger pressed to his lips.
Thursday Kerrigan: No words.
She turned, reaching down for the pipe, the colors within the glass pulsing and ebbing just beneath the translucent membrane. She turned in his lap, her back now pressed against his chest as she slid to a slouch and tilted her head back against his shoulder. The pipe raised to his lips, and as he accepted the mouthpiece with a soft drag, the contents of the bowl burned on their own volition. The smoke was deep and pungent – it tasted like a Chinese market. His eyes closed again as he held the hit – Thursday’s arm snaked up and draped around his neck as she sang softly.
Thursday Kerrigan: If the world was on fire, no one could save me but you.
It’s strange what desire will make foolish people do.
I never dreamed that I’d meet somebody like you…
I never dreamed that I’d meet somebody like you…
Her lips pressed to his neck as she turned back in his lap, her breasts now pressed against his legs as she slid to the floor and laid her head down on his groin. Her arms snaked around his waist.
Thursday Kerrigan: Oh, I – wanna fall in love… with you.
She climbed back into the lap, sitting crosslegged once more as he opened his eyes again to stare into the face of his fiancée once more. She giggled, her finger coming to her own cheek as she lowered her chin to stare back at him. This time, his words came more naturally.
Jared Holmes: What … are you doing here?
She giggled again, draping her arms lazily over his shoulders to clasp her hands behind his head.
Thursday Kerrigan: You brought me here, silly. This is your mind place, isn’t it?
His voice was dry from smoke inhalation – his cantor was lazy and detached through the veil of disassociation.
Jared Holmes: I could have anyone here. Why you?
Thursday Kerrigan: Probably because I’m the only person you’ve ever loved?
Jared scoffed.
Jared Holmes: Love? I don’t even like you sometimes.
The Queen of Blades giggled again, curling in to snuggle against his chest, her head curled beneath his chin.
Thursday Kerrigan: I know, right? And what does that say about your emotional ceiling?
She twisted onto her back, pressing her lips to his chest for a soft kiss before she stared up at him. She was wearing the same Monique Lhuillier black lace floral-lace sheath dress she’d been wearing on the night they met.
Thursday Kerrigan: We still have so much to see. I can show you the way.
And then they weren’t in that back room of the Dragon Pantry any longer – they were back in the corridors of the rotting Randall Park Mall, now filled to the brim with the shuffling and faceless. The figures wore gray crewneck shirts with a variety of dark-shaded denim jeans with white sneakers. They all lacked hair or discernable gender. Thursday held Jared by the hands, turning to adjust her grip and draws his arms in an embrace over her shoulders as they pushed through the crowd towards the distant anchor store.
Thursday Kerrigan: Tell me, Jared – why a dead mall? Why one that doesn’t even stand anymore?
This is an exclusive Channel 6ix Interview! Tonight, we have the man of the hour, Jared Holmes!
Jared Holmes: Because we get so caught up in what we think the future will be that we never bother consider the reality of it. These malls? Like, back in the Seventies and Eighties, before the internet was ever an idea, this was seen as the next great innovation in this country. It was a symbol of consumption and community – it was as American as apple pie and campus rape. Then suddenly we had the digital market – why spend the gas and time to go flip through racks of over-priced clothes and useless trinkets and sickeningly sweet sceneted candles when you could point and click without leaving your chair? Why shove through packs of mall rat teenagers smoking Newport shorts out front when you could get a UPS delivery?
But the possibilities at the time were fantastic. It seemed like the mall was the new frontier; a marble and plastic sculpture of the power and wealth of this country. Americans loved malls – malls were convenient. Malls were fun and distracting. You could get lost in a mall. But now a days not so much: the malls have lost their luster. The celebrities avoid malls because they can’t blend in – they stand out amongst the shuffling masses.
Thursday Kerrigan: Sounds familiar.
Jared Holmes: Of course it does: WCF is a dying mall.
Jared waved a hand to the passing faceless bodies, the blood cells of this cancer-wracked husk.
Jared Holmes: We see the body in its early stages of cancer – it still has a healthy white blood cell count. I spy with my little eye, something that begins with a J.
Thursday Kerrigan: A jobber?
Jared Holmes: Which one? The veins are chock full of these gelatinous losers, lugging their breathing corpse through the front door down to Dillard’s. But in the later stages, when the rupturing and hemorrhaging is in full swing?
As the words left his lips, the crowd began to thin, two-thirds of the faceless shoppers fading from view and back into the void.
Jared Holmes: Now, I spy with my little eye something that begins with a “J”.
Thursday raised her hand, placing a finger to her lips with a low “hmm”. After a moment, she stretched out a finger to point at one of the specters.
Thursday Kerrigan: Is it “The Real Deal” Jason O’Neil?
Jared Holmes: Of course it is. And that, fellow viewers, is the difference between the WCF of Christmas Past and the WCF of Christmas Present.
LAUGH FOR MISTER SHARKS
Jared Holmes: If this had been half a year ago, Jason, you’d be an absolute nobody. Don’t get that mistaken, you are a nobody in every sense of the word – there’s just a difference between a surplus and a deficit. When I stood in the WCF ring, it showed all the signs of being a healthy company – it featured top tier talent who absolutely dominated and controlled every level of the completion. The jobbers like you were a turnstile who came in, got murkt, and left with their dicks between their legs. Life was good.
I should’ve known something was wrong when that loser Logan came back and took #BeachKrew’s Final Destination briefcase. I should’ve known something was wrong when the first tumor – the Family – popped up right on the neck of the company. I saw WCF go from a healthy young man to an emaciated gimp in a matter of mere months. I saw its heart stop beating – heard its death rattle – I assumed it was time to put the old girl down. I wasn’t alone, many people followed suit. It was in that absence where an insect like you had his window of opportunity.
We have a lot in common, Jason: we both went to Tulane, both studied Law to some degree, and both ended up in WCF. Who knows, maybe you even sat behind me in a lecture. I can’t be certain – this is the difference between us. If I sat in your class at college, you’d know: everyone knew who I was. The difference between a man like you and a man like me is that I matter: people care what I’m doing. When I’m not on screen, everyone asks “Where’s Jared?” Even the faggots who nearly killed this shit were wondering where I was if purely to pray a rosary that I’d stay gone. Look at the difference in reactions we pull: I get a swell of boos and you get a few yawns and “Welp, time to hit the merch booth.”
This is what being the real deal looks like, Jason. It looks like being a member of a dream team power stable. It looks like having your first match be against champions. And winning. It looks like getting a sleeper break this week by being tossed three fucking jokes of wrestlers to kill so I’ll be healthy when I run in on ZT and punt their skulls in. It looks like not opening the show in a fucking Alpha Title Contendership Battle Royal and losing to Johnny Evil. It looks like actually being in the Hellimination main event.
They continued stepping down the corridor of the mall, the outlets crawling past them. A façade, concealed by a large stretch of plastic paneling, had been papered with advertisements for the upcoming pay-per-view. The faces of Pantheon stared back at him.
Jared Holmes: Look at that shit, Jason. Notice that for even the people not in the main event, you don’t appear once. You won’t fight for any title; you don’t have any blood feud grudge match; you aren’t supporting any of your buddies as a manager. You just exist. That’s not the “real deal”, that’s a warm body consuming oxygen at a time in Earth’s history where we have record deforestation and drinking water while California is in a historic drought. You are literally a fucking waste of important resources. I wonder if they’ll let me water my lawn by killing you.
You have zero chance in this match, Jason. Zero. Perhaps it’s time to put your college education to good use and know when to quit. Go home. Go back and run the negro streets of your dying little nigger city. Go be king of the Ninth Ward or whatever crappy little hood you thinks makes you prestigious – I’ll be sitting at the top of Los Angeles. NO,LA vs. T.o.L.A., #fuccboi – guess which one is the real deal.
Now get the fuck out of my company.
And suddenly all of the passers had faded out. Suddenly it was just Jared and Thursday once more – their shoes echoing on the tile beneath them.
The corridor ended in a massive plaza which sprawled out before the entrance of Dillard’s. The anchor store had fallen into dilapidation: the protective gate had been bent open in the middle to allow access and several links had been sheared away with bolt cutters. In the plaza, the remnants of a studio set rested beneath a layer of dust. Two canvas chairs sat across from a small table, Hank Brown sitting in one of the chairs. His face was coated in shoe polish, his lips painted on as a large white circle around his mouth.
Why you so fresh?
cause I am
Why you so funky?
cause I am
why you so sweet?
cause I am
a love supreme, a love supreme:
Hank Brown: Evenun, Missah Shawks. Ah do dee’cleh de entu’voow iz bout ta reel beegin.
Thursday leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek.
Thursday Kerrigan: This has been the Queen of Blades with Six God TV. Take it away, Hank.
Jared stepped forward onto the mildewed rug and sat down in the canvas chair. Hank Brown grinned back at him with his big painted lips.
Hank Brown: Now, te’ me MIssah Shawk, wah ye be cumin back te de Dubya-Sea-Eff?
Jared stared at the camera before him. The lens was cracked.
Jared Holmes: To prove I’m the best. I’ve always been the best, and I was millimeters from proving it in May. I’m back to prove it again.
Hank Brown: But Mars Holmes, ye leff.
Jared Holmes: I did. It was too easy. It was too close. I hate the summit; I like the climb. I’ve always been that way. It’s more satisfying when during the chase – it gets me off. I don’t know what I’d do on the throne, just like I didn’t know what to do when I ran the company other than cancel XIII. I created an enemy for myself out of sheer whimsy. Just like I’m engaged and still trying to bust my nut in Lilith’s mouth.
Hank Brown: So iff’n ye git to de top, wut den? Ye gon’ leave again?
Jared paused. His eyes remained locked on the cracked lens.
Jared Holmes: No. I’ve realized the belt isn’t the goal – it’s a step. I should’ve realized that sooner. I have too many goals. Some of them conflict – it’s how I work. I have trouble staying focused: it’s why I hate being sober. I need to slow down; concentrate on the task before me. Stay hungry.
Hank Brown: En wuz got ye hungry thiz tah’m Mars Holmes?
Jared Holmes: The non-believers. They always existed, just not this loud. Not this brazen. But that’s okay, they’ll learn in time.
Hank Brown: En how long?
Jared Holmes: Starting with Hellimination. Starting when I’m once again a survivor at the end. Adrian Archer? Damien Kaine? I don’t even know who these men are. They’re simple Xerox copies of better men that have come before them. Men like those in Pantheon. Like Zombie McMorris. Like Corey Black. Like Joey Flash. Like …
He trailed off. His vision blurred as he went into thought within a thought. Thoughtception.
Hank Brown: Lak yew?
Jared Holmes: Like me. Like the artist. Like the Celestial Shark. Like the Architect of the WSeaF.
Hank Brown: Ah dew dee’cleh yooz jus made uh new neekname for ya self.
Jared Holmes: That’s not a nickname, that’s what I fill in under “Occupation”. People in this company are thick – they look at the words and never between the lines. That’s where I exist; that’s where I’ve always existed. I can be a peacock or a shadow. It doesn’t take Donald Mosley to see my fingerprints on every great shift or schism in this company since I stepped through its door.
Hank Brown: En ye mand?
Jared Holmes: I shouldn’t. It’s counter-productive to care when I should be keeping a low profile. But that’s not my style. It’s not the attention – it’s the credit. I’m not going to be treated like Hunter Updegraff when I’m a Joey Flash. I’m not going to let a Johnny Rabid steal my prestige and accolades. This has always been my work. I assembled the vehicle, and I sat in the driver’s seat. I’m the director who’s sick of the lead actor getting all the awards. This is my vision, even if I let others fulfill it. It’s time people noticed that.
Hawk Brown: En iff’n ye hed wun wish, whuddit be?
Jared paused. His eyes shifted from the cracked lens to the Queen in Yellow.
Jared Holmes: I’d have a live fuck celebration after winning the WCF Championship. Then End The World.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Ａ ＷＩＮＮＥＲ ＥＶＥＲＹ ＴＩＭＥ ＧＵＡＲＡＮＴＥＥＤ！
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Hot deals are a blessing and a curse – what the average consumer doesn’t understand is that “Save 25%” really translates to something along the lines of “Spend 75%”. You know this – you’re a sharp one. And you really get off on the whole consumer thing?
Wait – did I just go to the Second Person?
Yes, Jared, you did.
The Blue Velvet had completely consumed me by this point – I gripped Thursday’s hand like it was my only tether. It probably was. It can be a funny thing to go too far into your own head when under the influence – you forget to see yourself as yourself. Was Thursday really here? Had I somehow dragged her into my mind with me? Had she heard everything I’d been saying, and could she really see just what I displayed and decorated?
What would she make of all these vivisected seagulls hanging like mobiles from the ceiling? What would she think of all the TVs in the window of that Sam Goody’s which replay every load of jizz I’ve dropped on the face of every woman I’ve ever banged? Will she cock an eyebrow at the swastikas spray-painted on the broken windows of the Apple Store and human centipede of transgender hipsters dancing to “Money Makes the World Go Around” from Cabaret? What about the giant marble statues dedicated to my dick? And the maintenance hallway that seems to stretch forever and is wallpapered from floor to ceiling with pictures of Donald Trump as Mickey Mouse?
Her arms wrapped around my right arm – even clung in the submission position of a high schooler at the carnival, she led the way. The signs of stores flashed neon and ugly.
CHEAP THRILLS
A GOOD TIME GUARANTEED FOR ALL
BORN TO DIE
WORLD IS A FUCK
Kill Em Alll 1989
I am trash man
OVER 99 BILLION SOLD!
Was the floor just dirty? Were those scuff marks from the massacres of Black Fridays long past or just the passing of time? How could my own mind leave me in such confusion – wasn’t this meant to be a mnemonic device?
Thursday Kerrigan: We’re almost there, babe.
Her voice was soft and soothing, the edges laced with a gold lining of trembling excitement. A yellow brick road led to the pulsing Harrah’s in the distance.
This is my dream. In my dreams, a Harrah’s Casino can be an anchor store.
Beyond the brick road, the floor of the mall had become sandy. Wooden boardwalks stretched to each of the outlets which pumped the nauseating scent of Hugo Boss cologne and mescaline. We stopped in front of an outlet: Spencer’s Gifts. Thursday extended an arm.
Thursday Kerrigan: Don’t you want to see what’s inside?
I moved without thought, crossing the wooden boards to the portal. Palm fronds covered the entrance. Inside, the smell of burning hair struck my nostrils immediately – I didn’t have any reaction.
The store was largely empty, likely a combination of simply closing and the looters who’d taken the scraps. The shelves were barren and knocked off, metal hangers and supports strewn on the ground like bone picked clean. In the center of the room sat an old electric chair. The man strapped to the chair had a bag over his head, concealing his identity. A white mesh jacket had been unzipped to reveal an untoned chest, and his pants were white with red and blue “K”s on opposite legs. A token taker sat beside a switch with a sign that glowed neon.
“Kidd Krazzy Will Do Anything To Please the Fans! 25 ¢”
Twenty-five cents. Shit, that’s what it must feel like being a guy in your shoes, huh Kidd? You get up every morning, you take Vicodin to numb the pain of your last botched 450 corkscrew high angle senton plancha, you take a cold shower to soothe your aching muscles, you hit the jump all legs – all legs no chest, you go out to the crowd, and before you get in the ring you wonder to yourself when you’ll slip and snap something ugly. When will that pencil neck of yours or that brittle spine not meant for lifting finally crack under pressure? And what if your career never takes flight like you do?
I step forward and check my pockets. Of course I have a quarter. I place it into the slot. The restraints on the handle unlock and the panel glows with flashing lights like an old carnival game. I reach forward to take what I paid for.
Poor kid. You seem so excited. So eager to be in this company. You’re good natured if a bit naïve. I’m sure you were excited to get this booking – thrilled even. “Wow, what an opportunity I’m being given. I have a great up-and-coming star in Johnny Evil, another talented newcomer in Jason O’Neil – even if I question his methods, and myself facing three prestigious old veterans in the biggest thing to hit WCF! Just imagine if we’ll get an upset! I’d be the toast of the town! The talk of Twitter! The Kidd Who Got the Win!”
I hate to crush your dreams. I’d hate to kill your innocence on this.
Just kidding, no I don’t LOL
You’re going to get out there and work so hard. You’ll get a few cheap pops from your high spots and wow everyone with your arsenal of moves. You’ll put everything on the line. And you’ll fail. You’ll be crushed, obliterated, decimated. I’ll break you before every fan you’ve made so far. I’ll end your career as faster than I’ve ended countless others. At some point during the beating, you’ll think you have an opening. You’ll seize it, making some flying leap! And you’ll be caught mid-air, spun, and planted headfirst in the Dolphin Driver. And before the impact that snaps your neck, as you’re caught spinning, a thought will pass through your head:
“Was it worth it?”
Of course it wasn’t you fucking idiot. It never is. You’re being pushed into the bigger picture too fast, too soon. You can’t handle it – you’ll choke and drown and be left crippled in your pissed tights as “Aquaberry Dolphin (Mysterious Pantheon Remix)” hits the P.A. You’ll feel pain, but you won’t have feeling. Your fingers? Your toes? Numb. You can’t move your limbs. You’ll choke and gasp as you get lightheaded, a whimper escaping your throat as you beg for a doctor. The EMTs will rush the ring, pushing past us. You won’t feel a thing as you see the doctors delicately slide a scoop stretcher under you. A tear will slide down your cheek – you’ll feel that. And as they cart you to the back, rushing you to the ambulance while taking care to avoid any uneven ground or bumps which could cause movement in you, you’ll try to tell yourself that this is just a concussion or dizziness. You’ll think about your family and jumping from the turnbuckle and driving a car and walking into McDonald’s – all the little things you never realized were so beautiful and taken for granted when you had feeling in your limbs. Finally, you’ll pray. You’ll wonder why you ever went out to the ring in the first place and swear that you’ll give up wrestling right this second if you can have another day of walking down a beach and feeling the sand between your toes and water on your ankles. Then you’ll ask yourself again:
“Was it worth it?”
I pulled the lever. The air filled with the smell of ozone as the sound of pulsing and oscillating currents drone from the machine. The figure beneath the hood twitched violently as his muscles contracted, his head slamming back against the chair. The smell of ozone was soon replaced by that sickeningly sweet smell of burning hair. Thursday had pressed herself against me as I watched – I could feel her grinding her cunt against my leg.
You chose this, Kidd Krazzy. This was your life, and you put it on the line for the roar of the crowd. I knew someone like you; his name was Teo del Sol. He’s dead now – not literally but in the only way that matters. He had the same unblemished optimism and goodness that you possess. He was naïve and trusting – how many times did he get kicked in the balls accepting a handshake? And you – how many times will you suffer down the line if I don’t finish the job on Sunday? How many deaths will you die seeing a career treading water, growing weak, and eventually slipping beneath the waves? You’re fucked kid. You were thrown to the sharks this week. And I’m going to take a lot of pleasure in ruining your life. Just like I ruined Teo’s.
The body make a final lurch, a dry gurgle escaping from the smoldered, cracking lips beneath the hood. The chair powered down, the switch flipped back up, and the restraints snapped shut once more. The coin slot glowed again for another quarter. I turned to Thursday, her crotch now pressed against my pants as she gyrated her hips against mine. She panted in my ear.
Thursday Kerrigan: We’re not done yet. But we’re so. Fucking. Close.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Ｗｈｅｎｅｖｅｒ Ｉ ｗａｎｔ ｙｏｕ ａｌｌ Ｉ ｈａｖｅ ｔｏ ｄｏ ｉｓ ｄｒｅａｍ
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
You step through the portal of Younkers and into the Void. You can’t see the floor, but something tells you that you know it’s there. That she’s not tried to hold you back – prevent you from stepping out into nothingness – it’s somewhat assuring. Then again, can you trust her? I suppose this is your dream, isn’t it? You can do whatever you want?
Did I just go into the second person again?
Yes, Jared, you did.
There was something unnatural, even for the Six God in his own realm, in stepping out into nothingness. Instinct screamed – every sense of what is real and what wasn’t fought the urge to move forward. Then again, emptiness had never scared Jared. He’d never been afraid of the dark as a child. Any hesitation was mere reaction to be overcome; with time he strode confidently.
The darkness dissipated in time. In the end, he found himself standing in an empty courtyard. A pedestal rose out of a dry fountain – the base had already cracked and the top was barren. The former occupant lay in the dry fountain, the arm of the marble statue splintered off and into three pieces. The head had broken from the neck as well, staring straight up with dead eyes towards the broken glass skylights of the roof above it. Jared stepped over moss and vines as he lowered himself into the empty pool. He looked down at the stone face at his feet.
The features of Joseph Malignaggi were unmistakable. Really, Jared couldn’t have made a better replication of his beauty and perfection in his wildest dreams (and yes, that’s a joke). Time and edge had eroded the craftsmanship – the nose had fractured off, and the cheeks had been worn down by the erosion of time. Moss had begun to grow upon his muscular chest, and vines wrapped his arms and legs like the ropes of the Lilliputans. He was broken beauty – the fallen idol at the mercy of the elements and his creator. Jared cocked his head as he circled the object of his fascination.
Never meet your idols – they’ll always disappoint you. Their pedestals will break. They’ll make mistakes. They won’t see in you what you see in them.
Yet, in a way, Jared felt catharsis in what had happened. In those final days of April and early days of May, he’d begun to doubt himself. Suddenly, on the threshold of victory, he’d questioned the outcome. When the time had drawn near to pull the trigger, Jared had hesitate.
Then Logan happened.
It’s an odd thing to see a hero bleed – it shatters the myth. It makes them human. It shows them in weakness. In that moment which Bates had thrown his temper tantrum and beaten the Dag Riddick Gang, leaving Joey open to being defeated by Logan, Jared had seen a Joey Flash few had been privy to seeing. He’d seen a Flash exposed – intimate, like a virgin who’d just removed her panties and laid down on her back.
He’d seen Joseph Malignaggi vulnerable.
He turned from the statue to the pedestal. Stepping over the ruins of the statue, he reached for the tarnished bronze plaque of dedication. The lead nails had been pried out – only one remained, loosely holding the plaque in place. He removed it and let the plate fall to the ground with a clatter. As his eyes stayed fixed on the blank, empty space he’d just created, Thursday placed a hand on his shoulder.
Thursday Kerrigan: No more heroes. No more gods. As above, so below.
Jared had returned to play the pawn as necessary. He’d wait, keeping his hand concealed and his head nodding. He’d break those necessary on the way to the top – Johnny Evil, Jason O’Neil, and Kid Krazzy this week; whomever else in the week following – before he’d strike. And when he struck, he’d kill. He’d conquer. He’d sit on the throne which had been reserved for him since he’d pinned Kyle Kemp.
Nothing had changed in his mind following the five months since he’d been gone. He had a self-imposed setback: nothing more. Easily overcome. Build the cult. Spread the legend. Make them fear your name and wrath. Bring the world to its knees.
He raised his hand to the smooth, barren marble and traced his fingers over the surface. A plaque could be removed and tossed aside; he would leave no legacy so easily erased. When his hand fell to his side, a name had been carved into the stone by his touch.
Jared Holmes
His name was Jared Holmes, the Six God. King of Kings. Look upon his work, ye mortals, and despair for the golden dreams of yesterday, today.
