Post by John Rabid on Oct 16, 2016 16:49:54 GMT -5
1. HERE COMES THE SUN.
Scotland, United Kingdom.
The Island of DrummMhor.
5/10/16
Sunrise.
The man's bare feet were bloody against the stone. Cuts and abrasions scarred flesh as the frail and confused body was dragged by bindings to its penance. Starved and dehydrated, the road was one of confusion; a steep incline of black slate surrounded by a heavy morning mist that leads to a massive wooden man, a monstrous construction that stood unbound from it's complex rope moorings. A huge, foreboding effigy built to mirror the image of an awakened, hungry God as the tide rolled in.
Moloch.
The wicker monument greeted the prisoner with a stabbing jolt of fear, fear that pierced his pounding heart and punctured all hope; he wrenched and pulled but could not break free, his vision somewhat impaired by the “Captain WCF”, wrestling mask he was forced to wear as his bindings dug deep into his wrists. His body, dressed only in his white patient scrubs, shivered in the northern air despite the emerging sun. The night was relenting as daybreak began to peek across the horizon. Those first rays of light where the signal to ignite the fires.
A procession of black hooded men and women carved themselves a foreboding outline against a red shimmering morning as they stood along the island's inhospitable coastline. Seventy in total, carrying burning torches as the murky sea rolled in and crashed upon the rocky shore. Druidic followers of the grand serpent, appeasing a God in the old tradition.
And so, the man screamed as he was lead by his tethers to the wooden man by two Druids. Moloch's heart opened, a hatch creaking in the winter air as the prisoner was dragged up a set of haphazardly created steps to the belly of the beast. This was the crucible of the chimera; the half man, half owl God that craved nourishment. In exchange, Moloch would deliver a bountiful haul of “crops” to the feet of his followers. In 2016 that meant: money, power, influence. The cost? A man's life. Pure of heart didn't really matter, but the irony was always enjoyable.
Masked Man: OH JESUS, JESUS CHRIST!
A flutter of camera phone snaps greeted the desperation like a swirl of excitable fireflies. They were brazen in their confidence, their status had brought them invisibility from a ring of satellites that circle us constantly above our atmosphere like a family of voyeuristic buzzards.
Johnny Rabid: Remember, we're dark for sixteen minutes. Delete those pictures before you leave today. Memories will have to do.
The Druid's nodded in unison as the island of DrummMhor savored this moment. It's Lord, Jonathan Rabid, had promised the Awakened God a gift; and while Rabid was not one to follow the slavish eccentricities of these spoilt followers in attendance, their amassed fortunes swayed his opinion from time to time; especially in regards to the Owls, that seemed to constantly hound his existence; teasing retribution for a crime Rabid had committed upon them many sunrises ago.
Rabid, his face masked with a theatrical comedy mask created with gold and ivory, stretched out his arms towards the rising sun, head concealed but proud. His robed body a shroud of black menace as he stood front and center ahead of the procession. The light from a lit torch catching the gold, blessing the dead mask with a spark of life it did not deserve.
Johnny Rabid: Moloch! Listen to us as we set your table for a feast of ages. Let this dawn bring us fortune, as it brings you flesh. Slainte Mhor agus an h-uile beannachd duibh!
“Blessed Be”
“Blessed Be”
Masked Man: You're insane! You're all fucking insane!
Johnny Rabid: Pipe down now, Agent! This is your finest hour! Greet it with some humility.
Special Agent Donald Mosley tried to pull the WCF mask off his face but he lacked the strength. A concoction of drugs betrayed his strong psychology; administered by the mental ward that had been his home for the past two weeks, committed due to a strange bout of hysterical blindness that left him out of synch with reality. Mosley's eyes had regained their vision just in time for them to relay the magnitude of his peril. The Agent felt a pit of anguish fill his heart as the door was slammed shut now, sealing him inside Moloch. The steps were removed. Dawn was almost here.
Just enough time for a simple prayer.
Special Agent Donald Mosley: Our Father...who art in heaven. Hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be--
Skinny Druid: Shut the fuck up, pig!
Johnny wasted no time in cannoning over to the Druid and planting him into the floor with a swift right hook. The Ripper incarnate grabbed the skinny man's robes and pulled him to his feet, tearing away the man's Venetian mask; revealing a twenty-year-old son a dot com billionaire beneath, a ginger-haired dweeb, shocked and shaking as a trickle of blood ran like broken tap from his cracked nose.
Johnny Rabid: You see that man over there, you vile shit? He's dying today, and you're not. That to me says one thing...this is a little world. Do you understand what I'm saying?
The Dweeb bowed his head in shame and reached for his mask, Rabid kicked it away. A large Druid laughed, he had a smaller, muscular shadow by his side, filming the event, a snigger behind a Ronald Regan mask had a touch of the shark about it.
Johnny Rabid: Get off this fucking island. Go tell daddy his business died today because his son couldn't keep a civil tongue in his head and let a condemned man finish a prayer. You idiot prick.
The ginger haired Dweeb lowered his head and departed, a lightning kick up the arse punctuated the moment as Rabid signed to the sound of a tiny patter of running feet. It was almost time. The Ripper walked forward, taking a torch from a Druid guard; he contemplated the moment. Rabid had never done anything quite like this before. The responsibilities of his new office as Lord Regent carried with it challenges he was not expecting. It almost warmed the cold blood that ran like an ice flow through veins we can only guess exist.
Johnny Rabid: I'm sorry for that interruption, Donald. You deserved better.
Special Agent Donald Mosley: Let me free, please.
Johnny Rabid: Everyone here, Donald. They need something. And they look towards me to provide. They look towards their Lord. When I look towards you, however, I see that mask of yours, and what it represents. A damaged spirit; lost and forlorn. A Federation in tatters, lead by a man named Seth Lerch, a man unworthy of the inheritance that has been delicately crafted around him. The WCF needs fire, Donald. Apocalyptic end-of-the-world fire. We have to burn away the Beta's that march down it's ravaged halls believing they are it's saviors. Cremate the liars and the frauds that infect the name WCF with a cruel larceny. Vermin that create an echo chamber of stupidity that shames the English language. You know who they hired this week? Johnny Weevil. Some one-man tribute act that shadows my immense accomplishments and who has the audacity to think he can replace me because I was “The past”. That I'm over the hill. This UCI leftover gets reheated and served up as something new. He was never new, because a rip-off always remains so right until the end. Johnny Weevil, this week's insult to my name. A weak pot shot towards my legacy. A ventriloquists dummy that panders to the Bates generation like a court jester. I'll probably end up facing him and he'll pull out some weak Dark Atom/Black Dragon Security footage and claim it's me. Then I imagine he'll say something idiotic, along the lines of, “well, I don't have to do anything else now, see...look, here's that time something happened to Johnny Rabid that never actually happened but you're all too fucking lazy to do any homework so I guess you'll all believe that it's real and that will--”
Druid Security: Sir, it's time.
Johnny looks up, sees the sun rise.
Johnny Rabid: Opps, will you look at that, Donald! The sun's come up! Just one more thing before I go.
Rabid throws the Owl card Jared Holmes found and showed Dustin Beaver months previous into the heart of Moloch. Donald scrambles for the card as smoke begins to bellow from his wicker prison. It's black edge set alight with a lick of flame from Rabid's burning torch.
Johnny Rabid: It was so easy to trace your plan back, Donny. Planting that card, attempting to set me up as a traitor to #beachkrew. Attempting to destroy the prophecy from within. Baby steps, Donny. The shallow plan of an infant. What you are right now, Special Agent Mosley, as your body burns and your mouth screams, is a warning to each and every man and woman in attendance here today. Never, ever, cross me. Or I will fucking crucify you...with style.
Johnny throws the torch into the fire as a frantic Mosley is pressed against the edge of the cell door, trying to avoid the licks of flame that encircle him now like a nest of angry vipers.
Special Agent Donald Mosley: The Lord is my Sheppard....he...he...maketh me lie down in green pastures....deliver me from...
Johnny Rabid: Evil.
Mist envelops the effigy as it begins to collapse under the stress of the firestorm. There's a scream, but the sound of “Here comes the sun” by the Beatles drowns out the last words of Donald Eric Mosley from this realm of existence, condemning what little is left of his body to the sea as Moloch feeds, and feeds well.
The larger Druid and the smaller, muscular one follow Rabid as he peels away from the celebrations, all three peer over the cliff edge and observes the burning embers of what's left of Moloch smash upon the rocks below. While high above, satellites above resume their presence, with no recollection of Mosley's final moments. As if the man had been wiped from history.
Johnny Rabid: And so ends Special Agent Donald Mosley. I liked him, for what he was.
The larger druid removed his mask, Wade Moor gleamed with a smile carved from an edifice of malevolence. His size and shape made the surrounds always seem smaller than they were.
Wade Moor: And what was Agent Mosley?
Agent Mosley was a pawn. Used by Rabid to get to the Owls, extra-dimensional beings that were Johnny's eternal pursuers; they seemed to blink in and out of existence on a whim; an unnatural army of dedicated zealots following a dreaded cause. Yet, while these Owls were determined to complete their unfolding plan of conquest, they never appeared to anchor their presence in one reality for long; acting instead like a plague of traveling locusts. Scavengers determined to feast on human misery when the time proved right. In no hurry, it would seem to complete their stratagem. Today Rabid feed their monster in an effort to appease it, but he knew that sooner or later he would have to face Moloch, and defeat him.
And in that moment, the harbinger would be free, and the prophecy awakened.
Johnny Rabid: Mosley? My way in. Through Mosley's help, I was able to spend these past few months building a power base within one secret society after another. Networking. Knitting together a plan that will eventually annihilate our enemies as we set them up against each other. But Mosley had to be too clever, he reached too high, tried to play a hand where we would all turn on one other. Poor, poor Icarus.
Jared removed his hood, he allowed it to float out to sea. As it bobbed across the ocean it changed in the dawn light, from Reagan to Los Tiburones, and back again. The ebb and flow of time seemed to enjoy the tricks it played on the 6ix God. Holmes simply smiled and turned away.
Jared Holmes: Too close to the sun. And so our plan goes on, we pluck the feathers from the Owls. Destroy them by setting one secret society up against the other. Today they're a family, a network. Tomorrow?
The last of the wreckage of Moloch slips beneath the waves.
Johnny Rabid: Drowned. Time to catch our flight Gentlemen, we have a match to win.
2. The Burden Of Others
Let's start with the man that has made the most noise this week, Johnny Evil. My third rate tribute act, the Spastic that I've been shackled to this week. Typical Seth Lerch, as soon as I knew “Weevil” was walking through the doors it was inevitable that we were going to meet. It's the kind of obvious joke that titillates a lonely, small man like Lerch; a gag reel that's lumbered with the dumbest of punchlines. Evil has no style nor intelligence, he is simply my retarded doppelgänger, and that spells Adam Sandler hit in the eyes of a crass man like Lerch. Johnny Evil is the prototypical Seth Lerch love feast, just as Seth fell head over heels for Mikey eXtreme, so will Seth try and push this dog-shit with legs to the top of the card. Let me break down the boxes, Johnny Evil ticks in the eyes of the puppet-master:
1. He has a name that explains his disposition.
2. He speaks in small, easy to digest sentences.
3. He likes poopy jokes, and cracks them liberally.
4. He never mentions the shitty boss he works for.
5. He has confidence beyond his I.Q and talent ratios.
What this amounts to is a man that is easy for Seth to control, and that's good for Seth because Lerch needs to keep the illusion that he's some kind of master manipulator rolling. That's Seth's shtick. His raison-detre. Seth can't function without being the Master of Puppets. But in order to full-fill that claim he needs puppets to control. Seth can't create them. To be a perfect Seth-drone you have to be dumb before you wind up Lerch's door. Luckily for Seth, lil' Evil is a perfect fit for the fantasy to remain in place. He's like a photofit of all the ticks and inflections that gets Seth's juices flowing; what will Evil be in six months time? At least three of the five options below:
1. Thomas Urial Bates's next queen bitch.
2. Thomas Urial Bates's next cum rag.
3. Thomas Urial Bates's next Top Model.
4. Thomas Urial Bates's got Talent
5. Thomas Urial Bates's new Gemini Battle. (basically 1, 2 and 3 combined)
Johnny Evil tried to play it smart this week; he tried to cover up his inability to watch past promo's or learn anything about his opponent by posting pictures of Similar looking individuals to me (which they appear to be plenty) then discussing events that never happened, while trying to cover up all this nonsense with a light touch; so as to appear flippant and contrite, as if nothing really matters anyway, because gosh darn it, that's how Evil operates, he's so laid back.
Hey everyone, remember that time when Johnny Evil lost the plot and pretended to be masturbating a set of invisible balls at ringside?
What do you mean he's only been here a week, you've seen the proof, has to be true.
What a fucking joke.
Yeah, so laid back. Only, that's not how Evil likes to operate. This is a multiple time champion. A Four Corners Wrestling micro-legend. He wins matches in all the small ponds he frequents. He arrived here because he'd heard that WCF, the once mighty and all powerful, WCF, had shrunk; it had become easy pickings, I mean; they only had basement dwelling fuck-wits like Kidd Krazzy and moan machines like Jason O'Neil in town.
But here comes the twist, the moment when the knife finds it's target and plunges deep into that shocked back of Scotty Evil.
Those easy pickings Evil thought he could sink beneath the waves? He's been teamed with them. And they're going to make him look like a fucking laughing stock. They're going to be his burden this week. All that momentum Evil had from last week's Slam is officially up in smoke. He probably thinks he won't eat the pin, after all, he's the only one with talent out of the three. But the truth is there's no safety net in a match like this. You need all three individuals working together to survive. Yet what you have, is three individuals trapped in a maze that they can't escape. It's the elevator from hell and the flames are now starting to rise.
Johnny will bounce back from this, he'll get his spots, his shots at titles because he's a yes man and a fraud and all the boxes Seth likes to see ticked. Johnny Evil will stroke Seth's ego and in turn Johnny will get his shots to fail over and over again as he keeps hitting the same Pantheon roadblock. Eventually, he'll leave, citing create differences with his lack of talent. But before then, Myself, Wade Moor and Jared Holmes will have our fun. Johnny Weevil, a minor epitaph in our biographies as we cement the greatest legacy in professional wrestling in over a decade.
While among the wreckage of the past we'll think back to Kidd Krazzy and his lack of muscular control, I mean, clearly the man is suffering from Parkinson's, I mean, why else would you have two D's two Z's in one name?
Let's face it, all three of our opponents this week are mongoloids. They're a trifecta of spastics. A single chromosome away from running around wearing dimly lit happy faces, crying for ice cream. Look at Jason O' Neil, what does this numpty do apart from complain? He might indeed have a grasp on how the “Wrestling Confederate Federation”, works. His illuminated mind may indeed see the wood from the trees, but instead of finding a solution to his dilemma, he just sits down and cries in the forest. He has no gumption, no talent pool to draw from and use to rise above the lower card hell he now finds himself in, so he just sits there and fills his nappy and sulks. And that's a perfect puppet waiting to be plucked for a predator like Seth to exploit.
Jason O' Neil, your next people's champion. Because that's so Adam Sandler, it's another slam dunk for Seth. The man that hates everyone, forced to be nice to retain the one and only belt he'll probably ever win in his lackluster career. Snap chat the result in three weeks time and hashtag, #rabidpredictsthetruth on twitter. And poor Jason? He'll buy into it, he'll start to smile and lose his personality because he knows what I know and what you now know, He's a minor league man, being squeezed out of this territory because the big boys are back. So he's just lucky to get what he's about to be given.
And as for Kazzy? I just wish his Grandparents would hurry up and die. Their prolonged agony on camera is probably the most ugly use of family I have ever seen in this business. Black blood oozing down your Guardian's face is not a cue for a close up. Learn how to wrestle, “KIdd”. Make them proud in the few months they have left. Dying relatives are not a ticket to stardom. Personally, I blame Scarecrow for all of this. He started the death angle; he made it cool. Now look what we have? A movement.
It's such a
3. Deep_Vision. EXE.
Wade had been beneath the surface of the pool for four minutes and counting. The reminder of the guests had departed, scurrying to the four corners of the luxury hotel as Rabid and Jared observed the odd hand movements and gestures that accompanied Wade's meta-psychical descent into his own subconscious.
Jared Holmes: Can you see, what he sees? Can you see his visions?
Rabid had tilted his head to one side as the show below the waterline continued, taking a step back away from the pool to better garner the experience.
Johnny Rabid: Shadows, that's all. Just...shadows.
Rabid saw the pool fill with the reflections of Owls, dozens of them; encircling Wade. Trying to find a way in.
FIN.
